Secret Machines
Secret Machines
Rating: 2.0
Label: Tsm Recordings
It seems like the requisite amount of time has passed from those kooky days of the '60s and '70s- a time we are constantly reminded as to be the pinnacle of music and indeed, all culture- for today's bands to revisit the era, without irony. Seattle's Fleet Foxes are an alternative to the dance-tastic contemporary hype of Justice or Girl Talk, re-imagining the kind of pastoral America early '70s artists sang of, so sincere as to include delicate Beach Boy harmonies in the process. The much-ballyhooed Hold Steady has returned rock 'n' roll vernacular back to the common kid, empowered by Klosterman as much as Bruce Springsteen was by Dylan.
Include to these ranks New York City's Secret Machines. Off the heels of their involvement in the Beatles-worship film Across the Universe, the Machines ended their contract with Reprise and have started their own label, TSM Recordings. Drummer Josh Garza, singer and bassist Brandon Curtis and new guitarist Phil Karnats (whom replaced Curtis' brother Benjamin) aspire to the grandeur of Big Seventies Rock, yet fail to do anything new with it. Instead, one listens to the record playing mental connect-the-influences, identifying all the major players as if one were looking at the cover of Sgt. Pepper's.
The album begins with lead single, "Atomic Heels," which has John Bonham's bombast written all over it. In fact, bombast defines the record's sound. The drums pound and smash while the guitars are thick as tar with the reverb of a chasm. This may sound like what made early Zeppelin so appealing, yet the guitars here never seem dangerous or unwieldy; they are layered, they are loud, and they are...there. When the fuzz kicks in on "Heels," they sound like a toothless Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
David Bowie is the Secret Machines' primary source of inspiration (longtime Bowie collaborator Tony Visconti appears on the record) with "Underneath the Concrete" sounding like a louder, warmer version of something from Scary Monsters or "The Walls Are Starting to Crack," which sends one thinking about "The Width of a Circle" and where his or her copy of The Man Who Sold the World might be. This song is the record's best but is also the best pastiche of influences from the Brit rock heyday. The opening resembles Floyd's "Fat Old Sun" and the female chorus from "Brain Damage/Eclipse" time travels in Doctor Who's police box to present day New York, all adding to the big sounds. In between these bookends, Curtis chews and spits his vocals like Roger Waters on The Final Cut. However, this band was founded by relocated Texans; the ghost of Rog is grimacing there, "Have I Run Out" features Curtis' best Peter Gabriel, and I swore I heard Peter Murphy somewhere else. How does a guy from Dallas sing like an affected Brit? The answer must lie in his record collection.
by Chris Middleman