owe Mr. Powerpopaholic a beer thanks to his glowing but
reserved review of The
The Fine Art of Distilling album,
an album I have been spinning since yesterday afternoon.
Indeed, he had the same problem, finding it hard to take it off
the old player, swimming in the Incurables lake, so to speak. I
get it. I, too, am finding it hard to move on. In fact, I feel
like distilling something. Anything. I feel like buying a
distillery. I have been distilled.
there is no such thing as distilling music, perhaps these guys
are onto something. Maybe there is and no one knew how to
define it until now. Maybe there isn't and no one knew how to
define that. When you hear music that impresses you as much as
these guys' music impresses me, you lose perspective. You
struggle to compare--- who do these guys sound like? And the
answer is, it doesn't matter. Good is good and The
a step or two above good. Maybe more.
can grab onto the standards. Everything Pop has to have a bit
it, doesn't it, and isn't that little bridge straight out of
Do I hear early Hollies
that bit of vocal background, and why do I get the feeling that
I am hearing the ghost of John
and maybe Pete
you paying attention? It doesn't matter!
Sometimes music--- even music with definite influences--- rises
beyond comparison. Sometimes it is so f**king good that that is
all that matters.
course, you have to take what I say with a grain of salt. I am
a Pop freak and a Power Pop nut. Thing is, I don't hear Power
Pop here as much as I hear just excellent rock. And it gets
better with each listen. I think if it gets too much better, my
head is going to explode. If it does, please play The
Fine Art of Distilling at
my funeral. End it with No
Heaven for Billionaires.
Not only do they not deserve one, if I have to trip off this
mortal coil, I want it to be to this song. It's a killer.