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The Konks:
Self-Titled
Ah, gotta love the good old archaic rock formula. The Konks, wrung out of Boston, Mass., bring to us some good, square-jawed, low-budget caveman rock. Borrowed from Found Magazine, the picture on the album cover marvelously suits what the music inside contains, so do lean into your computer screen and squint your eyes, because this is what youre getting primitive, brute and strangely charming. Garage is the game, and simply put, these three guys keep it as stripped as it comes bare-boned and sloppy with a bit of engine grease thrown in. Upfront, The Konks admit their modest, rackety arrangement of cheap geetars, two lousy drums and only twenty-nine fingers (29 fingers) and prove how far second hand rock can get you today. Buried in their muddied frenzy of budget rock, undistinguishable fuzz-boxed guitar lines mix with equally thick bass lines out of which only the snap of the sparse two-drum kit serve as a skeletal system. Kurt, the drummer, belts out phrases into his cheap, Toys-R-Us microphones, adding a bit of fiery swing. Yes, this is another in the long line of sock-hop inspired garage, but theyve got a convincing shake and just enough mood changes and tantrums to satisfy this reviewer. It isnt the same old drab rocknroll that helps you forget how to move; theres a twist to The Konks, recalling lineages of rock roots. Now, I wouldnt say theyre as wild and spazzy as the Oblivians, maybe closer to Childish, but theyre just as sloppy and lo-fi as some of their worthy garage rawk predecessors real garage rawk. Two covers (King Kong, Let the Music Do the Talking) with lots of messy guitar rock (Break My Back, God Says), some boogie (Move & Shake) and even a great, rollickin blues number (Honey) comprise this complete album, and force it to happen. The entire thing is a furnace of blues, rocknroll, sweat and fuzz from our lovely pals, once again, at Bomp! Records. And remember everyone, Gods says run mutherfucker.
Check Amazon, Insound and CD Universe to purchase this album.
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