Review: It would seem for all the world like Ty Segall is locked in some deathless conflict with Thee Oh Sees man John Swyer to see who can be the most prolific garage rock genius of the here and now, with this self-titled effort - a record as awash with his trademark blend of jam-kicking cheer and stylish chutzpah as ever - the latest case for this cause. But with his band The Muggers taking a more prominent role here, 'Ty Segall' is not just that same old fabulous thing - sure, there are three minutes punk gems, cocky T-Rex ramalama and head-spinning psych-pop, yet one song here hits a mighty ten minutes, hinting that there may be evolutionary pathways open to this modern-day marvel even beyond his ability to rock out like no-one else on earth.
Review: Who knows what Ty Segall's channeling to be quite so prodigiously prolific, yet his rate of creativity hammers powerfully on - it only seems a few months since his T. Rex covers record 'Ty Rex', yet here is another blast of raunch and rapture seemingly time0warped in from the very early '70s. Slightly less grandstanding than his breakthrough 'Redeemer', this is a still more garage-driven, raucous and eternally teenage blast of aggression, supercharged by the pedal-driven intensity that marks his aptly-monickered side-project Fuzz yet showing all the songwriting suss by which he's made his name. Petulant yet impressively potent.
Review: Straight outta the banks of Merseyside comes She Drew The Gun, a Liverpool psych-pop four-piece spearheaded by the vocals of frontwoman Louisa Roach. It's the group's second album and again it pulls no punches in restraining the band's cultural affliction on modern day society in poetically calling out for the better treatment of the homeless to the dissolvement of capitalism itself. In a way that Ladytron oozed anti-consumerist sentiments in "Seventeen", She Drew The Gun draws upon similar themes in lead track "Resister", only in a way that seems more made for the muddy banks of Glastonbury than the Kraftwerkian jungles of the corporate inner-city.
Review: Steve Nolan originally made his name with beguiling noise/drone droogs Magik Markers, and Spectre Folk marks his latest foray into the aural wilderness, aided and abetted by luminaries like Sonic Youth's Steve Shelley and Pavement's Mark Ibold on a collection of songs that blend acoustic filigree with a beatific aura of otherworldly psychedelia. Displaying as much in common with the krautrock wanderings of early Ash Ra as the free folk of Sunburnt Hand Of The Man, and not altogether unlike John Fahey were he to be reincarnated in the Brooklyn indie milieu, its hazy strains and carefree atmosphere are a tonic for the encroaching summer months.
Review: As we increasingly inhabit a world in which the term 'psych' becomes as de-clawed and meaningless as 'punk', and in which blandness and stylistic codification take over from inspiration and iconoclasm, it can be a blessed relief to be confronted by a record like this debut from the Gothenburg-dwelling duo, whose drone-based, righteously repetitive and joyfully anarchic racket gleans sonic salvation effectively by summoning the eldritch spirits of Spacemen 3, Suicide, Wolf Eyes and Brainbombs for an intimidating trip into the nether that's as much bliss and blitzkrieg. Rejoice, heads and headcases alike - there are still records intent on making psychedelia dangerous.