The single “Mary’s Rashers” has a memorable chorus –– frontman Drew Gabbert passionately proclaims, “Once you give up / It’s all over” –– matched with rich backing harmonies. Yet there is a frustrating issue with Missing Sibling’s newest release: Some songs are significantly better than others. Clocking in at 33 minutes, the 10 songs may often remind the listener of the legendary Boston power pop trio Buffalo Tom. Missing Sibling’s new self-titled debut LP was good enough to be released on the highly reputable Dallas label Idol Records (Calhoun, Jetta in the Ghost Tree, Dead Flowers). Between the party anthem “Goddamn” and the hard-charging, tiger-broke-out-of-the-cage outro on “T-Virus,” there’s plenty for balls-out rawk for fans to get behind, as long as they’re not interested in topical nuance. And while the lyrics of “Bad Dreams” will likely make women cringe and rage, it starts in this ringing jungle of bass and guitar jangle before locking into a smoky groove –– it’s hard to deny the elemental rock power of that. If you’ve ever imagined Sabbath playing soul music, that’s sorta what this sounds like. In fact, opener “Hand Cannon” rides this growly, fuzzed-out bass line into hard R&B territory, sort of like what you’d expect from UK band The Heavy. If that sounds unreasonably snarky, my response is “Hey, I’m not saying that ‘Talk Dirty to Me’ isn’t an enjoyable song.’ ” Nor am I saying that Bomb Quixote is not an enjoyable band. But, yeah, even though Bomb Quixote sounds like a distant relative of Soundgarden, the Fort Worth quartet also carries some of the rock-DNA found on the Sunset Strip circa 1987. I’m not saying that to be a jerk, but on three tracks, the band deals with the discord of romantic entanglements, and the last of these, “Bad Dreams,” tells of a hook-up: “Me and you in the public view was never something I was ever looking forward to / You’ll never be with me.”ĭoesn’t a song about blowing off some poor side girl sound like the sort of lyrical corn picked and shucked by a band like Poison? I’d be lying if I said I hated Poison (and Ratt and Mötley Crüe), and other than a certain on-the-nose/girls-are-mean-except-when-they-bang-me-and-as-long-as-they-don’t-expect-a-call-again lyrical bent, the hair-metal similarities end. To me, it’s the psych- rawk equivalent of Open Up and Say … Ahh! But also, considering that it’s a collection of songs called Netflix & Chill, a just-past-contempo buzzphrase describing transparent appeals for Friday night blowjobs on the couch, psych- rawk is not an ostensibly guileless stay-at-home activity. While it has enough familiarity with garage-rock guitar tropes (oceans of reverb, the echoing click and clunk of some hollow or semi-hollow-body guitar), it’s still a kind of ’90s alt-rena rock –– it’s like drawing a picture of Thee Oh Sees over an Edgefest flyer. Nigga think he gangsta we gone stake outcha crib I'll turn this whole damn pop red of a six What the fuck that make you if you hanging with a snitch If you ain't got no money why the fuck you out the crib Done with this thirty imma go and flip the clip Petty nigga with no hustle you can't even flip a script Cell game dropped but these hams getting hip Don't care 'bout no groupies used to hoes on my dick That choppa hit yo shoulder it'll take yo arm with it What the fuck I look like fighting one of you strong niggas I wake up in the morning tryna make my roll bigger Yo bitch wake up next to you like "I chose the wrong nigga" Bitch I ain't petty if I want it imma spend Stayed up hella nights writing raps and searching bins With either one I get a Benz A nigga dissin' Baby he won't make it to his crib Bitch I'm Mr.I’d call this stuff psych- rawk.
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