So my last place of paid employment had given me the old James Comey (this young boy, the old frog said, does things twice as fast as you and with the same number of hands) and I thought now was as good a time as any to blast up Twins (2012, Drag City) for the first time since I was in shortpants and I heard, toward the southern tip of the album and for the first time, something positively germanic in the drumwork, that jaki liebezeit feeling of 'the funky and the cerebral'. how odd, I thought. the next night, Ty himself was playing the dinky, wonderful and live nation-owned Warsaw venue.
Last time I saw the man, he was crawling on the floor in a baby mask, yelling goo-goo-ga-ga and waving his umbilical cord around. (no kidding, that was his thing last year.) It was very anti-performance, the kind of thing I dotted down conceptually but dipped out before the encore. How could you top that, huh. So dig it, now the album he's shilling is his second self-titled and the band he's tooling around (dig it, the man changes bands like I change underwear) is called the Freedom Band, a funny statement in this post-patriot day era where even clickhole has gotten to calling themselves Patriothole, with eagles n' shit. So what does Ty and the Freedom Band even mean in an america that's gone great and back again?
Many of ty's sidemen have gone on to rip-roaring p4k -approved solo careers. Here's Emmett Kelly, who may or may not have been named after a famous clown.
Mikal Cronin, on the other hand, has released three solo albums and played late afternoon set-times at festivals. His latest was released by Arcade Fire-powerhouse, Merge. Check it out.
Well, lemme tell you this, son: he's rocking gram-fucking-parsons, cowboy red jacket and a three piece band to his left that look like Twin Peaks extras. He's on the guitar like hell, really bending into the thing, heavy-metal style. The songs are real crackerjacks: the first few he bites on them hard like jolly ranchers, cracked with real teeth. This you gotta see, you miss the last five Ty Segall tours, whatever, but you gotta see this one: He's doing aerobatics, Angus Young-material. Jamming so hard into the background, He's fading from view. Ty might have some misgivings about the whole San Fran-scene, now you gotta pay 3k for a place to squat and all that and all that but he's tearing that up the place, our place, now.
But don't you think about catching a beer in between radio-static bangers, midway through is when Ty drops the real stuff, the clutch your heart, it's-1977 stuff. Call it Grateful Dead, Can or godforsaken Phish if you must, not that there's anything wrong with that, but when Ty decides to turn a random two-min. cruncher into twenty minutes of goddamn bliss, sound so sweet you can spit your tongue out and taste it. Job, what job? Get your ass down to the warsaw, baby.
*** Special note on openers, PURLING HISS
Google tells me that Webster defines "purling" as to "flow with a swirling motion and babbling sound." By total accident—I skip openers as a rule because most bands are shit, got concert times confused--ended up getting some blasts from the Thilly-bred trio that calls themselves Purling Hiss. these boys purl, alright. rock around the floor, gabba, gabba, et. al. Real deal stuff, and the bassist has hair enough to drive the post-Bieber crowd wild.
The sound? It's twin peaks, the Chi-Town boys too big for their p4k-certified britches and not the TV show that's much the same, covering Definitely Maybe like their hearts are on fire. It's fire.