Must be something about Drag City promos that refuse to let themselves be played, we’ve had this in our mits for a week or two burning sizeable holes in our ever deepening must hear (or ‘hair’ if you like) pockets. But damn. The bugger just won’t play and this in spite of various threats to its existence by means of workmanlike devices raining down upon its head and the occasional intimation of changing its usage for something resembling a Frisbee as it hurtles through the air at velocity. That said we won’t be defeated by mere annoyances such as contrary CD’s. And so after much labouring and faffing about we happened upon a device to which said CD felt comfortably attuned enough in order to reveal its wares.
And so with that here’s Ty Segall here found siding up to friends White Fence for an 8 track dandy entitled ‘hair’ and we say dandy deliberately because this baby is infused with a veritable rock a boogie persona which upon first countering purrs and kicks with such ruddy retro revisionism that I swear each time its been played everything has gone all monochrome and flock wallpaper not to mention the blighter is crafted in such a laid back glow that its almost stoned, reclining and just for added mischief infectiously blissed out. Mainlining on a dizzying cocktail of Bolan, Lennon, Barrett and Donovan, Segall and friends trace a backward glancing furrow in recent times previously trod by the likes of Sweet Apple and White Denim. To say ’hair’ shits cool would be to understate its addictive aura, a positive car crash of styles or maybe an insightful homage to a lost golden age for shoehorned between the opening ’Time’ with its countrified stoner Bolan motifs sweetly unfurling at the finale into a gnarling glam psyche Mountain like growl and the parting ’Tongues’ with its hippy trippy loved up slacker tweaked Brit baggy goes uber woozy psyche there’s packed away a shop counter feast of freakish folly to keep the most reticent rock bop patron satiated. Here you’ll find the hazily glazed bubble grooved smoked cool of the garage beat pop fuelled ’easy ryder’ cutting Remains shapes while ’the black glove rag’ could easily be mistaken for being a distant lost cousin of 60’s love sun child Donovan’s ’Hurdy gurdy man’. edging matters in the cut of the set stakes is the glam tussled glitter rockabilly rumble bop of ’Cry-baby’ kissing the grooves as it does with a distinct feel of Vincent and the Blue Caps being max factor’d by Bolan in the Cramps subterranean bad boogie basement – frankly its enough to give the Jim Jones Revue the heebie-jeebies. Add in some well heeled ’Ballad of John and Yoko’ esque stylising to ’(I can’t ) get around you’ and serve up a frantic wig flipping slab of rawk boogie on the rampant and rowdy ’Scissor People’ and you have yourself a summer soundtrack just waiting for the sun.