Nostalgia shits me. Rose-coloured musings on a confected world that never was, self-indulgent reflections to affirm contemporary cultural prejudice. Margaret Thatcher ignored rampant poverty in her call for a return to Victorian values, Happy Days diverted American attention from the tragedy of Vietnam and corruption of Watergate, and The Strokes disguised the flaccid rhetoric of the mainstream music industry.
The last time they were a regular live fixture, The Dacios tore more new orifices in rock’n’roll than Malcolm Roberts has apparently found in climate change science. Scroll forward, and The Dacios are back, this time in five-piece formation. Beyond the Bottom Hour isn’t a logical progression from Monkey’s Blood; if anything, it’s a dexterous step to the side, the brute force of Bean Johnstone’s guitar tempered by the angled sludge of Bonnie Mercer. Linda Dacio’s vocals are still laced with attitude, less invective than constructive aggression.
The songs are tough and unrelenting. Rabbit sneaks up on you like a couple of Tequila slammers; Horns on Fire slaps you into action, a melting pot of jagged licks and syncopated rhythms. Tiger’s Mouth is the pop song Killing Joke would’ve written in the Bowery in 1979, Exactness of Desire is intense to the point of cerebral distortion and Fantastic World is so fucking fantastic it fucking hurts.
Flip over to Side 2 — this is a vinyl record, after all — and you’re drenched with the raw sensuality of All Over Your Body. Little Blue Suits is a Little Golden Book scripted by David Thomas, Horses Attack is Lizard Train’s Sucker in its equine form, We Sail savages The Sonics into submission and The Champion is just beautiful.
The Dacios are a great rock’n’roll band, and Beyond the Bottom Hour is a killer rock’n’roll record. Everybody who cares about rock’n’roll needs this record.
By Patrick Emery
