The late Jay Reatard openly admitted rock’n’roll was the only pursuit available to him other than a life of drugs, alcohol and criminal behaviour. That Reatard was ultimately unable to secure his grip on the safe side of the illicit pharmacological precipice suggests that rock’n’roll can only go so far in saving a troubled soul.
Ty Segall is cut from a cloth similar to Reatard’s, though without so many ragged edges. Segall plays music that confi rms the average brown suburban middle class parent’s perception of the rock’n’roll genre: loud, grating and snottier than a room of full of two-year-olds in day care. Consistent with the preference of the (above) average garage rock protagonist, Segall has embraced the humble 7” as his chosen release format. As an objective observation, there’s really no other format that would suit distortion-stained garage punk tracks like the nihilistic Cents, the Count Five-simplistic wonder of Sweets or the freaked-out psychedelic mutiny of Skin. Add into the mix the fucked-up Doors instrumental angst of … And When Judy Walked In, the riff -perfect dirty garage elegance of No No, the endearing faux English juvenile banality of Fuzzy Cat and you’ve got yourself a garage collection to die for.
Segall’s influences are all over his arms like the de rigueur tattoos of the modern youth demographic; to ram the point home down the collective throats of his adoring audience, there’s a bunch of covers, including Thee Oh Sees’ Maria Stacks and The Gories’ I Think I’ve Had It. A selection of demos rounds out the record, each of which are incongruously, just as buffed (sic) as the rest of the ‘proper’ records. Ty Segall isn’t for everyone, but everyone who likes Ty Segall can’t get enough.
BY PATRICK EMERY
Best Track: All of them.
If You Like This, You’ll Like: The recent announcement of The Sonics’ impending visit to Australia.
In A Word: Punk
