Enter the primordial phylogenesis pool. The nutrient-rich soup that is mother to all life on earth. It is here where you will find the layer of the primeval witch. Her proto-cultures have found their way into every thought, every muscle contraction, every fold and strata of your psyche.
Every generation or so, she becomes incarnate in a single host being, an avatar for her shrieks and howls. The vessel from which her demiurgical message pours forth upon the world. I have found such a being residing in Louisville; I have translated her scriptures, and I now bring you the deepest, rawest truth beneath her feral cries: “This world was made to rock and roll, and so kick out the jams, mutha fuckers.”
The Archaeas is a Kentucky three-sum lead by Violet Archaea. A society of pre-civilizational scions who will reach down your throat, lurching through the opening of your gaping mouth with a tentacle made of fuzz-fried garage rock in order to access the squirming animal within. Their debut, self-titled album out on Goner Records sees the revival of a type of red-peaking, rabid rock ‘n’ roll that has gone all-but-extinct in the midst a burgeoning nu-metal renewal and endless sessions hyper-pop playlist preening.
Now, there is nothing wrong with any of these styles, mind you. I’m equally stoked about the new Tallah record and up for anything Rico Nasty wants to drop on Soundcloud, but by Zeus, is it ever refreshing to just hear someone smash a melody out of a guitar every once in a while.
It’s this guileless energy that really makes The Archaeas worthy of your attention. They have that naïve-but-knowing way about them which makes the primal energies they invoke all the more compelling. One of the major, and admitted, influences on the band are Japan’s Guitar Wolf, and the presence of their afterburn is indeed pervasive. From the laser-guided firing squad and radio coordinated rebellion of the distortion huffing “Reality Commander,” to the space raking chords of “Cosmic Unknown,” the Wolf’s bite is felt everywhere.
You’re going to get a Ty Segall contact high from the hypnotic, claw-hammered, backflip melodies and miserable, lip-chewing angst of “Last Cigarette,” and you’ll have plenty to savor when the countrified hardcore of Oblivians comes crashing in to scramble the signals on “TV Scream.”
If I had one complaint, it would be that there isn’t enough country flavor on this release, and it all feels a little too beach-bum-on-the-shore-of-annihilation to me. But, when the sputter-scrape of “Witch”‘s nails gets into my back, or I put on the frantic pucker and nip of “Lip Gloss,” all sins are forgiven and shortcomings absolved.
Get in touch with your inner, scaly brute with this snake-charming, rock revivalist viper strike of an album, and let civilization wash away as its electric venom courses through your veins.