Black Lips

Atlanta's Black Lips have released three albums, most recently Let It Bloom, their first for In the Red. Thankfully, experience has not helped the musicians sound like they know what they're doing. On the contrary, the new CD presents an extended belch stinking of bent purveyors of scuzzy garage (the Troggs) and bedroom punk (the Swell Maps). Let It Bloom's very first minute brings a sneer, a crash, the violent sound of shattering glass and a vocal harmony that seems to emanate from some other record off in the distance. Yet sharp melodies have a habit of slipping through this band's mess—apparently, the demented have all the luck.

If the quartet sounds raw on disc, onstage—where bodily fluids and fire suddenly become an option—it is animalistic. The musicians are said to be banned from certain venues in their native Georgia. Judging by a recent performance at Maxwell's, this may have as much to do with the music as with any alleged urination: Black Lips dive into their songs as if they want only to rip them to shreds. Of course, the musicians also set off firecrackers at the tip of the Hoboken venue's modest stage. It was at this point in the set that the fusspot side of a listener's brain—the one that wanted to make it back home in one piece—became infuriated. The rock-fan side, however, could not help but find the moronic act just a little bit thrilling.
—Jay Ruttenberg