Photo by Greg Gutbezahl
As a viral infestation continues to consume the world we suggest there is a second outbreak imminent this time in the delicious contagion of the insatiable sound that the Mr Sophistication EP unleashes. The record is the new offering from US outfit Mean Motor Scooter, a release which could be no more seductively sinful and soul enslaving than if the Devil had cast it whilst holidaying amongst the vixens upon Planet Venus.
Hailing from Fort Worth, Texas, Mean Motor Scooter has insistently lured attention and acclaim through the likes of their 2017 uncaged debut album, Hindu Flying Machine, and last year’s EP, TV Baby. Though new to the band, if we are honest, hindsight listening reveals exactly why they have gripped keen local and national support and a further deluge of listens to Mr Sophistication can declare that the quartet has bred their most essential moment yet with.
The band’s unique sound is distilled in a bedlamic liquor of garage rock and punk with surf and psych rock stilled froth. Its character lustfully springs belligerent mischief upon the ears as its exploits chop away at the senses whilst urging the body to dance. It is a proposition which swiftly and urgently infested our musical instincts and desires through EP opener Aristobrat.
Immediately Sammy Kidd’s guitar swings through air, its riffs a compelling cleaver to the senses quickly followed by his just as magnetic vocals and the equally gripping rhythmic antics of bassist Joe Tacke and drummer Jeffrey Friedman. With the temptress backing vocals of Rebekah Elizabeth escalating the temptation as she enterprisingly fingers keys, the song lustfully got under the skin in no time, breeding an even richer unshakeable contagion through its subsequent riot of a chorus. Like something akin to a meltdown between The Scaners, Escobar, Jay Reatard and The Vibrators but with attitude stamping down unmistakeable individuality, it is an addictive start for the EP and a dependency which only escalated thereon in.
The Void quickly fed our craving, its opening hook alone enough to have us twisted up in its bait before the song followed it up with vocal and rhythmic manipulation which bordered on pandemonium. Kidd again is the ringleader to the creative disorder, his words bitch slapping the world as Friedman’s beats pummel the senses with unscrupulous dexterity. With punk and garage rock textures colluding with surf harmonies and frenzied melodies, this too is a song which had us in drooling fixation; Portals soon drawing further lust as it unveiled its surf rock breeding within a warped psych rock atmosphere. Luring and seducing with every breath, the track tangling the imagination up in its psychotic twists and increasingly volatile breath.
Zombie Cop is visceral pop within a cosmic soundscape bullied by punk rock tempestuousness and simply gripping from the first to last second of its exhausting two minute carnal stomp before leaving Put Me Down Like a Dog to spring a just as riveting finale on ears. A psychobilly riff chained the appetite first, its melodic clang instant manna to these ears and soon backed by a broken blister of lo-fi trespass; a feral captivation again infested by the seductive haunting of Elizabeth’s keys. That initial mutant groove continued to centrally vein the track, everything swinging from its incessantly hypnotic hold as the sonic maelstrom around it discharges just as irresistible slavery.
Untamed and ravenous, it is an energy sapping, pleasure igniting end to an EP even more voraciously intoxicating with every element and song united. The world is under siege again but this time only good if debilitating times are set to devour courtesy of Mean Motor Scooter.
Mr Sophistication is released May 1st via Dreamylife Records: available @ https://meanmotorscootersounds.bandcamp.com/album/mr-sophistication
https://www.meanmotorscootertx.com/ https://www.facebook.com/meanmotorscootermusic https://twitter.com/MnMtrSctr
Pete RingMaster 02/05/2020
Copyright RingMasterReview: MyFreeCopyright
Recent single, Vultures, is next up to be quickly followed by its successor in Swallow. The first of the two tracks similarly entices with a lone lure, a guitar suggestively teasing ears before the virulent gait and enterprise of the track erupts to join its persuasion. The senses nagging beats of drummer Ola J. Kyrkjeeide alongside Fagernes’ moody bassline were swiftly under the skin, the latter’s tones again a thick lure into the kaleidoscopic beauty of the track. Yet there is a predatory edge to it all which grips just as firmly, post punk rhythms and steely grooves colluding with spiralling psych guitars and harmonic vocals to escalate the guileful nature of the song.
The band’s sound is an alluring fusion of grunge, psych rock and shoegaze, an even mix which maybe hints at others in certain times but going by the new proposition has a certain individuality which again only tempted attention. EP opener, Totally Insignificant, quickly establishes that presence and the rich breath of the band’s music. Immediately bold rhythms and heavy riffs descend on ears; additional teases of guitar lining up intrigue as the song eagerly emerges with grunge bred instincts. Already there is a thick contagion to the proposal, hooks and twists aligning to further lure ears, Annecchini’s alluring vocals bringing that more shoegaze/psych nurtured texturing to the song. It is a seriously rousing affair but one further lit up by melodic dexterity and a host of imagination themed hooks and turns.
Their new offering is bookended by the band’s previously released singles, Carol’s Dead and Night School, an entrance and departure which is worth the effort of digging into Back-Street Boys alone. The first of the two more taunts than invites attention with its initial resonating throb of bass and lure dangling guitar but with the same impossible to ignore intrigue at its core. As tenacious beats increasingly swung their manipulative bait and the band’s twitchy vocals united in a just as lively and devilish static dance on the ears, the track enslaved as it stomped around with irresistible dynamics and attitude. Teasing with essences reminding of bands such as Gang Of Four, Artery, and The Fall across its more forceful individuality, the song is glorious and one of the best tracks of the past decade.
The instant jangle of Mat Durie and White’s guitars immediately enticed keen attention as rhythms pounced, the psych flames of Matty Reed’s sax only intensifying the tempting. From its first breath quickly after, the song’s stroll is an eager bounce, the animated beats of drummer Dave Mulvaney as encouraging as the dark swing of Pierce Kingan’s bass, it all wrapped in the just as infectious hug of Durie’s keys. Together the ingredients made for a virulent and addictive enticement, one as rousing, bordering on the rowdy, as it was dark and invasively provocative.
In saying that, the opening track of Fall From The Velvet Sky has a thick dark creative breath which reminds of Scottish band, The Filthy Tongues. The initial melodic glisten of Ghost Story is soon descended upon by emotive shadows, keys and rhythms united in their gothic intimation even before Denton shares his equally suggestive tones. The psych rock breath of those keys continues to light the haunting embrace of the song, its reflective stroll a prowling instigator on ears and imagination.
Shadows cast potent intimation upon the following soul searching Today while Down in the Dirt bears a grungier side to its character while circling the senses with its own individual psych rock nurtured squall as voice and words bear their hearts. Both songs expel mesmeric charm from start to finish, each sharing their unique imaginations before The Demon manages to eclipse both their striking exploits with its surf kissed, self-refection bred rapture and beauty.
The album opens with Close Your Eyes, a lone strum of guitar providing a lingering scent of sonic jeopardy from within which a rhythmically swinging clamour bursts. Instantaneously it is a contagious affair, the bass of Jamey Exton leading the rhythmic infection further driven by drummer Stewart Brown’s bold strikes. The sonic smog escaping Tate’s guitar smothers as it seduces, his vocals dancing with almost contempt on the wires within that enveloping incitement. Resistance to the track’s bounce is non-existent as the track manipulates limb and spirit alike, a glorious start to the release firmly declared.
As discord and melody craftily entangle it is a glorious incitement and matched by that within the following Cevaman Waltz. Rhythms prowl as a chugging guitar goes eye to eye with instincts, a devious grin lining rapid grooves and an epidemic of infection while equally compelling vocals ride its hungry currents. Again it is a mix which nags and harries but with less voracity than its predecessor though that is replaced by a pressure of urgency which only accelerates by the minute until erupting in a cyclone of wild and fertile commotion with those original grooves still steering the greed for the band’s invention.