It’s fitting that the new record by San Francisco garage-rock artist Ty Segall is named Slaughterhouse because it’s unlikely you’ll hear an album this start-to-finish meaty all year. It’s a four-course meal for punk carnivores, along the lines of swimming knee-deep in a delicious, piping-hot tub of extra chunky chili. It’s a feast for our famished rock-and-roll souls.
Unlike 2012’s other punk near-masterpiece, Japandroids’ anthemic, wistful sophomore effort Celebration Rock, Slaughterhouse is brawny, beefy and catchy as hell. It occasionally sounds like the smirking, psychedelic rockers Thee Oh Sees with touches of early Velvet Underground grime peppered in, but any further comparisons are undoubtedly unnecessary. It’s its own brash animal.
Because the whole album melds together into one, long track of awesomeness, choosing favorites is difficult. But, if pressed, the one-two punch combination of “The Bag I’m In” and “Diddy Wah Diddy” stands out the most.
The former is a screechy cover of a Fred Neil folk tune, with Segall’s wailing voice fighting for space over a bombarding mound of hissing guitars and distorted drums that strut with straightforward, surf-tune propensity.
“Diddy Wah Diddy,” on the other hand, sputters and spirals past its boogie realm like blues-rock on cocaine. And nearly two minutes into the song, Segall decides to crash the freight train into the water. “Who cares?” he shouts, before kicking up the feedback and ending the tune, rather abruptly. It feels spontaneous and raw, the sound of a group that still screws around in the garage, drinking cheap beer and blasting punk rock through busted speakers.
It’s not a perfect record. “Fuzz War,” the final track, is noisy nothingness; it’s 10 minutes of ponderous guitar noodling. But overall, Slaughterhouse contains barely any filler. Segall, the intrepid butcher, cuts us a fine, juicy Porterhouse with only the faintest traces of gristle. It’s a lean, rare meal that leaves you wanting more.
essner@umdbk.com
