Tadpoles
Whirlaway
[Bakery/Camera Obscura]
Rating: 7.0
I know, I know. They paved paradise and put up a parking lot. But then they
invited about 80,000 of the stinkiest, dankest dippiest people in the world
to hang out there for about 12 hours a day and it was paradise regained. Yeah,
that's right. Grateful Dead show. I'll say it. I don't care. Sure you indie
folk have things like dignity and credibility, but me, I had a veggie burrito
in one hand, a cigarette smothered in hash oil in the other, a Kool-Aid grin
painted on my face and a shoebox full of ganja Rice Krispie treats waiting for
me back at the car. I remember it like it was yesterday: the gaseous hiss of
nitrous tanks singing in chorus, the oppressive synesthesia of heat, B.O. and
patchouli, the P-Funk vans pumping out righteousness over the makeshift, asphalt
discos. Can you imagine doobie in your funk? Yes, I can.
It's been years now, and thankfully I haven't deigned to set a dirty Birkenstocked
foot in one of these bullshit un-Dead shows that have toured periodically, but
Hoboken, New Jersey's Tadpoles know what I'm talking about. Now, some of you may
be thankful that this quartet doesn't sound a thing like the Dead, but this disc
contains some bongloads of pretty stellar psychedelic rock. Fuck the love. This is
music on the order of Spacemen 3's old mantra: taking drugs to make music to take
drugs to.
There's an old truism that acid rock was nothing more than folk musicians who
couldn't play folk music. It makes sense to me. It's been proven that heavy reverb
and thick distortion can whitewash the shoddiest songcraft. And lyrics? Whip up a
sonic stew of echo and noise, say something about sunshine and no one will give a
shit. They'll be too busy whirling.
Which brings us to Whirlaway. Thankfully, Whirlaway isn't a
suggestion but the name of a psychotic race horse who won the Kentucky Derby in
1941. The Tadpoles play ringing psychedelia dominated by looping surf-inspired
guitar, and driven by pounding-- often somewhat exotic-- percussion. The first
track, "Frances the Dancer," is constructed upon tweaky Eastern guitar lines and
incessant congas, with creepy distorted vocals slurring fairly standard acid rock
imagery: "The oceans getting deeper/ From the drains you had to waste." "Lyman
Bostock" is definitely the album's highlight for pure songcraft, featuring the
inexplicable but nevertheless disturbing refrain, "It's all in how you harvest me."
Covering Dylan has become something of a prerequisite in psychedelic music, and
the Tadpoles offer an adequate rendering of "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere," which mostly
tends to run through the folk-rock motions (though it revs up a little in the end).
On the whole, the song makes you wish you were listening to The Basement Tapes.
Nevertheless, the tribute is heartfelt and exudes the ease of appreciation. The
instrumental "Smile, If You've Crossed Over" is a protracted bender of western
twang and random interference and stands as a joyful noise in the gut of things.
Whirlaway is an altogether solid work, with a scattering of infectious
euphoria throughout. The lack of polish and the sense of hazard that dominate the
album are always the work's assets and liabilities simultaneously. But with
springtime come again, and no tour left to hop on, this album may be crashing on
your couch at the right time. Hey, do these brownies taste funny to you? They
sure do.
-Brent S. Sirota