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