Archers of Loaf
White Trash Heroes
[Alias]
Rating: 7.3
And so the career of the Archers of Loaf flickerfades as the band punches out with
White Trash Heroes. Throughout their lifespan the Archers continually dodged
and parried the aggressive epee of critical classification in a flurry of skewed
guitar and backwards rhythms. White Trash Heroes completes the mutation as
the final crop presented here yields sounds nocturnal, distant, introspective,
haunted, and vampired of tone.
The most conspicuous additions to the Archers sonic vocabulary are keyboard
adjectives that modify the washing fuzz-jangle guitar (which follows the
instructions on the bottle: "distort, riff, repeat.") with Nintendo hooks on
"Fashion Bleeds," and propels "Dead Red Eyes" and the title track with garage-
sale symphonics. Some bolder experiments, such as the snake- charmer guitar
clashing with talk-box vox on "One Slight Wrong Move," the drunken pub sing- along
on "After The Last Laugh," and the put- your- hands- on- your- knees- and- shake-
that- healthy- booty keys on "Smokers In Love," are surprising opposite field RBIs
(obligatory post- McGwire baseball euphemism). However, "Banging On A Dead Drum,"
a noisy dud, would have been better left in the rehearsal spaces of Research Triangle,
NC.
There's an overall air of Southernness on White Trash Heroes that goes beyond
the Foxworthy- esque title. Empty ante-bellum chambers, creaky porches flaking
restoration paint, bare lightbulbs from wires, and moonlight over tobacco and
crickets resonates in Matt Gentling's head- dunking bass notes and Eric Johnson's
searing guitar picking. Eric Bachmann sings in a discovered Southern drawl, sounding
like he stumbled into a plantation studio to record "Slick Trick and Bright Lights"
after a stroll under pecan trees, sucking down juleps.
Relaxed and veteran, White Trash Heroes points the Archers in a new direction
without ever completely getting there. It's frustrating, considering that this
record is their swan song. So, enjoy these final sounds, as they recline the seats,
jaded, and kick up dust into twilight.
-Brent DiCrescenzo