|Mammoth Mammoth slaying dragons.|
So it’s Torche, but without the nice edges, it’s Vincent Black Shadow’s post-Electric Eels thunder by way of Sabbath’s best Blue Cheerisms in the echoes of the rasping cough from High Rise’s stolen Benzadrine inhaler. Those of us who live on the noisier side of life, who acknowledge that somewhere out there is something much greater than this, a perpetual adolescence and the only way to get this is to ride aboard a wave of thunderously heavy, perpetually adolescent music that embraces and immortalises the same sentiments as we wish to see embraced and immortalised; the music we’ve imagined and discussed; as a noise rock freak, every so often, one of these records that comes along and is resolutely, undeniably and perpetually where it’s at and demands multitude listens to fully comprehend what, on the surface, you knew midway through the first spin; that a rock and roll composed of simple instruments, articulating simple ideas (rock and roll is after all “simple music for simple people” as its critics would detract) is far from simple. Nailing down exactly how the band nail the beauty not just in a thrilling moment of togetherness, but for the duration of the album and in every spin, in reasonable experimental conditions; this Mammoth Mammoth have mastered. I’ve spent many listens to the record (and it ain’t a long record because it blatts along at such a pace) and contemplating it’s testicular fuzzball bravado, as the guitar scrambles muddy and panting through the Royal Marine assault course and the bass jogs sweatily behind almost out of sight. I’ve contemplated the thunderous drum tapping that sets the whole never-lower-than-9000 RPM pace of the album and keeps the throttle pinned and the needle leaning down on a hundred the whole way across the choked and blasted desert. I’ve tried to pin down exactly what part of the nostalgic self-aware heavy-handed OTT bravado in Mikey’s vocal delivery. I even appreciate the necessarily brief diversions into pure Melvinite circa-Lysol post-Flipper mindfucking weirdness before diving back into another thousand mile-an-hour scuzz blast disguised as a rock song. I’ve come to terms with the less-than-great less-than-the-others middle-of-the-album middle-of-the-road (Up All Night) Demons to Fight and realised there’s nothing bad about the song, it’s just twice as long as the rest; more of everything, it actually contains a whole lotta the best out-of-context vocal lines (including the ‘Tattoo on my chest that say’s fuck you’, or rather ‘fooooog yooouh’). I’ve thought about the last two songs, the balladry and po-faced seriousness of Bury Me and the lowest, least interesting and least funny song on the record, I Want It Too which is really the one attempt at seriousness and comes off uninteresting, and would sink the album were it not for Mikey vocal macho bollocks turning the whole thing into a surrealistic machismo gag. I’ve tried to penetrate the meaning, decipher the allegorical significances that raise this record into the pantheon of 2012 greats and come up short. Then it hit me; I’ve been living my life to the pace of this record for the best part of a week, moving at a breakneck pace, and I’ve lived more in the last week than I have for a long time, I’ve done more. To attempt to understand the record is to miss the point of the trip. The trip is a motorcycle ride across the desert and through the deserted streets of Australia’s cities, and to attempt to understand that, to attempt to logicise it and pidgeon-hole it is to miss the only way of understanding it. The smell of oil evaporating on the carburettor, the feeling of the midday sun burning your skin, the speed hit keeping you going when in all other circumstances you’d pass out; that is what Hell’s Likely means. Turn it over, rev the throttle, keep going.
Written under duress by Steven.