Fashionista femme fatales show all the boys how it's done - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #113


And here I was thinking it was largely NY’s unsurpassed Heliotropes propping up this blog’s continuing notion that music of today (and indeed yesteryear) is too light on female voices, both figuratively and literally; and that we need a few more right-thinkin’ lay-deez to come down and show us all how it’s done. Even while I typed these sentiments all those posts ago, little did I know something very special indeed was brewing in the City of Angels. I have a friend who asserts “I wish it was the eighties and I was in LA” and I think on the back of the San Fernando valley sleaze blues pumped out by the two fashonista femmes at the head of the Deap Vally wave, I finally understand that sentiment. Welcome then, to the revolution.

There’s only a two-track single out from Deap Vally currently, but there’s enough supplemental goodness on youtube and other places to put together an albumsworth. I don’t want to trouble you with anything that you can’t nail down and order and get portable so I’ll be dedicating these following witterings to the Gonna Make My Own Money single. So it all opens with a high pitched wailin’ like a creaming jet engine motorcycle heading hell-damned for the horizon and sucking in seabirds; then it all starts. A thunderous post-Sabbathian guitar groove like War Pigs on steroids and hepped up on last night’s speed and let loose at the riot house (the Continental Hyatt House) sometime in the mid-eighties drunk and dancing on the bar. Then o’course comes the show-stopping starlet voice; somewhere between Robert Plant and Jex Thoth and Janis Joplin and Elin Larsson Brody Dalle on two packs a day. It’s rough, it’s raw, it’s vicious and filled with bad-ass righteous indignation all emminating from the supremely stylish bona-fide rock goddess. And I mean rock goddess, the sorta right-on heathen woman who balances the outer beauty of, y’know, being a stone cold stunning wumman with the same inner beauty as Big Brother and the Holding Company-era J. Joplin, Airplane-era G. Slick; she’s beautiful not because of what she looks like but because of what she can do. The vocal gesticulations transcend the lyrics, descending quickly into wailing screaming OTT squeal, the sort glimpsed early this year on Little Sun by Blues Pills. Hey, it ain’t just vocally and musically that these gals take all the dude wannabes to the cleaners; they’ve got attitude up the arse; Gonna Make My Own Money is a notable entry to the sleaze rock contribution to a feminist anthem. Linsey Troy’s rough and butch Iggy-equalling Adam Black Savage impersonation is the ideal chorus-leader to this future anthem of the revolution surfing the wave of very very post-Zeppalike guitars and screaming out loud their doctrine. It etches several words in the mind, the laughter at the end of Gonna Make My Own Money only smoothing in what is now welded into yer eyes: this is now.


Not only are Deap Vally hot property, they're also hot!
Photo - Shelby Duncan
I am not going to talk about feminism and post-feminism here because there are far more intelligent and authoritative discussions about that within clicking distance, but I will say that these gals bridge the gap between those two ideologies. On the one hand they’re right up there, showing the boys how the manliest of manly blues sleaze is done and the buzz is already building around that; but on their videos, titles like “the ladies are wearing designs by Kittinhawk” and the fact both the lay-deez are stunningly beautiful; just like Jex Thoth, they’ll kick in yer balls as punishment for you having the gall to own them, but they’ll do it with a stiletto and look damn good while they’re doing it. Please do not mistake these statements for views on feminism and post-feminism. It is my honest belief that women are not equal to men, they’re destined to rule over us by being faster, smarter and more empathic and certainly now we’ve proved they can play rougher tougher better blues sleaze than any of the boys, it’s time to just submit and hope they don’t take it too rough that men structured society for ten thousand years to limit women’s contribution to washing up and babymakin’. Now that the rock and roll revolution will install right-on gals into all the offices of power and authority, we better just hope they’re all as stylish, beautiful, intelligent and wield their power as brutally effectively as the two lay-deez from Deap Vally.

Everyone else has already opined this, but Deap Vally are the real deal. I don’t mean authentic because what the fuck even is that? I mean, they plough a furrow of groove so deep and nail the beauty so right that I don’t give a fuck if they really met at a sewing class, discovering a mutual love of crocheting and blues; I know that as they sing out how they ain’t gonna marry a rich man, gonna make their own money, I know (and you will too) that these girls aren’t behind a veil, they’re real. Certainly your bag if you think the Black Keys (it’s okay to admit you like the Black Keys now, right?) needed to be just a lil’ bit more full on, and perhaps hire a swaggering skeletal Robert Plant with every ounce of testosterone evaporated out of him and start playing Sabbath riffs. Currently their record is only available from the big bad arseholes (Amazon, iTunes et cetera) so you’ll have to lend them some of your money. They were on a UK tour and I missed them in Glasgow but I can tell, they’ll be around for a while.
With rock cred comes authentic wheels - Photo Bryan Sheffield 
 
EDIT - if yooz got bombs to defuse and lives to save and are in a real hurry, these gals gone done a cover of I Put a Spell On You without even breaking a sweat, and if y'all need a distilled reason why this here is the shit then this here is it. Included for your listening and comprehension pleasure.
 

 

Written under duress by Steven.

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