I owe Homeshake an apology. When I emailed them, asking if I could come check out the release party for their new double LP, I totally called them “radical muthafuggas.” Although I only curse for colour, they say that familiarity breeds contempt. And so, Homeshake, I’m sorry.
Moving on.
Plastic Factory (like the Captain Beefheart song) is a new local label releasing the aforementioned double LP, and the party for its release is going to be tonight at Drones Club. When I Googled Plastic Factory, some weird shit came up. Like this one thing that says: “Joomla! The dynamic portal engine and content management system.” I guess I should have Googled Plastic Factory RECORDS.
Anyway, forget Google. You know what you should do instead? Go listen to Homeshake’s MUSIC.
You always remember that indelible first impression when a song stopped you dead in your tracks. For me, I was driving up the mountain with someone, case of Pabst between my legs, summer night and setting sun, car window rolled down, warm wind in my face, and he chucked on Moon Woman, off The Homeshake Tape. It was just one of those times.
Now I can’t turn that shit off. Now I can’t put down my guitar. Now I can’t wait for this double LP.
I don’t know why they call it Slacker Rock. I guess we should all feel flattered that someone’s finally validating the way we sleep until noon because we’re up until sunrise doing something weird with a guitar. Slacker Rock. The music of directionless twenty-somethings who drift around, jamming. Too mellow to be punk, too lackadaisical to be included in the phenomenon of every band branding themselves “psychedelic rock,” and too honest to call themselves “garage rock.” (Because who the fuck makes music in a garage? Who even has a garage?)
Homeshake. Go. Listen.
