It's easy to dismiss this sort of thing as dewy-eyed retro-fetishism, but for my money it's rather more a case of hitting the mainline of vintage inspiration - when I spin The Alligator Bride I feel like I'm padding barefoot across the desert inside of a burnt orange sun glare, charred sienna dust and squinting light flare giving way to the possibly naked person sat back to back with a guitar case on the cover of Neil Young's Decade LP. It's fantasy summer rock'n'roll, 1973 in a capsule, like stumbling into the Western movie David Crosby dreamt on Mama Cass's lawn. Which all reads exactly like dewy-eyed retro-fetishism, I know, but for those of us true believers who regularly step through the portals of Free Bird, or Out on the Weekend, or Funks #48 & 49, Miller's oeuvre is a pair of open arms in the impossible sunsquint of a time that birthed mythic tunes and immortal musical legends.
Saturday 27 October 2018
Cold blooded love - Howlin' Rain's Alligator Bride
Damn if Ethan Miller ain't done it again. After the relatively downbeat Mansion Songs this HR fan was left wondering where Miller's muse might lead him next. Side projects Feral Ohms and Heron Oblivion may or may not have revitalised Miller, but either way the opening single and title song from The Alligator Bride was no fluke - it's a great indicator of the pleasures to be had within the new record. Less ferocious than some HR sides, it's still laden with enough coruscating leads and galloping Jeff McElroy bass runs to leave a man clutching his sour-mash to his heart and fondly eyeing his classic rock vinyl.
It's easy to dismiss this sort of thing as dewy-eyed retro-fetishism, but for my money it's rather more a case of hitting the mainline of vintage inspiration - when I spin The Alligator Bride I feel like I'm padding barefoot across the desert inside of a burnt orange sun glare, charred sienna dust and squinting light flare giving way to the possibly naked person sat back to back with a guitar case on the cover of Neil Young's Decade LP. It's fantasy summer rock'n'roll, 1973 in a capsule, like stumbling into the Western movie David Crosby dreamt on Mama Cass's lawn. Which all reads exactly like dewy-eyed retro-fetishism, I know, but for those of us true believers who regularly step through the portals of Free Bird, or Out on the Weekend, or Funks #48 & 49, Miller's oeuvre is a pair of open arms in the impossible sunsquint of a time that birthed mythic tunes and immortal musical legends.
It's easy to dismiss this sort of thing as dewy-eyed retro-fetishism, but for my money it's rather more a case of hitting the mainline of vintage inspiration - when I spin The Alligator Bride I feel like I'm padding barefoot across the desert inside of a burnt orange sun glare, charred sienna dust and squinting light flare giving way to the possibly naked person sat back to back with a guitar case on the cover of Neil Young's Decade LP. It's fantasy summer rock'n'roll, 1973 in a capsule, like stumbling into the Western movie David Crosby dreamt on Mama Cass's lawn. Which all reads exactly like dewy-eyed retro-fetishism, I know, but for those of us true believers who regularly step through the portals of Free Bird, or Out on the Weekend, or Funks #48 & 49, Miller's oeuvre is a pair of open arms in the impossible sunsquint of a time that birthed mythic tunes and immortal musical legends.
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