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One of my first-ever blog posts described Mayyors briefly after seeing them for the first time by accident at the Eagle Tavern last year. The Sacramento band eschews any and all internet presence, except for releasing some of their singles (one of which I was lucky enough to score at said show) through their distro, Mt. St. Mtn., which sell out immediately because they usually only press like, 200 copies. It's difficult for me to encapsulate their sound. My mind wanders over terms like psycho-garage, psychedelic two-step, psych-thrash punk, demonic psych-punk. It's all of these things (their almost avant-garde use of feedback and distortion their gold star): demonic-psycho-garage-thrash-punk.
They rarely play shows because their members are off being cool engineering albums for fellow musicians around the Bay Area, but when they do play, watch the fuck out. People go absolutely apeshit for Mayyors as soon as they plug in, crushing eachother in their reverie. The singer John Pritchard wears noise-cancelling earmuffs, drools on himself and often gets pinned against the stage along with the rest of the poor souls in the front of the roiling trough of human bodies, croaking out the lyrics while trying to wriggle himself free. And now, BEHOLD THE NEW MAYYORS 12-INCH, DEADS.
The record itself is unlabeled, austere and enigmatic as the band itself, like the obelisk from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The ominous, reverbed clanging began the instant I set the needle down, then quickly unfolded into a balls-out maniacal boogie, Pritchard's voice sneering nonsensically amidst the sound effects and earth-shaking bass. Chris Woodhouse's guitar (along with an entire table of pedals) wastes no time reaching heights of shrill insanity, but just as soon as they lock into a sharp grind, the next track takes over (remember, ain't no song names or Sides A or B on this thing). This one seethes with aggressive, murky feedback, all other sounds fiercely competing to bubble up from the sonic oblivion the bass and drums have laid down.
The third track has that chugging, eardrum-invading bass that's a hallmark of their best songs, the shrieks and angry chirps of Pritchard galloping along with the rest of the bandmates. The fourth and last track, finds Pritchard absolutely wailing, his head probably reared back with his eyes rolled deep into his skull.
These guys are the force to be reckoned with right now in the Bay Area, and I'll fight anyone who begs to differ.
(please ignore the content of the video. just listen to the song and let the world around you melt away.)
5 comments:
the singer's not jay howell. jay howell is an artist from s.f.
yeah, i have no idea why I wrote Jay Howell, but it's been changed to John Pritchard. Thanks for the alert! Dunno where my head was at.
An obelisk has a pointy top. What was in 2001 was a black slab.
you're probably right, however the "black slab" in the film is commonly referred to as "the obelisk", so this one's outta my hands.
i haven't seen John Pritchard's dick yet. am i missing out?
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