God, I love these guys.
For years, Smartbomb has laid the foundation for its supreme dominance of Washington, D.C. Slowly and quietly they have banded and disbanded, named and renamed, played and displayed, to forge powerful alliances with the city's musical elite.
For years they have lingered quietly in the shadow of their local label mates Emmet Swimming. For years they have played the supporting role to an endless stream of national acts looking to carve a niche in DC. Matchbox 20, Atheneum, Smashmouth, Our Lady Peace, and the venerable Styx all leaned on the ‘Bomb to bring out the salivating droves when they came to town.
For years the ‘Bomb has relentlessly toiled and scratched their way into sweaty clubs and onto uninsured death-trap stages only to have their momentum cut short by improbably freak injuries and inexplicable accidents.
No more.
The ‘Bomb has hit ground zero.
Armed with years of experience, hard knocks, contacts, and in-roads, Smartbomb drops Here Comes the Slapback on Washington DC.
The Smartbombers were founded two years ago out of the miserable wreckage known on the scene at the time as The Drowners. The Drowners, who had been through eight or nine staffing changes in their short but prosperous lifetime, had fizzled, demoralized by lead vocalist Chuck Andrada's nearly severed hand. Months of therapy and a new religion imported by relative newcomer, bassist Scott "The Breadmaker" Brotemarkle, previously of Biohio, brought the Drowners out into the public again as Smartbomb.
The ‘Bomb, with former Drowner Chris Brownelle on guit-licks and chops, roared briefly, peaked with the disastrously packaged EP Candyfingerpole (uhhh, things you sit on?), and then faded once more when their drummer left for a steady gig at Long John Silver's.
This ruinous event would be the defining moment for the ‘Bomb. In the autumn of 1997 - only days before a self-imposed deadline to give it all up and return to their previous day jobs caddying and designing competitive ballroom dance shoes - they enlisted former Iceboxer, Jawn Long, to sit behind the drum kit. And once he completed his house arrest, he joined the band on-stage to round out what would become, Washington DC's Best and Hardest Karate Rock Band.
The trapping of many such supergroups is that the whole is less than the sum of the parts. Golden Smog, Damn Yankees, and Superstation have all fronted extremely talented line-ups but have failed when it came to presenting a clear, concise direction and message. But due to their feline patience and sheer perseverance, Smartbomb has managed to avoid this. The band has waited two years before releasing its maiden full-length album and in that time has found the appropriate formula to balance a double lead vocal/double lead guitar sonic attack. (Triple lead guitar if you count the fact that Brotemarkle is essentially playing lead on his bass.)
As a music journalist (read: whore) it is my duty to the listening public to describe what a band sounds like. Through countless manifestations of this band I have been assaulted by their audiophonics and I have never come across any other band that bore likeness. Years ago, in a mite-infested record store in Berkeley, I heard a Superdrag album that begged comparison. That's as close as I will get. I am open to suggestions.
But whomever they sound like and whatever label you apply - Karate Rock, Popcore - this is quality rock and roll.
Here Comes the Slapback is a diamond mine of radio-ready gems. Lyrically, the boys glide easily from environmental outrage, to shots at the record industry, to despondent love songs, to social commentary. The glue that holds this hodge-podge of lyrical delights together is the underlying suspicion, heightened by some intangible vocal quality, that Smartbomb is just fucking with us. All of these songs have some hook or some sly, sideways approach that even in their most infuriated moments, smell of mockery.
They are masters at sub-referencing pop culture. Even their name is taken from the famous Atari game Defender (though they all admitted to not really having played it much.) "Trackstar" (a double entendre) is a full attack on Seattle-chic grunge culture and the record companies that encouraged the flannel depression of the early 90's.
There are endless other highlights on Here Comes the Slapback. Allow me to mention just a few.
"Japanese Boy" deals tongue-in-cheek with the Asian-American experience in the Conservative South. "My daddy's looking confused/ he never knew we had Chinese people in Georgia/ and as he struggles with diminishing patience/ to make sense of your broken English/ look who's coming to dinner/ the Japanese boy."
Andrada is equipped to provide humorous insight into this topic having been raised in Virginia and mistaken as Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese, when in fact, he is Mexican.
A surprise delight for those of us who accidentally let our CD players run long enough is the hidden track "They Call My Butt Iwo Jima." Let your CD player stop at the end of the album (after the other hidden re-mix of "Hey Babe") and after about 3 or 4 undisturbed minutes, the player will start up again on its own for a brief 90 second accapella lullaby/montage of flatulence that I won't descibe in great detail here other than make sure the kiddies are asleep.
"Tank Farm Free," however, is the golden egg that this goose lays. If you're going to remember Smartbomb for anything other than their Dionysian physique, it will be "Tank Farm Free," a scathing indictment of an actual Fairfax environmental crisis. It is infatuously hummable, delightfully chantable, and endlessly unforgettable. If Smartbomb is sitting on a diamond mine, this is the Jewel of the Sea poking up their ass.
Hugs all around.
|