THE THERMALS' debut album "More Parts Per Million" added a whole new dimension to supposed 'lo-fi' recording. Allegedly recorded onto a cassette purchased from K-Mart in singer Hutch Harris's kitchen in Portland, Oregon, it was a 'no-fi' classic and made previously landmark scuzz-rock albums like The Fall's "Dragnet" and Guided By Voices' "Alien Lanes" sound like they were conceived in 72-track megastudios with Trevor Horn at the controls by comparison.
With that in mind, initial exposure to "More Parts..." erstwhile follow-up, "Fuckin A" will come as something of a shock to the system. Yeah, it was still recorded in four days, but it was laid down at (erk!) a proper studio (Avast in Seattle, still with Death Cab For Cutie's Chris Walla at the controls) and straight away the major improvement in fidelity's apparent. Just check first tune "Our Trip", where Jordan Hudson's steamhammer drums smash out a ruthless tattoo, Kathy Foster's looming bassline swoops like a hungry raven and the screes of feedback finally give way to a meteorite shower of guitars and Hutch Harris yammering out the band's updated manifesto: "We're self-mending, we're self-cleansing/ we don't flinch, we don't give a shit...it's our trip, we're not listening!" Good on ya, mate.
So yeah, it's way more powerful and holds its' own sonically. Great. After all, much as I love GBV's early records, you get to the stage when you wanna hear your favourite bands' best songs recorded in a way that does 'em justice. "It's not no-fi" anymore, you cry. No, it's not: it's a whole lot better, so get over it and enjoy the 12 fantastic tunes on offer here, most of which are played with the vigour of the early Ramones hoovering up vim and munching on acid-tinged sherbet dabs procured by Bob Pollard.
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It's all pretty faultless, and precious little exceeds 2 minutes 30. Songs like "Every Stitch" and "When You're Thrown" are full-on, unyielding, perpetual motion punk, while "A Stare Like Yours" is desperate, broiling and urgent and sounds like a heavier version of early Wire. "God's Country" meanwhile, finds Harris ruminating with some disgust over modern day America and finds him gasping "it's my flag, it's my flag....pray for a new state, pray for assassination" over a geniusly basic ramalama.
Naturally, the band keep it simple, powerful and direct, although "End To Begin" and "Keep Time" find Foster indulging in some high-end counterpoint stuff, while the slower, almost, erm, contemplative "How We Know" finds Harris holding his guitar back to the last minute to let the melody finally burst its' banks. Then there's the excellent "Let Your Earth Quake, Baby", which dares to open with a disco beat and then revs up a slice of punky rockabilly The Minutemen or early Uncle Tupelo would have loved.
"Fuckin A", then, will no doubt alienate the holier than thou anoraks because the band dared to pay more than 10 dollars to record it, and thus it hardly adheres to their 'no-fi' ethic. The rest of us, though, are in for a treat, as Portland's best kept secret proceed to rock like racoons with rockets up their collective arse and light the blue touch-paper with serious aplomb. I bet Ric Ocasek would do a great job with the next one.
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