Although this writer's pretty sick of reading ephemera about The Strokes - and now the drummer's engaged to Drew Barrymore God help us all - the one decent side-effect is that it turns the spotlight on those who've shared their hallowed stages on tour.
Yeah, I know I'm a bitch an' all that, but LA's WISKEY BISCUIT's fortunes have turned around since touring with Casablancas and co, and now here's their self-titled debut, picked up by the ever-vigilant Loose after the septet were unceremoniously dumped by Geffen.
And, while there's precious little you could earmark as groundbreaking here, "Wiskey Biscuit" acquits itself well enough. It largely inhabits the rockier end of Loose's spectrum, with only the occasional skirl of pedal steel from guest Farmer Dave (ex-Beachwood Sparks) to remind you that Wiskey Biscuit are broadly an Alt.Country band during the album's first half.
"Santa Ana River Delta Blues" is an impressive opening broadside. Thrumming, Velvets-y rhythms, Keefchording and singer Jason Mason's Jonathan Donahue-ish vocals all star and the band sound reluctant to finally let this one go as the track peters out shy of six minutes. The ensuing "Mom Song"s useful, too, imbued with punky energy and a Farfisa sound that's pure Strawberry Alarm Clock.
Actually, there's a sizeable cache of cool stuff on offer here. "Ocean"s got an expansive AND stupidly catchy slow-burning melody; "Kids Hangin' Out" crunches along nicely in a late '70s Stones kinda way, and even allowing for its' silly, lifestyle-checking lyrics ("A cigarette for breakfast, coffee for lunch, cocktails for dinner - Man, I don't need much"), "I Like Sleepin'" gets to you in spite of yourself.
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Ironically, it's mainly when "Wiskey Biscuit" stops rockin' and starts dozin' that it sleepwalks dangerously close to pastiche. For instance, it's only really the final two tracks, "Trailerpark Sweetheart" and "Poor Days" that find the lads ruffling the Gram Parsons corn in their hair, and here they just sound forced. Also, whoever suggested Wiskey Biscuit should indulge in ill-advised white boy reggae ("Hidin' In My Kitchen" and the interminable 'hidden' dub workout at the album's close) really should be haunted by Joe Strummer's ghost.
Combined with Mason's sometimes annoying adenoidal whine, these tracks drag "Wiskey Biscuit" down to a level where you wish they'd drop the goofy Californian schtick. However, when they up the tempo, they rock effectively in an acceptably retro way. Give 'em the chance to mature a little and Wiskey Biscuit might yet be running truly fine mooshine.
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