Four notes.
Four notes of the new All Them Witches album was all it took to hook me.
Chit chatting with Patrick over the phone, we’re talking about some recent vinyl purchases – him from Time Machine Records in Grants Pass, me from the Vinyl Vault here in Sonora. We both spend way too much on records but after giving up smokes and booze this vice is acceptable.
“And then I picked up this one Hannah recommended – All Them Witches, never heard them but I’m going to give them a listen.” He said.
“Hmm, never heard of them either,” I responded. Any idea what they’re like?
“No – I just don’t want to be that guy,” Patrick says.
“What do you mean?” I inquire, having a sense I already know what he means.
Hannah is significantly younger than the both of us, so she tends to highlight things that might otherwise be off our collective radars. Such an already refined ear is an absolute joy to see in the younger generation.
“That guy who stopped listening to new stuff. I look at my collection and it’s mostly ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s – I don’t want to be that guy,” he says.
“I feel that!” I said.
We disconnect and I slink back into my chair.
I’m not that guy but I don’t want to be that guy either.
I open Apple Music, look up the band – House of Mirrors, just released a week ago. Fuck it, let’s do this.
Four notes and chills run up my spine as the haunting opening riff from “Red Rocking Chair” begins. Charles starts singing and then it hits. Acid Bath, Black Sabbath, Black Angels.
Something primal deep within me stirs and I stand up, launching out of my chair, reach over for the dial and crank it up… oh my… This. Is. Good.
This is what should have been playing when Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda were traipsing through a New Orleans cemetery hopped up on psychedelics – that’s where it takes you. But don’t you fucking dare decide to take a nap, we’re just getting started. This is a party pressed onto vinyl and you will be here till we kick you off the porch.
I pop Pat a text – Dude…this is fucking amazing – the first in a rapid-fire stream of consciousness reactions as the album unfolds.
Track three, “Aethernet,” moves us out of the cemetery and along the riverbanks. Muscle shirts, Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots and BBQ. Humid, languid, nasty in all the right ways as folks strip off their clothes and head down to the river for a dip in the water. There’s an unsettled menace in the air like a low-pressure system moving in, a storm nipping at its heels.
The texts continue in a flurry to Patrick, who finally throws up the white flag and tells me it’s in his rotation for tomorrow.
“Tomorrow?! There is no tomorrow,” I respond, no longer in control of my mind or words as I’m transported to wherever these guys want to take me.
Somewhere between track four and track five I pop over to the band’s website and order the vinyl, rush delivery. The party’s moved to no one’s house and it’s a rager as someone lights a bonfire out back and the whiskey is freely flowing.
Around what I tell myself would be the second side (Track six, “Starting Line”), the record’s arc bends back toward Earth and starts to reenter the atmosphere. That raging party has turned into your four best friends on the porch, slightly drunk but hanging on, the moment’s not done. “Starting Line” locks into a riff that pulses and coils like Lennon’s coda on “She’s So Heavy” — except McLeod lets it finish. No rug pull. Just the groove riding all the way home, and somewhere in there Ben McLeod is smiling, hoping you catch it.
By the time “Angel on the Wayside” comes around (Track 8), the party has dwindled to a select few, but damn are they still at it. Dancing, grinding, not as much enthusiasm as earlier but all good things have to come to a close and one by one folks are stumbling to their cars, calling it a night.
“The Welterweight” gets you home but “Saturn Song” tucks you in, gives you a kiss on the forehead as it pulls the covers up under your chin. It’s been one helluva night but now it’s time to shuffle off to dreamland. Tomorrow’s another day, another band, another party.
The best albums take you for a ride. Sometimes the trajectory is a slow on-ramp, merging as the music accelerates till you’re moving full speed down the road. And then there’s House of Mirrors, which goes from 0-whatthefuck without even checking to see if you buckled your seat belt, tossing cigarettes out the window as it cracks a beer.
Ten minutes and a stream of unhinged texts later, a photo lands in my messages. Patrick, needle down, album spinning.
Some records don’t wait for tomorrow.
I am 59, so while I read this my mind went into a parallel universe where my thoughts dropped in on me when I was at a midnight bonfire at age 19. The witches and warlocks were dancing around the 10 foot tall blaze chanting buck naked. Though my memory is strong at the start of the gathering, the last thing I remember is the warmth of the blaze. The music played just as it is written in Mr. B’s enthralled state. The music held our attention while driving our passion forward. By the next morning I knew Jim Beam was the culprit. Thank you Mr. B for bringing back several of my memories, though I only expressed one here I went through several! Superb!