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Dirtbombs, Forty-Fives, Great Dividers Any review that spotlights a Detroit band is probably destined to invoke the term “garage rock” at some point in the narrative, so we’ll consider that chore summarily completed. Besides, if you consult the Dirtbombs’ Web site, you’ll encounter this terse FAQ exchange, penned no doubt by Dirtbombs frontman Mick Collins: Q: Blah blah blah garage rock? I’ll stick with “rock ‘n’ roll dance party,” which is what opening act the Great Dividers listed on their handbills for the gig. The Dividers are an offshoot of Scrappy Hamilton, which specializes in a kind of “stomp rag boogie” retro-roots music not wholly dissimilar from Squirrel Nut Zippers but with a distinctive Appalachian edge. (If you saw horror flick Cabin Fever last year, you heard Scrappy Hamilton on the soundtrack.) In their Dividers incarnation, however, the foursome expands to five and plays a more new-wavey brand of straight-up rock ‘n’ roll. The Dividers are fronted by a female vocalist who resembles a slimmed-down Kim Deal while channelling Patti Smith and Debbie Harry, moving around the stage with sensual abandon. She even made the Smith connection explicit during one of several reggae-tinged numbers by interpolating lyric snatches of “Redondo Beach.” The Dividers had charisma to burn, clearly at ease onstage and displaying loads of promise if they ever decide to ramp this side project up to full-time status. Next up were Atlanta's Forty-Fives, whose Fight Dirty was one of 2002’s best releases and whose upcoming High Life High Volume looks to repeat for ‘04. (Both records are on Yep Roc; the latter was recorded in Detroit with the Dirtbombs’ Jim Diamond producing and Collins guesting on harmonica; hence the current tour opening for the ‘Bombs.) The band showcased tunes from the new LP, of course; the infectious “Who Do You Think You Are?” was a highlight of the set, an hour’s worth of Kinks/Who/Small Faces/MC5 maximum R&B delivered at punk-rock velocity. The Forty-Fives don’t do themselves full justice on album, because their stage show is keyed to interaction and dynamics, which is to say, the gents are a whirlwind of motion that hints at an intuitive choreographical sense without ever seeming, er, “staged.” Singer/guitarist Bryan Malone, wielding an electric Rickenbacker like a lumberjack with a chainsaw, shakes his thick mane of black hair like he was born to be a mop-topped member of the Fab Four. Organist Trey Tidwell, who stands still for nary a nanosecond, assaults his keys like a man in need of anger-management therapy and shimmys like a caged go-go girl. Bassist Mark McMurtry is a pinballing human dynamo who, abetted by drummer Adam Renshaw, keeps the sonic blender cranked up to “puree.” (Renshaw may have a secondary career waiting for him if he ever ditches the music game; between songs, he plays MC, putting on his best Don Pardo-style announcer’s voice and tossing out snarky quips, bon mots about his fellow bandmates and the occasional merch pitch.) The Forty-Fives are easily one of the most compelling live acts the Tarheel State has ever produced. Trust me, over the years, I’ve seen plenty of ‘em. Spotted in the audience during the set change: Don Howland (who, when not teaching area elementary-school kids, is one-half of the legendary Bassholes) and Greg Cartwright (ex-Oblivians/Compulsive Gamblers, currently fronting the Reigning Sound). The mighty Dirtbombs hit the boards running—or, more accurately, jetting, as the wall of sound erected by the band is akin to a jet engine’s roar on the runway. A hulking, Ray Bans-clad Collins leaned over the edge of the stage, spewing out distorted shards of lead guitar and grimacing into the mic. He was flanked by a pair of bassists, the aforementioned Diamond (at times impassive, others smirking evilly, laying down a monstrous drone) and Ko Shih (a blur of hair-bobbing motion, propulsively thwacking her axe; the diminutive gal also fronts notorious Detroit band Ko And The Knockouts). Behind the trio was the double-drummer back line of Patrick Pantano (arms aloft, doing a Keith Moon routine on a full kit) and Benjamin Blackwell (favoring a more stripped-down approach with a smaller kit planted so low he practically has to kneel in to hit it). It’s certainly a unique visual angle the Dirtbombs have going for them, and the sound itself is no less unusual, one more rhythmically based than your standard guitar/guitar/bass/drums setup. The entire room swelled and filled up with low end, the translation going something like: viscera churn, pudenda vibrate, hips and asses undulate, shoulders involuntarily pump up and down. Very primeval and ancient, like something welling up from deep within the jungle. Prominently featured in the Dirtbombs’ set were numbers from the recent Dangerous Magical Noise (In The Red), among them one-and-a-half-minute opening salvo “Start The Party” (wherein Collins bayed and barked, inciting the room to, uh, start the party) and “Get It While You Can” (a massive fuzztone stomper that’s the equivalent of an entire marching band coming down a tight alleyway). A noisy, Hendrix-a-fied cover of Sly & The Family Stone’s “Underdog,” which the Dirtbombs originally recorded for 2001’s Ultraglide In Black, left stanky sheets of funk hovering in the air. Raw, unfettered, down ‘n’ dirty soul, baby. Onward the band charged, forward, into the dark night. Was it garage rock? I dunno; the Dirtbombs aren’t a garage-rock band. They are, however, one of the Motor City’s best combos, period. Collins has been fronting the group since the mid-’90s, through numerous lineup changes and a gradual shift from punk to a more R&B-tinged brand of skronk. The former Gories frontman has also been involved with numerous other projects over the last decade, too, among them Blacktop, King Sound Quartet, the Screws and Voltaire Brothers. In this particular musical incarnation, however—this on-paper-unwieldy, in-practice-trumphant, two-bass, two-drums, one-guita creature—he’s stumbled onto a winning formula. —Fred Mills |