Altamont
Our Darling

Let's be clear, "Altamont" is the most beautiful name a rock band could ever give itself. The kind of stuff that leads to interplanetary success, big brand sponsorships, and merchandise in industrial quantities: Altamont the t-shirt, Altamont the baseball cap, Altamont the shampoo, Altamont the detergent. Because Altamont is the nemesis of rock 'n roll, the avenging fate and the dark closure of an entire era; the chain to the toilet on flower power, on '68 revolutionary and libertine with all its heroes and ideals.
The boundless ego of the Rolling Stones was already unbearable at the time, and the Hell's Angels, leather-clad and uncomfortable among black kids with pretty blondes, even more so. Altamont, therefore, is America screwing itself and flipping off all the rock counterculture with the black tobacco spit of its own violence. Because history is a bastard, it recycles and mocks today. And cynicism is fed to you in a baby bottle: hence "Altamont, the flamethrower." That is, a mephistophelean trio put together by unsettling folks like Dan Southwick and Joey Osbourne from Acid King plus a certain Dale Crover, the incommensurable drummer of the incommensurable Melvins. For those unfamiliar with any of these bands, I'll cut to the chase: Altamont is a side-side-project in the most classic of unproductive instrument changes. Dale Crover plays the drums like a god but after spending all his savings on a Les Paul Goldtop, he rightfully expects to make his money back by selling... this album. Dan and Joey play in Mrs. Crover's band (a certain Lori King, golden voice of Acid King, presumably a "woman" and certainly less recommendable than the three combined) so more than a beer together pops up during the week.
Three albums in total (four, okay), solidly hanging around the Man's Ruin rooster (the first markedly stoner label, but it failed in Frank Kozik's hands) and a gust of more or less interesting ideas, between stoner and indie rock.

"Our Darling" is ultimately half a joke, half not. Overall, a blend with various musical influences, from sober to totally insane: those albums you like but never really know why. You have them. You play them now and then and say: "Uh! Ah! Stoner-punk-indie!" The opening is explosive, "Saint Of All Killers" is a sabbathian march that pays homage to one of the trashiest comic books of all time ("The Preacher" and its spin-off) and immediately stands out with a joyous guitar solo amplified with the Crover household intercom; right after comes "Short Eyes", the grungey swerve that would even get my centenarian great-grandmother excited. An overproduction of sounds and frequency jumps that suddenly slash, giving the whole album a lazy, dismissive, liberally goofy tone like Crover's voice that croaks and conducts the orchestra. The title track is a psychedelic walk with doom tones, the ambient-isolationist loop of "Stripey Hole" softens the mood and darts into a strange southern-glam ("Chicken Lover"). There's also room for a couple of delightful covers: "Pirate Love" by Johnny Thunders and especially "Young Man Blues" by Mose Allison redone like the Who (the start of the recording is fake "live" and winks at the historic mega-concert in Leeds!).
Nothing to tear your hair out over but my car stereo is really pumped with this stuff: from the Kinks to Brian Eno, passing through Black Sabbath, Hawkwind, Heartbreakers and all the way up to Graceland, even bothering the good soul of Elvis.

Altamont, the hot water bottle.

And finally, the young boy scout's good deed for the day: instead of helping those shriveled lizards of the Stones cross the road by buying yet another remaster of Aftermath in super-audio-dolby-surround with 3D glasses, digipack packaging, and free t-shirt, I prefer to spend money on these rascals.
Or go to the cinema to see "Altamont the movie," when it comes out.

(I love some crappy records)