Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Take Them On, On Your Own

I'm from Los Angeles, but don't think of bronzed guys skating around and extolling the infinite joys of the sun, with low-rise jeans and Hawaiian shirts. They're a trio. Pale, disheveled, and always dressed in black. They seem to never leave their damp rooms and their constant paranoia. They have the haunted look of too many sleepless nights and too many cigarettes.

They play a kind of dark garage, a little sick, called 'shoegazer'. Songs that meld into the ears, sick if not incomprehensible lyrics, all driven by ringing guitars, dominant bass, and the power of despair.

In their first album, they had fun channeling all their melancholy and a good dose of cursed love, but in this one they experiment with distorted guitars and a baggage of existential doubts. The third album is on the way. Who knows... maybe they've decided to come out of the basement and get a tan, but with all my heart I hope not.