King Kong
Old Man On The Bridge

Yesterday, I put an entire pack of chewing gum in my mouth and became a child again for a moment. As if there was a specific time and place for certain actions. In fact, I immediately felt foolish. Not before popping some rebellious bubbles.

I was diving in the basement with fins and a tank when he appeared. OLD MAN ON THE BRIDGE. I resurfaced at crazy speed, risking embolism. Since this place is also a place of oddities, I pull out one. A long jam from a damp cellar, a blues out of the ordinary meant to be played at the pickled cucumber fair in Harrodsburg, Kentucky. At times stretched-out college blues, at moments brilliant. Unfazed, free from preconceptions, out of time. Like a childlike act.

A recording from unspecified ungulates, modest attention in execution, serene carelessness in arrangements. All on a decent creative sap and a lot of familiarity with self-irony. After all, without irony in Kentucky, what do you do? You literally shoot yourself.

We may never know what mental acrobatics captured the bassist of Slint to put together this band. We know it's a very different creature compared to Slint. They have seven albums to their credit, but I'm not interested in anything beyond this debut dated 1991.

Making comparisons seems risky to me; first because I don't understand anything about the blues, second because they honestly sound unique. The only association is in some parts with Gang of Four for the sharp guitar and ancestral rhythms. I would summarize the album in the monumental title track of almost seven minutes. Skeleton of minimal sound: the drums occasionally propose small throws, the guitar creates mantras on single notes in fast sequences, the bass flirts with the same riff throughout the song. If it were a trivial riff, no way; it seems to have come from the depths of tribal Africa.

Then Ethan Buckler arrives with lazy singing and starts haibaheibahebehubahaba heuba heiba hobahuba haba x20. An apocalyptic nonsense, a crescendo blues-rock that is impossible to resist without dancing. It all then fades out in another four rounds of haibaheibahebehubahaba, an unknown message, an old man alone on the bridge, wondering what he might be thinking, what his life must have been like, if he’s wetting himself but most importantly if he knows who King Kong is.

EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE KING KONG