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Dusted Reviews
Artist: Endless Boogie Album: Full House Head Label: No Quarter Review date: Jul. 20, 2010 |
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Nothing if not consistent, Endless Boogie provides more examples of its casual approach to rock music. Full House Head is a good hour-plus demonstration of its craft. Proficient at its instruments, its membership keens toward a unified front, this self-aware everyman presence that eschews virtuosity in favor of togetherness, as these four men squeeze their way through a swamp-assed tromp in the wilds of nasty blues and Southern rock. Most of their songs hover past the 8-minute mark, so that anyone just walking into the bar they’re playing gets more of a chance to grab a lick. It’s incredible background music, and when/where/why you decide to pay attention depends solely on you. And when you do, GREAT! Dip in your friendly conversation with Boz Scaggs? Zen moment in the mens’ room, honkin’ on bobo? They’re your boys.
Endless Boogie is not high-concept, and as such, their music is easily deconstructed. There’s pop songwriting — then there’s these guys. There’s very little build-up to get to their songs. You’re there. But wait! Time travel is for suckers. You want to extend your time on Earth because it’s all you got. The triple-length jams that roll out of this forge give the illusion that everything’s the same, while robbing you of your time. Robbie Robertson wrote “you put the load right on me.” Hard rock, blues rock, psych rock … these are obsessions, the weight of the obsessed. I’m one of them. You might be, too. I’m aware that huge chunks of the world slip right past my view, choosing instead to go deaf in search of the righteous vibe. Its poison is the allure. It’s not for everyone, but it is for some. People with lots to do wouldn’t dig this too much.
There’s no Krautrock in their approach, no attempts at minimalism or pop jockin’ or rebranding of the form. It’s nothing more than riffin’ and blue-collar soloin’. And you better love those riffs, because it’s gonna take ‘em a while to resolve. Their music comes from confinement, in the garage, revvin’ in neutral, trying to get a base high. Class and personality is not on display. The public-facing organ of Endless Boogie, Paul Major, croaks like Fred Cole doing Chris Griffin from Family Guy. He barks about grabbin’ some “Mighty Fine Pie” and the sensible throngs drift off, as a pack of wolves up front leer like escaped cons from the foot of the stage. It’s dirty.
This is a band that has four full-length albums to its credit. Never has it bent or changed. Humans take a break from everyday life to do something they love, and in the case of these gents, they attempt to give back. We made ourselves this way. I’m far from a generation that told me it was a good idea to listen to Free. I had to travel backward to get there. It took a long time. That search, that struggle is represented in the 9-minute asphalt melters and the fumes they generate. You’re either impressed with their single-mindedness, or you’ve stopped reading this review.
Endless Boogie uses the infinity symbol as its logo. The problem with Endless Boogie is its solution.
By Doug Mosurock
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