72 Blues - Said I Would

Fri 25th Feb, 2005 in Music Reviews

Blues, originally the domain of men the colour of coal sitting on their porches, has been hijacked by any number of musos for their own creative pleasure. And now, pull out your pen and add Melbourne’s 72 Blues, a loose, God-fearin’ collective, to that list. They are the restless fanatics who stand on wooden crates and stare a rattlesnake in the face while preaching the virtues of the Lawd Jesus Christ while they kick up the dirt and cackle manically.

The opening title track stomps on, a grimy blues riff shooting through the speakers. The she-devil incarnate sings with alarming competency, her vocal range reaching full stretch as her voice fills the dusty exposed wooden rafters of the tiny white-panelled church in Middle America. Follower Supper Is Waiting meanwhile saunters in; skirt firmly an inch too short, all suggestive lingering growls and flirtatious guitar licks.

The harmonica is pulled out for My Name, with almost tribal tappings, a dust storm of noise and gospel conviction, where ‘my name’ is the only line you need to know in order to join in the worship faction in singing their praises, whisky splashed about recklessly, teasing the licking flames of the hearth.

That Just Happened serves as an interlude of sorts, where a wise old man, faded American flag firmly stitched to breast pocket, muses over a sulking, sole guitar. It prepares your senses for the aptly named Way Down, a subtle, seductive tune in the same way a cowboy hat tilted just so is seductive. It is a refreshing break from the high intensity hoedown of prior.

But before you have time to drain your bourbon and coke, Southern Fried comes hurdling in, hoedown back in full force, complete with dirty vocals strained through a two-bit speaker. A bit of steel guitar and coos of ‘hallelujah’ is on the cards for Lay My Burden Down, and the worship of gods real or imagined is continued.

After such familiar and (whisper it) predictable blues tunes, Harmonihum is a strange beast which makes you sit up and prick your ears, consisting solely of the literally gargled emissions of a harmonica. Pity it is only an indulgence, at 1:11 minutes long. Oh well, back to some swampy blues.

It gets muddy on Lawd, A Lonesome Sorry, where another riff trudges circles around your delusioned head. But maybe you’ve been staring at the sun for too long and the cactus dancing in front of your eyes isn’t really there. Or perhaps you’ve just heard enough.

The band senses this, too, and strips it bare with Home. An acoustic guitar is languidly plucked as water drips, dirt in a can and crusty boots provide percussion, and she sings wistfully for home. The plaintive quiet of it is particularly endearing after the assault of blues debauchery.

It gets switched back to 11 with Gonna Get Fed, more raucous, twangy noise to melt your heathen heart. Shadows cast long and it is just about time to gather ‘round and let Uncle Joe tell you stories for the fearful and the sceptical. Yes, it is time for the 11 minute closer.

Not No More is a humid, epic song of lust and snakeskin boots, with musicians slinking in and out of the mix and the sense of a massive barnyard jam session. It is a fitting end for what is a ride through another era. 72 Blues certainly know their source material well – imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but a little deviation wouldn’t go astray.