THE LANGLANGS – The LangLangs (self-produced)
THE RIPPERS – The Rippers (Screaming Apple)

It’s hard to give either of these bands points for creativity when it comes to album titles, but they more than make up for it in sheer sonic oomph.
 
With their self-produced EP and zero presence on the web (even the fountain of knowledge that is The Barman couldn’t really fill in many blanks), Sydney band The LangLangs’ cloak and dagger act is quite puzzling.  E-mails to and from singer/guitarist Charles White requesting background information have apparently gone the way of aircraft in the Bermuda Triangle.  Damn spam filters…

The music itself, though, makes no such pretenses at anonymity, a clutch of ragged, stripped-back, direct-dialed 911 calls played with verve and making an impact by virtue of their energy.
 
“Call Me Nudstrum” is a blistering hunk of garage lunacy, guitars slithering and pinging like loose pinballs and White speaking in tongues at a Tourette’s support group karaoke outing.  Fabulous disaster.  You’d like him.  “Frank Sinatra Has A Cold” slouches in out of the alley through the back door, Keith Richards, Mick Taylor and Gram Parsons sneaking in behind, Rebel Yell on its breath, a five o’clock shadow, and dark circles under its eyes.

They save the best for last, though, going for broke (and down in flames) with “Dirty XU1,” a paean to the cleansing powers of a screaming spin down Highway 32, windows wide open, radio blaring, and both boots resting on the floor pan.  This EP works like gangbusters as a teaser, but I sure am curious to see what they come up with next.

Like label mates Dee Rangers, The Rippers have time-traveled forty years ahead from mid-60’s Nuggets territory, via Sardinia, arriving in a cloud of smoke, sweat and department store instruments, but seemingly can’t be reined in, their psyched-out guitar and harp frenzy threatening to warp into cosmic overload throughout this compilation drawn from a number of sources dating back to 2001.
 
Surly, skinny-trousered R&B infused with 16 ounces of caffeine madness, satisfyingly raw and unpretentious with blisters on all digits and erupting vocal nodes, The Rippers serve up a Yardbirds-style rave-up of Herculean proportions.  In mono.  And while there’s no recreation of the wheel here, it’s still quite the rush of blood to the head.  - Clark Paull

 

 

- The LangLangs

 

1/2 - The Rippers   




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