Careening wildly from the heart of SF’s Crocker-Amazon district, The Amazons emerge from a roiling miasma of blood, sweat and carpet fibers to bring you this throbbing assortment of thrash-and-burn pop goodies.
Characterized as “a beatiful expression of love among three men” by late Beat icon Allen Ginsberg, this Kingston Trio of rage augments its Mennonite approach to the idiom with the gusto of a young bull manatee in full rut, blending liberal doses of Joycean imagery, Velvet Underground-tempered angst and Aolian cadences painstakingly cribbed from the Bulgarian Women’s Chorus.
The savory gazpacho bubbling up from these tracks is a concentrated extract of The Amazons themselves. Todd Barker’s local musical odyssey began with seminal deconstructivists The Whitefronts; Jason Brownell tempered his chops as a card-carrying member of Milwaukee’s pop underground; and Matthew Rothenberg has helmed such genre bending outfits as The Ho Hos, Three Guys Called Jesus and Noise 292.
But enough commentary: The evidence is now in your hands. Sit back, relax and let The Amazons apply a vise grip to your aesthetic inseam.
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