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The Konks | review | rock | Lollipop

The Konks

(Bomp!)
by Craig Regala

Three guys. Two guitars, two drums. Singing drummer. And a harmonica. Don't forget that, it matters. Like a bubblegum version of The Cheater Slicks or somethin' (no insult). They mention Billy Childish, and really they do fall inside his scribbley garagist hum, that being about 75 albums or something linking up all that's achievable in various styles of three chord folk/punk/country/mod/'50s R&B/poetry. There be about a billion songs written with such simple tools, and as long as it keeps working, there might be a billion more to come. Trace their sound to the wonderful thin bite of Hounddog Taylor's crudely perfect Chicago electric blues and David Allen and The Arrows' search for the sound of choked dual carburetors tearing down some California highway in '66. The form they follow is a nervous, scooting, skiffley honk applied to bare-bones rockabilly. As "folk-loric" as this sounds, they avoid good taste and nod to the fact they know what-the-fuck by running through the Joe Perry penned "Let the Music Do the Talkin'," and drop trou in puddles formed by the slobber of listening to the Velvets' "Sister Ray" and Stooges' "Tight Pants."
(www.bomp.com)

 


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