A young boy calls to his parents while music from a ‘60s education video plays in the background. “Hello mom, dad? There’s a vulture out here eating a bear,” says the boy. Then sounds of frantic bass as the vulture turns to chase the boy. Then drums as the boy turns into a tablet of acid. Now the boy is gone, lost to a nightmare.
Lab-coat clad acid scientists Solid Brown has created a beautiful bastard of Frankenstein frequencies. They call it Our Rich Heritage. Two bassists. Two drummers. Four members total. Lyrics like: “his father was a tarantula” and “I’m not an expert octopus killer.” The whole thing is a journey down a deranged, grotesque rabbit hole.
2015 offers no shortage of inspirational ends, and nothing kills a mood more than music with muddled ideas and poor planning. On the other hand, little satisfies quite like when a band completely cauterizes a genre. Solid Brown does just that, and then kicks the genre around a bit.
Combine equal parts of Primus, At the Drive-in,and Fugazi, then mix in obscure VHS titles from the sixties and seventies and you have Solid Brown. Their debut Our Rich Heritage is a never-ending spiral of avant-noise and cathartic seepage, and it unfolds with the stamina of a television set left on all night—never giving refuge from the droning white noise. Les Claypool, Omar Rodriguez Lopez and Cedric Bixler Zavala should be proud of songs like “Touched By The Janitor” and “Chuck Wang” both of which squirm like worms digging in your ears.
All the while “Overlapped Skin Breakdown” and “You’re All Going to Die on This Carnival Ride” incessantly gnaw at the gray matter of your brain, if the kaleidoscopic soundscape of found dialogue hasn’t already lured you down some dark, labyrinthine tunnel.
While many amateur musicians are parroting their influences without covering their tracks, Solid Brown has drawn something novel from the deep recesses of their twisted minds. Like a great acid high, you want more. So you play Our Rich Heritage again. Then a third time. Soon you’re listen to this great ugly bastard of an album until it’s crawled inside you and eating you alive. Or until the drugs wear off.
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