Fireballs
of Freedom
Total
Fucking Blowout
Estrus Records
Union Jack's, 938 E Burnside St., 236-1125
The Fireballs
of Freedom are now on a national tour that will include
a showcase gig at the South
by Southwest Music Festival
in Austin, Texas. Watch this space for a report.
On an unrelated
note: I am searching for stories of the Boss.
Bruce Springsteen, that is. If you have an anecdote
of a run-in with the Man, a particularly poignant Springsteen
Moment, or a dearly cherished memory that, in some way,
summons Springsteen to your mind's eye, e-mail me. Do
it now!
You know you're in a classy, cosmopolitan place when "DON'T
TOUCH THE DANCERS" is posted on the wall in five different
languages. Union Jack's, the East Burnside strip
joint that looks like a Blade Runner set, has that
international flavor, dig--as if the United Nations'
special committee on greasy sleaze might meet there sometimes.
Two weekends back, the prancing nakedness on the back stage
had formidable competition for attention. The Fireballs
of Freedom, Portland's most thermonuclear rock act,
jammed their stun-volume amps and feral energy onto the
tiny main stage, wedging drummer Sammy James between
the chrome pole and the brass rail. Even though a parade
of all-nude burlesque-ettes traipsed through the other side
of the room, once the Fireballs started unleashing the torrid,
glass-chewing hits from their new album, Total Fucking
Blowout, they captured every eye as necks snapped
back and forth.
Jammed into 20 square feet, the four Fireballs played with
the animal ferocity that's put a legion of Portland rock
regulars in their thrall in the last year and a half. Guitarists
Paul Von Wenner and Kelly Gately tore off
sheets of noise, splintering notes into shiny little fragments
of high-speed madness. Sammy James conducted a manic assault
on the skins, denting them like they owed him their half
of the rent. Bassist Troy Warling stomped out a crush-groove
that held the whole sprawling, electric mess together somehow,
like the spit and duct tape on a terrorist missile.
Goddamn business as usual, in other words. The crowd knew
what kind of punishment it had coming. A tightwound set
by Seattle's Kent 3 had everyone primed for the woodshed.
With the Fireballs, though, you never know just how hard
you're going to get it--and at Union Jack's, the revealed
flesh and unstilting hedonism inspired them to dish it out
hard. They let the crowd have it with a precision
formula of meaty abandon and calculated force only attainable
by those steeped in the theory and practice of rock and
roll.
And if you want to head for the mountain top to consult
oracles schooled in this dark art, you could do a lot worse
than picking up a copy of Total Fucking Blowout.
The Fireballs have played together, in one form or another,
since they were damp behind the ears in Fargo, N.D. They
spent years in Montana, calibrating and recalibrating their
arsenal of blitzkrieg punk, pimp-slapping funk, through-the-looking-glass
psychedelia and hard-jazz anarchy.
They have probably played more than a thousand shows, many
of which have descended into bedlam. On this new album,
for the first time, they nail it all to tape. Underground
producer and legend Tim Kerr managed the soundboard
for the recording sessions at Seattle's Egg Studios,
performing the neat trick of harnessing the hurricane of
the Fireballs' live show. Past records, including 1999's
The New Professionals, lacked a certain je
ne sais quoi. With this record, you sais quoi
for damn sure.
Anyone who's seen the Fireballs live expects a full-throttle
death trip, and TFB delivers. The surprise comes
from all the deeply obscure psychedelic bombast, which reaches
its peak on a supremely odd Pink Floyd cover that's
disturbing even to think about.
On stage, the Fireballs have always pushed the knife edge
of what's possible within the confines of rock, deconstructing
songs until they dissolve into molten noise. Previously,
though, they stuck to high-octane garage punk in the studio.
Which was all well and good. But this is better--a carnal
and insane 40-odd-minute hymn to life, liberty and sonic
splendor.
Lest anyone be tempted to suggest that The New Intellectuals
might have made a better title, though, the base rock energy
is still there, and the playing has more wiry strength than
ever. During the unhinged Union Jack's show, it's easy to
see where the album gets its manic power. The band is playing
with more raw physical force than ever.
"We had a band meeting a little while ago," explains Gately,
the band's sprint-talking generalissimo. "And I said, from
now on, we're a band that leads with its fist." He says
the Fireballs have been working out--running, sit-ups, push-ups,
like boxers in camp--before hitting the road for three weeks
in America.
If this will-to-power attitude, the album's concentrated
monstrosity and the show at Union Jack's are any indication,
America had better look the fuck out.
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Willamette Week | originally
published March 8,
2000
|
