more press for this show, since it seems the demand is out of control:
the gris gris
The place is Oakland-ish, California and the medicine-fueled dream has ended. The waking moments of young Greg Ashley find the psychedelic troubadour and guitar hero creating a new, exciting sound quartet:
The Gris Gris have arrived. A child is born, created out of the embers of all the distortion blissed-out feedback the devil birthed in Texas circa 1967. Roller coasting from the surreal goodness of Ashley's Medicine Fuck Dream to Can-flavored head-bobbing environments, to that particular corner of garage rock that testified to the Detroit losers in the guise of BACK FROM THE GRAVE and NUGGETS compilations…the Gris Gris' debut on Birmdan is a rock and roll ride that will save some and rattle the rest. The live show is breathtaking as Ashley screams with his guitar over one of the most solid, undulating rhythm sections ever put together.
With his solo debut album on Birdman, Medicine Fuck Dream, the world of Houston-turned-Oakland psych master Greg Ashley was entered and the seeds were planted. Like fellow Texan-bred Roky Erickson and Mayo Thompson, infused with a little Syd Barret and Skip Spence (and maybe even a little Jeff Mangum from Neutral Milk Hotel), Ashley creates atmospheric pop meanderings that are filled with sentimental purpose and dark fuzzy edges. On par with the workings of the mightily enigmatic Brother JT, Ashley recorded his solo album all himself, played it all himself, and sang it all himself, except for one song by his friend John.
Now with a full band, Greg Ashley's world explodes and curious vacationers everywhere can take the trip directly into the center of his mind this summer with THE GRIS GRIS -- 40 minutes and 16 seconds of truly organic psychedelic BLISS.
Greg Ashley's quartet, THE GRIS GRIS, debut with their first self-titled full-length on Birdman Records August 9th, 2004.
My record-collecting friend Jake told me recently that he's boycotting one of his favorite New York City record stores. The store and Jake had a deep love affair—the owner even kept a cache of records behind the counter just for Jake, nerd love letters waiting to be unwrapped. But lately this stockpile, containing mostly new garage rock, had burned him too many times, and now it was just easier to walk right by the store than to tell the owner, "Dude, I'm over reverb-damaged college kids with bangs." This sad story is made sadder still by the existence of the Gris Gris—the finest example of psych-rock since psych-rock entered a Texas mental hospital. Sure, the Bay Area band's new self-titled album delivers the sort of late-'60s ventriloquism the genre's nostalgists demand—all hazy atmospherics and sonic dive bombs—but it adds indelible melodies you won't forget. Think of Galaxie 500 blotter paper when the Gris Gris plays with the Cuts and Thee Snuff Project at 8:30 p.m. at the Warehouse Next Door, 1017 7th St. NW. $8. (202) 783-3933. (Jason Cherkis)
the cuts
Modern day psychedelia — coming right at you with lightning speed. The Cuts' self-titled LP is finally available on everyone's favorite digital format! Several years ago rock scribe and all around tastemaker Mark Murman released this album on vinyl on his superb Rock'n'Roll Blitzkrieg label. The Cuts had already released a single for Lookout Records that displayed a straight-ahead punk/garage/rock'n'roll style ala DMZ or the Real Kids (and no one currently alive on Earth does not absolutely adore DMZ and the Real Kids), but by the time they recorded their first full length they had already moved on to a more psychedelic sound (by way of late '70s NYC). Did someone say "13th Floor Elevators meets Television"? The Cuts stand apart from any contemporary garage rock purveyors. Tough as nails, neurotic, simplistic, big, deep, catchy and devastating all at the same time. Genuine decathlon scorch.
"Set free after one EP and left to their own devices, The Cuts retreated to a muddy woods where they stumbled across Sky Saxon declaring himself as their own personal Yoda. Taking what they needed and ignoring his cosmic declarations they wandered back to the bright streets.… This ain't the fake 'look at my white belt” garage rock. It's dirty fuzz invented the day before psychedelic rock (the war and LSD terror, not the flowers-and-weed scene). Even when they sound like they wannna have a good time, you're waiting for someone to sneak up from behind and stick a knife in your back.” - Smashin' Transistors
thee snuff project
"...This DC-based crew has one goal: to make rock and roll. All other things be damned, The Snuff Project has too much attitude to care about anything else, but not enough to make this fact painfully obvious. It's this attitude that drives their debut as well as their live show. With plenty of swagger and noise, Dyin' Ain't Much of A Livin' refuses to be ignored... Every Snuff Project song rages at an exhausting one hundred and ten percent, and after a full serving you'll either find yourself ready to strip, drink, fight or pass out. And that's what rock is all about isn't it? Their heroes would be proud, but this band probably wouldn't give a fuck."
—— SUP
"It's been quite awhile since we've heard a blast of rock with as much force and presence as this DC quartet. You could say these guys know how to be sloppy inside the lines - meaning that they know how to be tight and loose at the same time, and in the best of ways... ferocity and swagger in equal measure."
—— Time Out New York
"This four-piece throws their influences like The Stooges, The MC5, even a bit of 'Nuggets' style garage rock - into a trash barrel and lights it up with a blowtorch. When singer Scott Taylor screams 'don’t forget the cocaine' in 'A Little Strange' - you know better not to show up empty-handed at the next house party."
—— EarCandy
"...Opening for Rocket From the Tombs was the seriously seedy Thee Snuff Project. The local outfit smashed through a set of ragged bursts of noise, taking the traditional guitar-bass-drums-vocalist and injecting it with a bad attitude, some intoxication and smart songs. Fifteen years ago, the band would have been on the AmRep label. In the decidedly un-rock District, it stands out as unaffected by trends and content to make a racket."
—— The Washington Times
