In “Death Croons,” a woman sits next to Death in a bar and says, “You’ve got some fucked up eyes but they seem wild. Death takes off his glasses, smiles and she flashes a big bag full of blow…He says I, yeah I, am not your kind (come on baby let’s have some fun).” Despite his warnings, the woman continues to pursue Death’s affections even as he accumulates bodies in his car trunk. Now that’s my kind of romantic tune for Valentine’s Day!
Bambara have been around the block, forming in 2007 in Georgia, and eventually settling in Brooklyn. They’ve gradually refined their sound from their clangy noise punk origins to what many are misidentifying as goth. I can only imagine they’re confusing the term with their literary roots in the Southern Gothic writings of Flannery O’Conner and Harry Crews. Of course the spector of Nick Cave looms large, especially that sweet spot in his discography between pioneering garage noir/post-punk of The Birthday Party and when he decided to grow up to be Leonard Cohen. But even more so, Bambara are pure, blackened Americana, with the rockabilly twang of The Cramps, the intense fervor of Gun Club, and the crime noir storytelling of Wall Of Voodoo.
The band was already shit hot by their third album, Shadow On Everything (2018), but have not yet achieved flavor of the month status amongst the critics/lemmings. They at least had fans in tourmates Idles, whose Joe Talbot raved, “they’re one of the best live acts I’ve ever seen. They’re violent and passionate…much cooler than we are.” On their fourth album, their sound is fairly consistent, but Reid Bateh flexes his storytelling chops on nearly every track, from the sensual, stalking opener “Miracle,” which lays out some descriptive, atmospheric imagery, as does “Sing Me to the Street,” augmented by creamy backing vocals courtesy of Drew Citron (Public Practice) and Anina Ivry-Block (Palberta). “Serafina” is understandably the lead single, the pyromaniac title character with “gasoline in her hair.”
While Bateh has a pretty limited vocal range, leaning toward reciting rather than singing, his witty, dark humor keeps these songs well clear of the boring, pretentious tripe a lesser band might end up with. His phrasing, sweet ‘n’ twangy Duane Eddy licks and engaging arrangements elevate the band a notch or two above contemporaries like Protomartyr, Iceage, and even Grinderman. Sacrilege, I know. But that’s how good bands become great.
