What happens when four hundred pounds of Gen Y man meat plows you into a wall at the Five Stars Bar? Well, in my case, a cracked rib and a seriously bruised cheekbone. Some fun-loving fellows playing grab ass at the pass during the recent Jacuzzi Boys show in L.A. have left me with lingering bad vibes, but that doesn't mean the band wasn't good. In fact, they were great. What's more, their records are stellar too.
A newcomer to their bewitching blend of gritty garage punk and psychedelic magic, I am now a dyed in the wool fan. I picked up both their HoZac Records single and the relatively recent LP from Florida's Dying Records at the show and both have been regulars on my turntable ever since. Less self conscious of their influences than, say, Ty Segall, they don't deliberately reference the lithe sounds of the '60s that inform the core of their music, but instead break and make the rules as they forage forward into new and exciting territory. There's nothing campy, costumey or retro about Jacuzzi Boys. They are of the Now in all the best ways.
The powerhouse drumming of Diego, the reedy, plaintive vocals of front man Gabriel and the workmanlike bass chops of Danny are on the money. Their sound is spare and hard but also quick and bedeviling, bursting with a kind of free form energy that makes them tough to fit into a particular box. They're like a beautiful jeweled necklace lying in a sleazy alley beside used condoms and dead cats. Jacuzzi Boys are their own thing.
Be on the watch for a new seven-inch coming soon from Mexican Summer.