Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Specter At The Feast

Deeply influenced by the sudden death of Michael Been—the band’s long-time mentor and father to bassist Robert Levon Been—Specter at the Feast is a haunting, cinematic record that trades some of the band's usual leather-clad posturing for raw, elegiac vulnerability. The album expertly balances two distinct sonic identities: the atmospheric, "shoe-gazing" spiritualized ballads like the nine-minute closer "Lose Yourself" and the darker, slow-burning opener "Fire Walker", contrasted against high-octane garage rockers like "Rival" and the anthemic cover of The Call's "Let the Day Begin". While some critics at Pitchfork and DIY Mag felt the record was overlong or occasionally relied too heavily on familiar rock clichés, the consensus from The Guardian and NME remains that it is their most emotionally resonant and distinctive work since 2005's Howl.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s career hasn’t exactly been distinguished, but it has been long, and at some point you simply can’t argue with longevity. Routinely dismissed as derivative mope rockers subsisting on the least interesting scraps of warmed-over Ride, Stones, and Brian Jonestown Massacre records, BRMC make music as predictable as their look: black shirt, black leather jacket, black shades, pouty lips, downturned heads. What started out as a pose is now baked in; BRMC may lack the pedigree of a legacy rock band, but they certainly have the mileage.

On the group’s sixth studio effort, Specter at the Feast, BRMC make the transition from classic-rock pretenders to full-on classic rock. At this point, grizzled weariness comes naturally to the San Francisco trio. Like fellow trad-rock true believers the Black Crowes, Oasis, and Marah, BRMC have co-opted another era long enough that they actually seem like they’ve been around forever. For better or worse, you know what you’re going to get from a BRMC record, and that sort of brand engenders loyalty, no matter the latest fashion.

The downside of sticking around is that profound loss inevitably rears its head; for BRMC, this sad eventuality occurred in 2010, when the band’s producer and sound technician (and father to bassist Robert Levon Been) Michael Been died from a heart attack in the middle of a tour. Specter at the Feast was made in tribute to Been-- a journeyman rocker himself who fronted 80s AOR band the Call, whose populist anthem “Let the Day Begin” is probably spinning on some classic-rock station this very moment, between “Hot Blooded” and “Twilight Zone”. BRMC’s covers “Let the Day Begin” on Specter, and while it doesn’t quite fit with the band’s usual blacklit gloominess, it does square with their stubborn survivalist instinct. So long as there’s an audience for meat-and-potatoes rock songs like “Let the Day Begin”, there will be bands like BRMC.

If only BRMC’s “rock” songs lived up to their rock attitude. The central weakness of Specter at the Feast is rather inexplicable: Its goodness is inversely proportional to its loudness. Given the record’s somber inspiration, it’s understandable that the best tracks are the ballads. “Lullaby” is all heart-tugging jangle and dreamily descending guitar riffs, sparkling with the mournful beauty of a last encounter. On the haunted-house blues “Some Kind of Ghost”, Robert Been whispers, “Sweet lord, I’m coming home for good” over a funereal church organ. The valedictory vibe is even more pronounced on “Lose Yourself”, an exquisite symphony of sap that evokes the final minute of “With or Without You” as directed by Cameron Crowe.

The obviousness of Specter is forgivable on these songs; even the record’s de rigueur Spiritualized rip-off, “Sometimes the Light”, carries the weight of real grief. Where the record falters is on the rockers, which are composed of clichés and exhausted riffs only. The record’s saggy middle section is absolutely murder in this regard: The rubbery basslines, brassy cock-rock guitars and needlessly repetitive choruses of “Hate the Taste” and “Rival” are autopilot junk that pad what should be an intimate record with cavernous emptiness. (Specter supposedly was a planned double-LP; it really should be an EP.) What hurts Specter ultimately is that this band can’t get out of its own way. The requirements of making another rockin’ BRMC album choke what could’ve been an affecting, low-key detour. BRMC has experience on its side; if only it also had a little wisdom to share.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Howl

Howl is a soul-baring pivot that saw Black Rebel Motorcycle Club stepping out from behind their wall of feedback to embrace the raw, dusty textures of Americana, blues, and gospel. By trading their leather jackets for acoustic guitars and harmonicas, the band revealed a surprising depth of songwriting that remains their most enduring work to date. Tracks like "Shuffle Your Feet" and "Ain't No Easy Way" possess a stomping, front-porch grit, while more spiritual numbers like "Promise" provide a haunting, melodic clarity. It is a rare "departure" album that actually strengthens a band’s identity, proving that their signature darkness was never dependent on a distortion pedal, but rather a profound, restless spirit.

In 2004, months after the release of their sophomore record Take Them On, On Your Own, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club was unceremoniously dropped by longtime label Virgin; around the same time, founding drummer Nick Jago slinked away from the group, purportedly incapable of handling the rigor of a major label publicity push (or of showing up to gigs on time). Since its inception, BRMC has seemed oddly well-primed for anticlimactic dissolution, but rather than slumping away from the stage, leather jackets retired to mothball-stocked closets, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club has opted to regroup and pilfer a new musical spectrum, this time tackling classic American blues, country, and gospel. The trio has traded in their pedals and sneers for slides and acoustics. Guitarist/vocalist Robert Turner has reverted back to his given name, Robert Levon Been (originally changed to distance Been from his father, Michael Been of 1980s rockers the Call). Vago is back, smiling peacefully. Dunked in the Mississippi, BRMC are reborn.

There may be something awkwardly rote about BRMC's sudden interest in capturing gothic country goo ("Fault Line" features an extended harmonica solo; T-Bone Burnett cops multiple gratis in the liner notes), but Howl is still considerably more compelling than the bellowing, Jesus and Mary Chain retreads the band formerly relied on. All the Oasis posturing and NME-drool puddles made it easy to forget that BRMC were actually born in blue-sky California, and their new album title, which groaningly salutes periodic San Francisco-resident Allen Ginsberg, gently reminds listeners of the band's scraggly American roots-- which is appropriate, given all the rising-south thievery BRMC is indulging here for the very first time. The snag is, heartless posturing is still heartless posturing, no matter how sharp the change of scenery: at its best, Howl twists slide guitar and acoustic strums into vaguely convincing neo-Band jams, and at its worst, it sounds like cartoon-Americana (shockingly, unplugging your guitar and cawing about Jesus doesn't make you country.) Still, it's that tension-- between classic BRMC bluster and squeaky Delta organics-- that makes Howl an unusually interesting record.

Howl is predominantly acoustic, but so sopped with fuzz and echo that it actually manages to sound much bigger than it is. BRMC have hinted at Jack White-ian fetishes before, but Howl is still a remarkable departure for the band, and their trademark druggy dirges are noticeably absent here. "Devil's Waitin'" (sort of embarrassingly) mines Johnny Cash's lyrical stash, all Jesus and prison, proclamations about life and the Devil growled over careful acoustic strums and tiny wisps of pedal steel. The song's closing coyote Howls-- bayed gently, with cactus-stuck, old west conviction-- give way to a three-man hum-along, and finally slip into a gospel vocal swell (even the echoes seem to scream "We're in church!") Lead single "Ain't No Easy Way" is jammed with raucous steel guitar riffs and harmonica canoodling, all country-rock stomp and barn dance fervor. BRMC's natural penchant for the loud and bombastic work well here; surprisingly, "Ain't No Easy Way" is a perfectly convincing throwdown, oddly free of awkward contrivances. Much of "Gospel Song" is whispered, slipping in and out of thick full-band buzz, plodding on and on but never actually landing anywhere particularly interesting; opener "Shuffle Your Feet" starts with an a capella "Time won't save our souls!" whine, before slipping into a handclapping, honky-tonk rhythm.

There might be a tiny hint of desperation fueling much of Howl, but ultimately the record is an oddly earnest experiment for BRMC, and once they learn to drop the weird, obligatory signifiers, their new direction may actually prove more fruitful than their last: Cramming together brash rock snottiness with meek country hollers is hardly uncharted territory (not that it matters), but BRMC's particular mash-up still makes for a strangely intriguing party.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Beat The Devil's Tattoo

"Beat the Devil's Tattoo," Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's (BRMC) fourth studio album, is a strong, cohesive collection that blends their signature fuzz-laden rock with elements of blues and Americana. Reviewers generally praise its raw, powerful sound and its ability to evoke vivid imagery, though some find it slightly uneven. It's seen as a successful synthesis of their previous work, delivering a definitive BRMC sound. "Beat the Devil's Tattoo" is a strong addition to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's discography, praised for its powerful sound, evocative atmosphere, and successful blend of their various musical styles. While some find it slightly uneven, the album is generally considered a highlight in their catalog, capturing the essence of the band's unique sound. 

By Dom Gourlay March 1st, 2010 

At the start of the previous decade, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club were being lauded as the rock'n'roll outfit to carry the torch into the post-millennial abyss and beyond. At the very least, their mysterious demeanour and dark musings made them a darn sight more interesting than the other musicians of the day, be that the big-shorted, loud of mouth brigade spearheaded by Limp Bizkit, or the Britpop hangover led by dullards such as Travis. As happens all too often though, the love affair ended almost as briefly as it had begun, largely orchestrated by less than captivating live shows and in the case of their third album Howl, a seemingly insatiable desire to commit career suicide.
Over the course of the nine years that have elapsed since debut record B.R.M.C. announced their intentions, it's been pretty much a case of indifference greeting each subsequent release, gradually pushing them into their own cosy fan-encrusted niche without ever realising the potential or expectations set from the outset. Not that Black Rebel Motorcycle Club have had an unscathed journey along the way; the much-publicised traumas - drug related or other - involving original drummer Nick Jago often grabbed the headlines for the wrong reasons, eventually culminating in his permanent departure shortly before the arrival of studio album number five, 2008's The Effects Of 333. A change of drummer wasn't the only notable difference on that record, as its entirely instrumental collection signalled a more complex desire to take a step back in time, even if that meant its musical constitution bore more resemblance to pastures old such as The Brian Jonestown Massacre. It also heralded the addition of a new drummer, one-time Raveonette Leah Shapiro, and with it possibly a re-configured, and more juxtaposed, infinitely focused line-up for their next studio venture.
Nearly 18 months on and we've arrived at that junction, Beat The Devil's Tattoo, and while there will be an element whose customary greeting of "Meh" at the thought of yet another Black Rebel Motorcycle Club album, this record should be heard first before any such thoughts are dispatched publicly. This, you see, is the record messrs Hayes and Levon Been have been threatening to make since the band's formation. If anything, Beat The Devil's Tattoo feels like a carefully constructed amalgam of the best parts of all its predecessors where the emphasis may not always be on the songs themselves, but whereas their earlier records felt like rollercoaster rides of the sublime, ridiculous and occasionally careless, this has a seamless flow that is only minimally disrupted in its final third. What's more, while the inimitable vocal stylings of both Peter Hayes and Robert Levon Been make Beat The Devil's Tattoo instantly recognisable as being by its creators, those lazy comparisons with a certain Scottish combo of the late Eighties can be consigned once and for all into the trashcan, as this is undoubtedly the definitive sound of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and no one else.
As with Baby 81 and to a lesser extent Take Them On, On Your Own, the decision to release one of the record's weaker moments, its title track, as a lead single could once again be seen as the musical equivalent of a Jamie Carragher backpass beyond an unsighted Pepe Reina. While its East European folk influence may just push it on to the odd daytime playlist or two - think Gogol Bordello stripped down to the bone jamming with I Am Kloot or someone of a similar ilk - it doesn't even attempt to tell a quarter of the story that is Beat The Devil's Tattoo the collection. However, as a way of easing the most casual of listeners into what follows it serves its purpose satisfactorily.
With that out of the way, the floodgates open on 'Conscience Killer' and 'Bad Blood', two of the album's stand-out pieces and both up there with the band's best recordings, period. The former's full throttle surge, Hayes in fine voice with the cutting riposte "We don't mean all that much, but we never really had a choice" dictating the pace, and possibly offering an insight into the it's-now-or-never approach to the record, leading into the reverb-heavy intro of the latter. "Nothing ever stays the same" sings Hayes, and he's right. If anything they're exercising their demon(s) here, the song obviously a reference to their departed former member, a final parting shot of "I can see it in your eyes and now it's gone" telling its own story. Both of these songs pretty much usurp anything on their previous four albums.
However, it's not just about foot-to-the-floor rock and roll. The industrial blues of 'War Machine' coupled with the mellow acoustics of 'Sweet Feeling's Gone', a close cousin of their most recent recording prior to Beat The Devil's Tattoo, 'Done All Wrong' off the 'Twilight: New Moon' soundtrack suggests they've been revisiting their own archives comprehensively, its similarity to the much-maligned Howl notable by way of its inclusion. Indeed one gets the impression that while Black Rebel Motorcycle Club are undeniably proud of their achievements to date, they've seen this as being their last chance to make that perfect record, so upped the ante accordingly. 'Evol', the album's mid-point, is actually pretty old, having initially been written and demoed for inclusion on 2003's Take Them On, On Your Own before being dropped at the last minute. Now, with Shapiro's lean, colossal backbeat providing its engine, they've rediscovered a slow building gem that beggars the question why it was left in hibernation for so long.
Her contribution is none more apparent than on 'River Styx', a percussion-heavy blues number that borrows the riff from Canned Heat's 'On The Road Again' and turns it into a swamp-infested jam of brutal intensity. Similarly 'Aya', another attempt at industrial noise a la Ulterior or The Big Pink brings Shapiro's beatkeeping to the fore, even if the song itself doesn't quite live up to its audacious intent. At times, the final third of Beat The Devil's Tattoo becomes laboured, none more so than on penultimate Beatles pastiche 'Long Way Down', by far the least affective track on the album. Indeed, if it wasn't for the gargantuan might of closer 'Half-State', the record wouldn't lose any impetus had it been cut by two or three numbers.
However, the closing ten minutes easily represent Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's most vivacious and downright unconditional composition in their chequered career. Peter Hayes' glissando guitar collides with Robert Levon Been's distorted bass with effortless grace, building up slowly into a crushing mantra that decrees "We were close but never made it home" before reaching its destination amidst salient cries of "There's a place we can never call our own". Possibly the closest comparison from their back catalogue would be the effervescent 'Rifles', but even that pales alongside 'Half-State' and its overt three-part drama. Indeed, if there were ever a reason for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's existence, this would be it, and despite the false dawns of albums past, Beat The Devil's Tattoo can hold its head high as their most compulsive body of work to date.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Take Them On, On Your Own

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club made an impressive debut in 2001, taking both America and England by surprise while alternative metal ruled the charts. Their psychedelic/space rock/glam-coloured blend was hungry to give rock a new face. Three years later and garage rock still reviving the late-'90s pop-soaked scene, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club aims to save a bit of rock & roll with its sophomore effort Take Them On, On Your Own.
More gutsy, more aggressive, and more dynamic than B.R.M.C., Take Them On, On Your Own blazes on with an intoxicating presentation from the Brit-American collective; vocalist/bassist Robert Turner and guitarist/vocalist Peter Hayes boasted cocksure appeal on the last album, however Take Them On, On Your Own showcases drummer Nick Jago's powerful presentation, ultimately bringing the trio together. They're fearless and this release is all swagger, emotive, and cool. Swanky guitar riffs and Turner's faltering drawl on "Stop" and "Six Barrel Shotgun" is classic BRMC.
There's not a lot of sauntering like "Red Eyes & Tears" and "Spread Your Love" or snarly punk-tinged bits like "Whatever Happened to My Rock & Roll." The band gives the impression that the last album was lifeless; therefore, the split in song and craft on Take Them On, On Your Own isn't exactly a messy thing. There's more character to songs themselves and BRMC appears a touch more confident. From the acoustic ballad "And I'm Aching" to the post-punk fire of "U.S. Government" and "Rise or Fall," BRMC offers substance over shtick. Reworking some of rock & roll's natural components for their own brash arrangement highlights the band's overall brilliance. For only a second album, they've got the maturity that most young bands lack on a creative level. Such tenacity will carry them a long way.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - B.R.M.C

This L.A.-based band (originally hailing from San Francisco) came along just when they were needed most. This self-produced major-label debut boldly plunders a reverb-and-white noise course previously trampled underfoot by long-gone British bands of the late '80s and early '90s (The Jesus & Mary Chain, Verve, Ride, The Stone Roses, etc.). It all sounds very British, on many levels; despite the fact that only one band member is an Englishman living in exile in the States. On some songs, however, the driving, over-amped guitars (often buzzing with "VU needles-in-the-red"-type feedback) and pounding drums have a swaggering primeval feel that rivals solid Detroit rock outfits, both old and new (including the Stooges and the Go, to name two). A few tracks have dark, introspective lyrics, with subjects like impending death ("Rifles") at their heart, while others have a positive, more uplifting feel ("Salvation"), but it's really the group's cohesive, solid production overall that captures a shoegazing, blustery rock vibe not heard for nearly a decade or more. Highlights abound on this astonishing disc, including the bitter opening salvo, "Love Burns," the diaphanous space pop of "Too Real," and the flurry of buzzsaw guitar scree that is "Whatever Happened to My Rock n' Roll (Punk Song)," a track recalling the manic intensity of the Stooges circa Fun House.