The Black Angels

Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. So sayeth Mark E. Smith after the fifteenth Scotch or the umpteenth trip along the rhythm's edge. Find a groove, lock in and maybe the world will disappear and you can escape into the drone. The Black Angels understand this, and they deliver the pleasure quotient with one hook after another- albeit one hook per song. What we have here is Spacemen 3 worship by folks who really know their record collections. Dark psych of the desert variety, but one that detours from the Mojave through Texas acid-damage and left towards those Reid brothers' castles in Northern England. Let's not forget Roky, whom these guys sometimes back. Given the record I just bought is an exact replica of Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators and you have your influences duly noted. I can't stop listening to their four records, and I'm not sure I can name a single song. We're not talking anthems here. Find the beat and roll the head to and fro. Find the recesses of the hippocampus where the glory days of  mushroom mornings sit neatly beside that hot soccer player you loved and lost because you were an asshole. Marinate in the same melody repeated and repeated and repeated. Ignore those lyrical attempts at darkness. A sameness dominates, but it's a righteous sameness.  Passover and Direction to See a Ghost supply the hard S-3 rhythmic drone sounds, and Phosphene Dream is more freakbeat traditional 60s pop stuff.  Hell, I even caught a whiff of Echo and the Bunnymen with my breakfast soundtrack, and I'm talking Crocodiles. Four out of four records is purty darn rare, so respect the track record and lock in.