Around 12 years ago there was an outpouring of both excitement and outrage when two bands from my formative years announced plans to reform. Refused were accused of selling out, having infamously promised that they would “never play together again”, but then delivered a tour of electrifying concerts followed by albums of diminishing returns. Conversely, the stratospheric levels of expectation that grew in anticipation for the legendarily unpredictable and chaotic shows of At The Drive-In slowly petered out amidst reports of lacklustre, phoned-in performances. It was enough to make anyone wary of punk bands ‘giving it one more go’.
Once again, we’re riding a rising wave of band reformations and album releases following extended hiatuses. The past fortnight alone has seen the release of records from Seefeel (14-year break), Galliano (a 27-year absence), and The The (a quarter of a century since a full album of new material), whilst TV On The Radio have shared the news that they are getting back together, and, of course, there’s the inescapable Gallagher-gate hullabaloo. It begs the question – why?
Have the members of all of these bands hit a late-stage creative spree? Is it a cynical cash grab to pay for the most recent divorce settlement? Or could it be yet another symptom of the streaming age’s syphoning of profits away from artists; the margin-gouging of record contracts, venues taking a slice of merchandise sales, and the escalating cost of living (apparently even rock stars buy olive oil)? Maybe it has always been like this. The Sex Pistols 1996 reunion was met with the scorn it deserved after all. Today there are simply more voices adding to the deafening digital protest.
After a slew of starkly original albums towards the end of the twentieth century, The Jesus Lizard earned the accolade of “the best band of the 90s, hands down” courtesy of Steve Albini. In 1999, however, after a protracted dissolution following the departure of drummer Mac McNeilly in 1996, the band officially called it a day. There would be an intermittent re-emergence over the years – at events for the likes of ATP and Pitchfork they were rightly received as cult heroes – yet there had been no sign of newly recorded material [cue Hollywood trailer voice over] until now.
Rack is what fans have waited a long time for. It continues under the banner of a four letter word that can be spat like an expletive. And that’s not the only constant. David Wm. Sim’s bass grooves always gave The Jesus Lizard a slightly funky turn, even when they were mashing the accelerator and wheel spinning towards the finish line. His implacable playing is what anchors the foot of the cyclone and it is delivered again here, driving track after track. Even on the thrash of ‘Alexis Feels Sick’, with David Yow’s vocals heading for an outlet pipe and Duane Denison’s slashed strings soaring, the low-end chug creates the form.
‘Grind’ finds Sim’s bass pulsing like the blips on a ECG monitor attached to the chest of a driver speeding across different time zones and, on the unsettling ‘What If?’, his stiff riffs underscore the softly spoken investigation into a psychopath’s psyche. Rather than the clashing metal guitars you might expect, these chiming tones invite mystery as Yow whispers, “I’ve always wondered.”
The notion of psychopathy has always been a weapon of choice in The Jesus Lizard lyrical armoury. Just reacquaint yourself with the themes of ‘American BB’ and ‘The Art Of Self-Defense’ as primers. Here you can find this topic emerging through the “battle-ax” carving “a beautiful mess into my back” in ‘Hide & Seek’s dysfunctional cat and mouse relationship which rides in on a vehicle of sludge-splattered punk rock, or within the Roy Orbison/Frank Booth corruption of “In dreams I shoot my balls off every night” during ‘Lord Godiva’. As ever, Yow’s a formidable performer, shifting between gritted-teeth bile-coughing to sections of softly crooned brilliance. He locks eyes with you and double dares you to take him seriously, particularly when smirking towards the album’s closing sentiment: “If I had lunch money… I’d get lunch”. You’d even be right to note a little nod to Jello Biafra in ‘Falling Down’s warble.
Slowed down to a lurching Sabbath-esque stomp, albeit with the bite of a distinctly American guitar tone, ‘Armistice Day’ tells stories of snowy death and overcast burial as if witnessed through windshields partially obscured by grey splatter. Ideas such as this, which other bands might drag out for a career, The Jesus Lizard seem to toss aside as if they’re ten a penny.
Admittedly, most of these songs are belted out in a pummelling yet off-kilter gallop but, at the core of these bursts of punk rock fury, lies a thick seam of melancholy. In particular, Yow rues “wasting all the time we have” during ‘Moto(R)‘. It’s as if they’ve crested a hill and, where most might stop to look around before easing gently down the slope with brakes partially applied, The Jesus Lizard have instead decided Fuck That and stomped on the gas, propelling themselves forward with little or no consideration for their own well-being.
This is The Jesus Lizard of 2024, one eye cast over their shoulder, one towards what remains of the road ahead. This is why they’ve decided to release this record now. It’s partly a riposte to the bands of varying quality that have taken up the mantle of noise rock in their absence (not that they agree with that term). The likes of Pissed Jeans, Idles, Metz, Unwound, and so many more, who have taken inspiration from the guitar tones, strangled howls, wiry basslines, and erratic rhythms that The Jesus Lizard brought into the world.
It’s partly completing unfinished business, returning to the high-water mark of those Touch and Go days. And it’s partly because, together, they make an unholy racket that makes them feel good.
Has there ever been a better reason to get the old band back together?
