Columnfortably Numb: The Best Psych Rock of 2024

There were, as usual, a number of psych rock LPs released this year with one long jam on each of their sides. What made Candle Finger stand out? The bass player from Bardo Pond. The drummer from Kohoutek. Some other bloke on guitar. Each piece is gloopy in its own way. The first one is mellow, initially, and grows much harder, before settling back down into the hot-rocked sofa. The crunchier second side is phat from the beginning and mostly stays that way, deceptive mid-lull aside, until the trio find their way to what looks like a logical outro. 

Columnfortably Numb tends not to cover live albums because that’s one way to narrow down its prospective items. An exception was made for Rcknrll because Firefriend hadn’t been covered before and the record, well, rcks hrd. It’s full to the brim with fuzz, feedback and strung-out post-Spacemen 3 swagger. There are ample reasons here to buy tickets to see them, if you get the opportunity. They’re based in Brazil. Don’t forget to pack earplugs for safety.   

In a manner of speaking, Fu Manchu just do what they do, repeatedly, to consistently satisfying effect. As such, these Blue Cheer throwbacks have never shown heaps of interest in trying out new ideas. This time, they did. They thought, “Have we ever recorded a double album, dude? Don’t remember doing one before. Let’s give it a shot, man.” Except they didn’t really. They wrote a 50-minute set, full of brilliant songs like they usually write (if not better), and spread it across two LPs at 45rpm. Rock your socks off? Your Royal Blood-branded knee-highs will be scurrying to the safety of the nearest mousehole.  

As Above So Below might not be a God Bullies album, depending on whose side you take. This was explained at length when it came out. It’s a blooming good record, though, even if it could be filed under Thrall or Pig Harvest or Mike Hard And The Cops In Plain Clothes. It snarls and lurches at targets including warmongering bastards, sermonising hypocrites, gullible morons, fascist plonkers and the corrupt moral bankruptcy of virtually everything on the planet. One song features severe use of the word “HELP” screamed over and over again. Most relatable chorus of 2024. 

Island Apes play a deliciously grungy mode of space rock, as if Nirvana had leaned further into their admiration for those acid-sprinkling nutjobs Butthole Surfers, instead of being Seattle’s answer to Pixies. Or, alternatively, if Butthole Surfers, by the time of their final album, hadn’t turned into Smash Mouth. Island Apes have chunky riffs, swirly whirly sound effects and vocals so manipulated they don’t seem quite human. What more do you need? 

Silver Scrolls are Polvo members Dave Brylawski and Brian Quast. They play rock music. Intelligent, winding, compelling rock music with plenty of detours. Plus, fun and thoughtful narratives where the lyricism’s concerned. You could call it post rock. They prefer to think of themselves as exploring “all the rocks”. What, even cock rock? Gang Of Four were supposed to have enacted the permanent musical penectomy in about 1979. Mind Lines does host some nifty lead guitar indulgences. See ‘Visiting The Twelfth Bar’, for example. But it’s all very tasteful. 

On reflection, the response to Nimbus was weirdly subdued. It was even written off, by some, for its alleged uneventfulness. What on earth drew anybody to that conclusion? Beat poetry backed by hums, gurgles and chimes? The wild-eyed and wonky folk music of ‘Ishkabibble Magoo’ and ‘Lily Thin’? The supreme not-quite-space-rock, more like splodge rock, of ‘The Lollygagger’? The desert rocking digression, ‘Walker Talker’? I am aghast with indignation.

Terry Gross’ second album shoots off with locomotive force via ‘Sheepskin City’. Listen to this distortion-loaded cosmic beast at full volume and it’s like being blasted in the face with a 5000 watt hairdryer for seven minutes. ‘Sales Pitch’ and ‘Effective Control’ boogie in an equally powerfully manner. ‘Full Disclosure’ is more of an abstract, mid-album palette cleanser which verges on skronk. Huge indeed. 

“I want the kind of fame where I can become a CIA asset,” sings Freddy Vinehill-Cliffe on ‘Do It Badly’. It is possible that, as elsewhere on Thank’s latest album, he is being sarcastic. If it’s that celebrity rung you’re aiming for, you want to get Aaron Dessner on co-writing duties and ask your management team to arrange a lucrative collaboration with BTS. You don’t want to be shouting about fungus and dental plans, or predicting on record that “one day I will die in a freak noodles-on-toast-related accident”. Maybe rein in the ridiculously harsh, synth-aided, scatter-drummed noise rock as well. You nutters. 

New York’s Weak Signal write beautiful tunes, with smart yet never fustian lyrics, and play them like they couldn’t give a flying flip whether anybody is listening to them or not. There is no one out there, right now, who is doing this type of thing as well as Weak Signal. No, not even MJ Lenderman. Whoever the hell that is. They should be hailed from the rooftops as absolute treasures.