April 8, 1999
For all intents and purposes, Billy Childish is Thee Headcoats. He's also The Pop Rivets, The Milkshakes, Thee Mighty Caesars, The Delmonas and a load of other bands. While most bands release an album a year if we're lucky, Childish puts out at least that many from each of his bands far more often than that. The man is absurdly prolific, and that reckless recording schedule is obvious from listening to his work.
Hastily written, recorded and mixed, his work crackles with energy, and is defiantly amateur. Each song sounds as if it was written, semi-rehearsed and recorded in about an hour, and probably was. While this means this album sounds rushed and loose, that's also the bulk of its charm. Childish is a true rock and roll primitive, dedicated to bashing out distorted bluesy punk that recalls The Chocolate Watchband or The Kinks at their rawest. If you loved the Nuggets box set (and if you heard it, you did) or have a soft spot for garagey rock and roll, this is the record for you.
Heavens To Murgatroyd, Even! It's Thee Headcoats (Already), opens with the twisted diatribe "Mantrap", which is what the Stones were really trying to say with "Stupid Girl". "Headcoat Man" and "No Way Out" are cocky, strutting rockers, "Reindeer are Wild" is a bizarrely swinging slice of absurdity, and "Girl Of Matches" has a feral, foreboding chorus. Except for the soft, strangely soothing tribal drumming of "Pokerhuntus Was Her Name", this album is fifty cups of coffee and you know it's on, bursting with the sort of adolescent vitality that the best rock and roll is made of. That it is made by a man in his 40's says more about the low standards most aging rockers adhere to than the inability of rock to stay relevant to adults. Along with Dick Dale, Billy Childish shows that maturity and kickass rockin don't have to be mutually exclusive.
- Jared O'Connor
feral garage rock