The year is 1972, the place the Grand Canyon: hair is long, flares are wide, drugs are plentiful and the vibes, it has to be said, are 'heavy'. No, this isn't a flashback to the time when the Furry Freak Brothers ruled the earth, but a report from the inside of Nebula's heads. For years of rigorous dope smoking and faded denim abuse have left them with the impression that they're rock troubadours, out on the perpetual road in search of the fabled Lost Guitar Solo.
This, in case you were wondering, is a good thing. The latest in the seemingly endless stream of stoner rock acts to emerge from the desert surrounding LA, Nebula knock out high-powered psychedelic sludge par excellence. 'Beyond' dances naked around a burning wicker effigy of Jimi Hendrix, 'Instant Gravitation' comes over like Iggy and The Stooges piloting the Arkansas Chugabug, while the quieter acoustic moments recall Beck or Porno For Pyros.
It's not big, it's not clever, but then that's the point. Nebula speak directly to your inner caveman, offering a freshly rolled Californian Carrot as a peace offering and getting all neanderthal with some shinbones as the after dinner entertainment.
Lyrically, the trio don't stretch much beyond "do it, do it now" and "start it up, let's get out of here", as if they've only recently mastered the power of speech, but then an informed rant against the evils of capitalism, multi-nationals and snorting toilet duck would disturb the lowbrow ambience.
As the boys say themselves, "It's hard to land when your head's spinning round and round". Ain't that the truth, brother. Ain't that the truth.
