Here come the Americans - at least, here come seven of them. Six black-clad dudes and a chick called Laura: all skin-tight threads, unwashed hair and recreational drug problems. Deviant outlaws with a reputation to match. The Last Gang in Town. Their Satanic Majesties. All ready to dispatch a rock'n'roll lesson on our pathetic Limey asses. Now, what year was it again? Oh yeah. 1969.
In a moment the dry ice clears and we catch sight of Bobby Hecksher's bobbed haircut. One shake and The Warlocks live experience kicks in - locking straight to the grip of a slowburn psychedelic dirge that rarely relinquishes all night. Hecksher is occasionally heard beyond the two-drummer, three-guitar, bass, keyboard and tambourine assault, but only occasionally. Mostly he is content to ride the sonic waves, hoping we surrender to them too.
Each number replicates a similar pattern - a repetitive four-note sequence segues into a basic three-chord blues sequence that is repeated ad infinitum. Subtlety doesn't come into it. Among the titles are 'Shake The Dope Out', 'Hurricane Heart Attack' and 'Dope Feels Good'. This is classic rock'n'roll, no doubt aiming to replicate the pure lysergic experience or convey the isolation of being a strung-out outsider in LA. Each Warlock surrenders to the cosmic pulse and, with closed eyes or vacant stares, the band grinds on.
Could this be impressive? Possibly. If you hadn't heard of The Velvet Underground or The Jesus & Mary Chain. Or Spacemen 3. (Especially Spacemen 3.) Or if you think winkle pickers and long hair are cool. And references to dope are subversive. No. They might worship plenty of iconic bands but The Warlocks are just too derivative. At times they seem little more than an invention, carefully cloned to be second band of choice for fans of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
It's a shame: with such a mass line-up there is certainly potential to break away from the guitar band format and push the envelope somewhere leftfield. There's almost twice as many people onstage as The Doors after all, and at nearly four times more than The White Stripes, surely they could stumble upon something original? A modern take on psychedelia maybe. A call to arms. Anything but this sub-Gothic posturing. We were promised excitement and riots in the streets but this is all tye-dye T-shirts, fractal paintings and jet-black bedroom walls. The sort of crap last heard in Leeds circa 1985 or currently in one of those cobwebbed pubs in Camden.
Ultimately, the hype's in the bag, but The Warlocks are little more than a bad trip around the second-hand store. This is record collection rock of the lamest kind - indulgent, unimaginative and humourless. A shit sandwich. Bummer.
