Rhythm & Views 

The Konks

Attention all cave-dwelling Neanderthals seeking the prehistoric call of bestial simians grunting in heat, the roar of man-eating dinosaurs, and the hair-raising chaos of an angry mastodon liquored up on a jungle cocktail of fermented cocoa leaves, devouring raw meat and nubile girls with equal insatiability. The reverb-heavy, demolition-rock of the Konks is today's call of the beast, resurrecting a path beyond the fossilized remains of the garage-band graveyard.

The monstrous, knuckle-dragging crud rock these teenage cavemen revisit on their colossal debut obliterates the often lame, neo-garage shit much ballyhooed by self-professed underground musicologist Little Steven (ironically, this Boston three-piece were winners of his Underground Garage Battle of the Bands competition last year) with a savage velociraptor menu of wanton liver punches and blissful skull-bashing, resurrecting monolithic basement-spawned relics like the Sonics, Gories, Supercharger and Cheater Slicks without sounding patronizing or fake.

On the Konks' unabashed, infantile and unofficial theme song "29 Fingers," their crude and primal three-chord aesthetic is summed up dumbly and succinctly: "We got 29 fingers, and man, are we having fun / 29 fingers and only six are thumbs / We play cheap guitars, and just two lousy drums / We're the Konks, and we don't care." A primeval, bone-snapping cover of Soupy Sales' obscurely hilarious "King Kong" and a scintillatingly perverse take on "Let the Music Do the Talking," recorded originally by fellow Beantown derelicts Aerosmith, round out this drunken, raunchy mess, stripped-down to the unadulterated basics: distortion-riddled guitar and bass, growling vocals and a laughable two-piece drum conspiracy utilizing a broken milk crate and duct tape. A rock 'n' roll paleontologist's wet dream.

More by Ron Bally


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