With a wider, brighter, and wilder sound than anything they've done in the past, this record adds walls of guitars, organs, and even a few "ballads" (a.k.a. slightly pretty songs) to the mix, while still retaining the gritty post-pop-punk sound for which they're globally famous. Recorded in the band's hometown of Portland, OR by Fugazi's Brendan Canty.
Review by Tim Sendra
On The Body, the Blood, the Machine, the Thermals' third album, the band takes another step away from the inspired lo-fi racket of their debut, More Parts Per Million, and a giant leap further into politics. As they did on their previous album, Fuckin A, the band has streamlined their sound more and cleaned up the sonic mess that gave their debut such a dose of live wire electricity. Not that they've made a glossy pop record or any deal-breaking concessions to high fidelity; they just sound more professional and real. Besides, any raucousness or fire that has been subtracted from the musical presentation has been reinvested in Hutch Harris' insistent vocals and hot-to-the-touch politics. He takes on organized religion, conservative politics, war, and the general state of things in a yelping, near-hysterical voice that brings to mind Roky Erickson at times. Coincidentally, the comparison to Erickson makes a lot of sense. In the same way that Erickson's obsession with creatures, zombies, and two-headed dogs might put off listeners who don't share his mania, so too might fans of the Thermals' sound find Harris' polarizing views an obstacle to get past. You get the feeling they don't really care if they lose a few fans, though. Nobody who starts off a song ("I Might Need You to Kill") with the lyrics "locusts, tornadoes/crosses and Nazi halos/they follow, they follow" is looking to appear on TRL anytime soon. And it's not like the whole record plays out like a screed; there are still a couple of hooky indie punk tunes that will get the blood flowing. "St. Rosa and the Swallows" is a heart-rending love/love lost song that rides a classic chord progression, and Harris' loosest vocal into almost pop territory is one of these. So is the pounding and melodic "Test Pattern." They provide a nice balance to the overtly political songs, and while they don't exactly throw open the blinds and let the sun shine in, they alter the gloom and doom just enough to make the record a success. With The Body, the Blood, the Machine, the Thermals haven't made another thrilling noisy gem like More Parts Per Million; they've made an inspired and inspiring, semi-grown-up indie rock record with more thought than thrills. There's no shame in that.
The Thermals
The Body, The Blood, The Machine
[Sub Pop; 2006]
Rating: 8.5
Portland, Oregon natives the Thermals have been hovering on the periphery since their 2003 debut, delivering solid records to undersized acclaim. The band's third album, The Body, The Blood, The Machine, conjures an America piloted by some sort of Christian-fascist regime ("They'll pound you with the love of Jesus...They'll own your days/ They're only God's babies/ They follow, they know"), and traces the frantic, fiery flight of an ex-pat and his girl ("I can see she's afraid/ That's why we're escaping/ So we won't have to die, we won't have to deny/ Our dirty God, our dirty bodies"). The Body's story is just vague and gruesome enough to be weirdly terrifying, totally Orwellian, and grander, louder, and more electrifying than anything the Thermals have spit out before.
Original drummer Jordan Hudson ditched the band in 2005, meaning that during the recording of this album guitarist/vocalist Hutch Harris and bassist Kathy Foster were twitching for three, bouncing around from instrument to instrument, filling in the gaps, injecting percussion, keyboards, organs, bass, and plenty of guitar into their lo-fi basement punk. Produced by Fugazi drummer Brendan Canty, The Body is appropriately reminiscent of the Thermals' previous two full-lengths, but far more ambitious in narrative and sound-- the production is cleaner, Harris' vocals are less prickly and more impassioned, and every slammed chord soars. Both in theory and execution, The Body, The Blood, The Machine hits like a less playful, less suburban American Idiot, its apocalyptic, heavily religious iconography conveniently layered over pounding, Ramones-style pop-punk.
The Body's unrelenting lyrical gravity is also its single biggest strength-- this isn't the first time the Thermals have gotten political (on 2004's Fuckin' A, Harris bleakly instructed us to "Pray for a new state/ Pray for assassination"), but, from the opening organ chord of "Here's Your Future", it's clear that this is the band at its most somber-- when Harris seethes "So here's your future!" a few beats after inciting "the new master race," it's impossible not to feel like you should transfer all the energy you'd usually waste pogo-ing around your living room into scrawling letters to elected officials. "Returning to the Fold" employs a classic post-grunge melody, Harris' big, punchy wails poking through his guitar-web like it's 1994 and you're watching "120 Minutes" in your parents' basement. "St. Rosa and the Swallows" is a thorny ode to escape ("Passing the corners, we kissed in the rain/ Passing the old rusted warning signs/ What did they say?/ I think they said run!"), while closing cut "I Hold the Sound" is spare and weirdly engrossing, the closest the band comes to recreating the impossible catchiness of "No Culture Icons", before bowing out in a haze of feedback.
Foster's drums and Harris' weird vocal syntax (which contains echoes of the Mountain Goats' John Darnielle) are nicely propulsive, and The Body, The Blood, The Machine cuts off before it runs the risk of getting too repetitive. But the results of its 38 minutes are still chilling. Harris' imagined landscape is severe and grisly, leaving us all to sprint for cover, curling under desks, hands over heads, fingers crossed: These tracks land like bombs.
-Amanda Petrusich, August 22, 2006
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