PLUMLEY SMITH PLUMLEY Plastic Alice Thrum HEAVY PSYCH

$

338

Now this is some nasty stuff.  Oh, I don’t mean “nasty” as in “hard-edged kick-a&* biker bar rock”, which this is, by the way – I mean “nasty” as in “this is one angry, bitter, venomous slab of life-hating evil that gives new meaning to the term black vinyl.”  That kind of nasty.  Led Zeppelin’s dabblings in the occult are like a child playing with a home chemistry set compared the bad vibes these guys give off.  If Satan himself were to ever strap on a Fender and walk into some seedy run-down studio in Birmingham, Alabama, this is exactly what he’d record.

Now I don’t profess to know a darn thing about Plumley-Smith-Plumley, the guys responsible for this musical battering ram of hate, so I’m only guessing here.  But I’d say the two Plumley brothers weigh in at somewhere around 800 pounds combined, haven’t shaved in 12 years, and live next door to some reedy guy named Smith who they bullied into playing bass.  Together, they own 3 guitars, one fuzz pedal, 18 rifles and 30 gen-yoo-wine QVC Ninja battle blades.  And so one day, bored with watching Nascar crash highlights and hopped up on moonshine, they head off to record a couple songs and become big-time rock and roll stars.  Hey, it worked for the Meat Puppets (sorta).

With a title like “Plastic Alice Thrum,” you naturally think of something very British, very psychedelic - like Tomorrow or the Blossom Toes – about a girl who shops at Granny Takes a Trip and lies naked in poppy fields.  Well, get your head out of the clouds, pansy boy – these are the shotgun-totin’ Plumley boys we’re talking about here.  And so instead of harpsichord and wah wah, this thing roars out of the speakers with some killer dirty scratch guitar, a swampy funk rhythm and vocals that sound like they were recorded at the bottom of a well.  Which doesn’t exactly put the boys in a good mood either  – “The world is on its way down, filled with pain and sin!” they growl, as giant bursts of God-fearing fuzz guitar rip and spit at the speakers like demons trying to claw their way back into Heaven.  This is relentless music, heavy acid-riddled moonshine-fueled shotgun-wielding Nascar-lovin’ psych funk sludge without even a glimmer of hope, and when the music climbs the fuzz-laden scales for the big epic finale, you almost expect to hear the Plumleys shout out “Thank you, Cleveland!  And good night!”

The flipside, “What a Girl Can’t Do,” is even more sinister, believe it or not.  Not only is it given the ominous subtitle “(Hangman)” – or is that an ironic songwriting credit? – this time a girl’s involved, and she’s dumb enough to get caught cheatin’ on one (or both) of the brothers.  And that you just don’t do.  

“Your cheating on me is the ultimate sin!

Don’t give or take a baby what you do,

I got a half dozen women just like you!”

That may be true, but he’s still plenty p&*sed.  Those big smashing, relentless guitar chords prove that.  And all this talk about “sin” – do you think these guys went on to become televangelists?

“I told ya baby what a girl can’t do.

You should known by now I was talkin’ to you!”

Hey, I got no good reason why a 400-pound Bible-quotin’ rock guitarist who calls his girlfriend “baby” and tells her exactly what she can and can’t do shouldn’t have a half dozen women waiting in the wings, but this last line gets Junior Plumley so angry, he lets out a massive blood-curdling scream while the guitarist rips off a solo so blistering and hairy, it should be an Italian supermodel. 

Now if you’re the kind of guy who enjoys another man’s pain, then it’s clear that the law firm of Plumley-Smith-Plumley were going through a Dante’s Inferno of heartbreak when they recorded this slab of vinyl blackness.  Had they kept at it, they could’ve become the Bible Belt version of Blue Cheer, the moonshine Megadeth.  But this would be all we’d ever hear from ‘em.  One rare, completely obscure acid psych piledriver of a single.  No one knows who they were, where they came from, or why they never recorded again.  Maybe things got better for ‘em, and they went back to fixin’ cars.  Or preachin’ about sin on late night cable access while a congregation of fuzz guitars scream “Amen!”  Which would be only fitting for a trio who tried to bring about the Apocalypse in six earth-shattering minutes.  Amen, brothers. 

Mysterious, unknown, freakishly rare pressing on the Consummate Audio Recorders label.  Anyone know ANYTHING about this?  Plays VG+ with steady but light crackle.

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