THEY’RE still young lads, the Black Lips, barely nudging their mid-20s, but already band veterans with nearly a decade of ramshackle tours and woozy records under their belts.
They’ve been subject to more than their fair share of myths in that time and there is something otherworldly, or at least other-timely, about the Atlanta four-piece – think Brian Jonestown Massacre without Anton Newcombe’s histrionics.
Coming straight out of late-1960s California, fifth album 200 Million Thousand is more likely a reference to the number of gigs they’ve played than a comment on the dollars wiped off the stock market.
It’s an interesting mix: there are the psychedelic guitars and meandering bass on Old Man, the country doo-wop of Drugs. Reverb-drenched vocals play hold it all together with a garage sound the band call “flower punk”. And it works.
The Black Lips are never going to be a big name singles band, but their albums are a glimpse into another way of doing things, and that’s always welcome.
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