Crunk Witch: Heartbeats in Hyperspace

Sam

The Crunk Witch that they are

Down from the County: Heartbeats in Hyperspace

Three albums in, Crunk Witch are now far more than novelty. The all-digital, husband-wife duo of Brandon Miles and Hannah Collen have created enough material at this point to establish a clear method behind what can sometimes seem like madness.

With the brand-new Heartbeats in Hyperspace, it’s like they’ve put together a top-drawer session band, but everyone’s playing through pedals that turn guitar chords into buzzing digitization, snares into sizzling fuzzbombs, horns into distended whirls. The songs are big radio rock tunes, sometimes more like Broadway bits, but with a space-aged bent that makes everything disorienting.

This is thanks to a bit of open-source programming software called Buzz, which is worth investigating if you’re the type to crush time on Reddit and install your own Linux server. Producer James Holden seems to be one of its bigger proponents, along with bands like Australia’s Hunz, who maybe sound a bit like Crunk Witch. Basically, you play something like a keyboard or an MPC, and then can route the sound through any number of virtual machines to create the sound you’re looking for (which may or may not wind up sounding like an “instrument”).

What station is this? Did you slip me something? Why is Freddie Mercury wearing that astronaut suit?

That’s “Moonbase Blues” for you, taking classic rock and making it science fiction. It opens just like the Bay State’s “Winter Mitts,” but replaces that elegant viola with a keyboard line that’s as inorganic as the vacuum of space. Yet Miles as lead singer is just dripping with drama: “I’m a cowboy / I live to fly in the sun. / I ride the light-years / Until I come undone.”

There’s certainly some David Bowie doing his Major Tom schtick, but it all seems less faux-futuristic here. This isn’t a put on. It’s desperate wishcasting. What could be better than a space-based love affair?

Well, maybe the love affair of Collen and Miles all by itself. Really, they’re quite precious. The opening “Start of It All,” details the union nicely. “It all started on MySpace,” the story goes, and the result is “the Crunk Witch that we are.” Portions of the song are straight-up Headstart! (or how they sound on “Monday,” anyway), infused with 8-bit Casio sounds and thrumming back beat.

And “Whirlwind” is as big a classic rock love song as you’re going to hear nowadays. With all the hallmarks of your standard ‘60s pop number, we hear how “you’re my little whirlwind” (echoes of Del Shannon doing “you’re my little runaway,” for sure) and the pull back for the verse could replace the repeating buzz with a delicate acoustic guitar without skipping a beat.

But all is not pop, here. Crunk Witch haven’t forsaken their hardcore and screamo roots. “Kill the Cartridge” is straight-up metal in the open, but the video game synths do mute the effect. It’s like playing Mario Kart with all the characters wearing black trenchcoats. Princess Peach has a lip ring and is wearing a ton of eyeliner. On the other end of the spectrum, “Clash of the Droids” is aptly named, like a disco dance contest amongst C-3PO’s contemporaries, with some Daft Punk in its low end and a Devo vibe to the chorus. Crunk Witch are dramatic in all the right ways. Silly and sincere and wholly invested.

Ultimately, though, they live to entertain, and that comes through most clearly in the excellent “Sugar Rush,” which is crazy catchy and infused with the same kind of energy that Chubby Checker used to get all those kids twisting: “I’m gonna cannonball for you/ Drop it down and make it wet.” Miles is definitely at his best here, vampy and quirky, but not over the top.

Crunk Witch walk a fine line. What they do is so bright and in your face—like unicorns shooting rainbows out every orifice—that it can all be too much sometimes. Of course, it can also be that you can’t get enough.

Murcielago: Murcielago

Sam

Hammers of the gods

Murcielago unleash some heavy guitars

Maybe you’ve still got a decent sound system in your car, or a weighty receiver you can still dust off from time to time. If so, there’s a chance you can fully appreciate the long-awaited Murcielago record. It’s got the gravity of a mid-sized planet.

The self-titled work, caught up for a bit in the dying gasps of the label system, certainly quells any fears fans might have had that the four-piece wouldn’t be able to live up to their transcendent live shows. The resonant vibrations of every tube in every amp these guys employ is translated wonderfully, avoiding that digitized chill that can pervade metal of a certain vintage and instead settling into a loud rock that wraps you in its warm embrace just as it’s beating you about the head and neck.

Benny Grotto, down at Mad Oak Studios in Mass., and Jim Begley at the Studio have done masterful work in capturing this sort of fire and brimstone without shaving off the edges or pumping too much air into the vocals. Neil Collins (Lincolnville, Eldemur Krimm) may be draped in reverb, but it’s still possible to make out just about every lyric, and what might be a gimmick—keeping guitarist Ian Ross always in the right channel, Matthew Robbins (King Memphis) always in the left—ends up being a splendid trick for keeping them straight and helping the listener appreciate fully their artful interplay.

There’s plenty of Kyuss and ZZ Top and Judas Priest here, maybe some 6gig, but with Jack Bruce’s recent passing, it’s hard not to hear a ton of Cream, even if it’s just because there’s a bass player doing most of the singing. It’s the same raw punch, the same joy in a riff well executed. “Money” is particularly playful, with guitars and Brian Chaloux’s (Pigboat) snare firing things up, then letting Collins go a capella: “I once had recourse, for every single slight / It’s not that I need you around, it’s that I can’t keep you in my life.”

The solo late should catch attention, with Robbins throwing out slight staccato strums, supporting the Ross lead beautifully in a desperate and crushing run: “I’ve lost all reason; I’ve come undone.” And then Robbins just takes over as they swap roles. At times it’s like they’re playing tennis.

It’s also something of a treat to hear Robbins sing on “Fairlane Swain,” a seven-minute opus of stoner rock. It’s crunchy in the open, with three-note riffs dominating, and then comes Robbins with a sneering and caustic high-end delivery that’s the height of bitterness: “Heavy metal parking lot, just a dimebag of shitpot / My mom told me not to hang around with this lot.” There may even be a reference to “fat chicks” in there.

For the chorus, Robbins rides the two syllables of “fairlane” for a few measures, then let’s a guitar peal fill in for “swain” like he’s turning his back on the song entirely. Jesus, these guys have chops.

Like any good arena-rock band, though, Murcielago have a sensitive side, too. “Cheebahawk” finds Collins getting all kinds of touchy-feely at the two-minute mark—“every time you run around, I am senseless to the sound / Of the breaking of my heart… and I know you’re not my love”—making the hard charge of the guitars firing back seem like a slap in the face. And the one-minute-long “Smoke Season” is an acoustic palate-cleanser, with Collins moving over to guitar to show they could probably pull off one of those overall-wearing stringband albums if they really wanted to.

It’s clear, though, that this is exactly what they want to be doing. While these guys have been around too long for this to signal some kind of a trend, it sure is nice to hear a completely unapologetic rock band rip through some interesting material. Maybe it’ll catch on.