non-celebrity fan club

The Black Brians - ART
a review by our esteemed friend, colleague, and rock-and-roll messiah: Doug Schrashun of Hey Hey Bon Bon.

There are moments in life where in the midst of a crushing and alienating existence, it miraculously becomes easy to realize the potential inherent in human existence. "ART" by the Black Brians is that miraculous potential existence, in that it marks the first time in my short life that someone I am closely acquainted with has produced a truly spectacular artistic statement. Though this could be slightly wounding and tough to deal with, I instead see at as the opposite of a disillusionment - an illusionment - yes, an illusionment. The feeling which any number of young brats, and for that matter myself truly, felt when they first heard music they could emulate, saw art they could approximate, or read a critically acclaimed but seriously awful book, this is what "ART" ought to make you feel. A spastically joyous statement it is, and resplendent in its lack of pretense.

To get more specific, "ART" deals generally with the need for a savior. Four of the first five songs are ballads relating to this subject, and the truth is that the Black Brians, though I may make them out to be these kinds of saviors, are not. The Black Brians, if I may say so, serve more as one of many John the Baptists in the world of Rock and Roll who will one day dampen the head of someone who will come along to flip the script and change the game. "ART" didn't come to wreck your party, it just came to see what it was like, tell a couple of tall tales and leave unnoticed. The power of the music, however, stands on its own. "Hot Slots " and "1799" are as good, stripped of anything other than pure songcraft, as anything Journey or Matchbox 20 ever wrote, or probably ever will. And that's not even mentioning the obvious Jonathan Richman, They Might Be Giants or Camper van Beethoven comparisons. Nay, at points, "ART" even surpasses in humor and note smithery the remarkworthy likes of Big Black, and Beau is a hell of a nicer guy than Steve Albini will ever be. I like to imagine a world where, down the line, the Black Brians are hailed as the visionaries and impeccable students that they are and were, having left a legacy of memorable shows and the charred corpses of unattractive groupies in their thundercloudy wake. And then there's a fucking rainbow, and shitkicker fuck, it's a fucking badass rainbow like that one that birds can fly over. Birds and the Black Brians, sometimes.