Album Review: Justamustache – Thunderbirds Are Now!

Easter day is fading away and I’m speeding along I-96 at a steady speed of 84 mph. I’m on my way back up to Michigan State after a long weekend home. After twelve years of vocational school and another three in college, the drudgery of being a student is starting to wear down on me. Being a student journalist is no swing in a hammock. There are a lot of assholes that don’t even think twice about slamming the door in my ambitious face.

So with all this on my mind, I’m trying to find an escape as I speed along on my journey through three counties, from Oakland to Ingham. Of course, I turn to music. The first thing I do is imagine myself in a dark, beautiful forest. It’s murky, yet somehow familiar, I dare say cozy. And I’m wearing combat boots. It’s the only way to defend my delicate tootsies against all the rocks – especially the jagged ones.

Underneath each rock is a new band, a new musical experience. I’m less a socially inept loser who spends all his free time (and extra cash) inside a record store and more a traveler, finding his way through a musical wilderness, curiously turning up rocks to see (and listen to) what’s underneath.

Glorifying an otherwise mundane existence? You betcha. And how mundane can an hour and a half of driving down an interstate be? That’s why I slide Thunderbirds Are Now!’s Justamustache into my humble car’s CD player. T-H-U-N-D-E-R-B-I-R-D-S—ARE NOW! The album’s opener, “Better Safe Than Safari,” starts swirling through my speakers and before I know it my head is bobbing and my hand is pounding the steering wheel along with the beat.

All the stress leaves me. I’m inside my forest.I literally feel lifted. My shoulders are gripped by the talons of the Thunderbirds and they’re carrying me. All of a sudden, my hand tapping on my steering wheel starts to feel more like me holding a mallet, a big heavy mallet and as they carry me through my forest, I’m pounding the fuck out of classes, homework and asshole interview subjects who don’t want to give five minutes to a student journalist. I’m pounding away with my mallet at everything that stresses me out, everything that I’m sick of dealing with. I’m pounding away and the material world around me starts to fade awayÑwhich is pretty dangerous, considering I was speeding along a crowded interstate. Simultaneously, I’m feeling sentimental. I get that jubilant feeling I haven’t felt since my first trip to the Lager House. When I just close my eyes and start dancing in place to the wonderful mayhem of Detroit garage rock. But let’s lay off on the rambling metaphors for just a brief tick and say something genuine about Thunderbirds Are Now!. These guys walk a path all their own. When they come to a fork in the path through the forest, they whip out their machetes and charge forward into the thick foliage. They’re brilliantly spastic! Spastic!

Their previous album, Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief created an avant-garde sound that combined garage tendencies with off-putting experimental rock, all whipped up with a spastic lo-fi spatula. In retrospect, however, the album personified was a bit like an unruly baby, liberated from its diaper with Gerber smeared on its face, running down the stairs. It clocked in at just under 25 minutes, but that’s not to say it didn’t get the job done. “Pink Motorcycle Helmet” is still one of my favorite songs of all time. My point is, Justamustache is much more focused with more depth.

“Eat This City” mixes Ryan Allen’s beautiful and garbled vocals with sophisticated punk-guitar instrumentations. The hushed chorus hooks you immediately. It’s the perfect second track, you’ve entered the house of the album, you’ve taken off your coat and hung up your hat, now it’s time to dance. The pitfall of me being so melodramatic about music is that I have the tendency to over sing the praises of some bands. That’s not to say that I don’t love Justamustache, because boy-howdy, do I ever. But, at the same time, I don’t want to prematurely declare that this is the greatest thing to come out of Detroit. The first five tracks pretty much wave the same flag of energetic spurts of avant-garde rock, each one sending you into a Tasmanian-devil tornado of appreciation. But the album really hits its stride at the companion tracks 6 and 7, otherwise known as “To: Skulls” and “From: Skulls.”

It’s like a moment of clarity. Or when you finally figure out Algebra. Or when someone who tends to ramble finally gets to their thesis statement, and it’s such a damned fine thesis statement that you just feel inspired by it. As “To: Skulls” fades away, there’s a few seconds to catch your breath, but “From: Skulls” bursts out of its cage and before you know it you’re bobbing your head again and freely embracing the music.

At this point, the Thunderbirds have released me from their talons and I’m down inside the forest, dancing and air-guitaring (because I don’t care how dorky I look when I do it,) and I finally realize that I’m in love with the album and the splendorous sounds to be found within it.

As I said before, the instrumentation is incredible and Ryan Allen has certainly turned himself into a wonderful front man. It’s a miracle I didn’t crash. By the time I get back to school, Sunday is almost over. The Spartans basketball team has just beaten Kentucky and now a casual, well-behaved riot is ensuing in the streets. I’m no longer stressed about school, about life, or anything. Sometimes it just takes a good romp through your own personal forest.

Thank you Thunderbirds. I advise all of you to allow them to be your park ranger tour guide. Just remember to bring your combat boots – Jeff Milosevich