There I was. Stranded at an abandoned gas station just north of Mexico and just south of reality. The only thing keeping me cool was the shade created by my moustache and mullet. After four hours of solo Tai Chi I could see movement entering the horizon via motor vehicle, stage left. When the foreign body got close enough where I could smell the gasoline frying, I waved him down. He pulled over. I explained my predicament and he offered a ride. He began licking his teeth and I began to fear for my life. The soundtrack of blazing deserts ended as he pressed play. Soon after we entered a discothéque underwater swallowing gallons of vicodin and opium. I felt so lazy, but the rhythm created by Ron Avila (of Get Hustle, Holy Molar, Antioch Arrow, and Final Conflict) made my hips gyrate, much more so in a sexual manner than a hyper one. At one point in "Jesus", the combination of drum machine and actual drummer made my eyeballs roll into the back of my head as a keyboard launched rockets to the sky and soil with vibrating bass nausea. Adam Miller then took center stage with bass in one hand and mic in the other. He began spitting consonants and fucking vowels. He appeared in an altered state, licking his words as they passed on.
Even though this was a continuation of Soiled Doves, there are little similarities, most of which were dropped in Chrome Rats Vs. Basement Rutz, the previous album. The main difference between Plaster Hounds and Chrome Rats Vs. Basement Rutz is that Plaster Hounds grooves like a complete album, beginning to end, whereas Chrome Rats Vs. Basement Rutz feels like a collection of songs thrown together. Although Plaster Hounds doesn't have any "Washed Up On A Beach Of Infants", its overall feeling sweeps you away to another planet, where the gravity is stronger and downers line our mucous membranes. Like the before mentioned Soiled Doves, when the guitarist does chime in, he's not holding chords and rocking them, but instead squirting sounds across the rhythm. Don't get me wrong though, the guitar isn't afraid to flex its six strings, evident in "24/23/22/21", with more spice and sensation.
At this point with tambourine in hand, and reality beginning to creep in, I looked for an exit door. With "Monarch" scratching at my skin, I entered a bad trip. With no exit sign visible, the only way out was for this CD to end. As the beats intensified I could feel my limbs falling into an unconscious state. Yes, "Monarch" is the longest song, but once I got over that plateau, "Ice Hatchets" brought life to the room. In unison all the waiters and waitresses began pulsating with the bass line. They become one: rolling, colliding, and fucking. The final track began to revolve. Everyone's mouths gasped and began to to sing in unison, "Blame is his own reflection," from "Program", a Silver Apples cover. As the music faded out I sunk into blackness.
I awoke in my hammock and was utterly confused, was this dream or reality? I began analyzing the event and realized for the most part people either love or hate what GSL releases. Their artists all create their own sound, converging art with music, while not afraid to grasp their punk/lo-fi roots. If you want to try something dissonant, rhythmic and heavy (in weight, not like Black Sabbath), I suggest driving south until you run out of gas. If not, stick to the suburbs.
