You’ve heard Kyle Thomas’ cracked warble through the infectious radio garage-pop of Happy Birthday. Now we’re all lucky enough to be re-introduced to Thomas’ original hip-swaggering, pelvic thrusting rock ‘n’ roll band King Tuff. ”Hands” sounds like the squelch of spandex on the floor of Bill Graham’s Fillmore East when Mick Jagger dragged his crotch across it. It teeters on the cusp of garage and glam and shit-eating rock and roll.
“Hands” originally existed on the Minds Blow CD-R, but was recently re-released by the always surprising Scion garage 7″ series.
I’ve been digging through the detritus of a dead person’s life (no one of any relation or, strangely enough, even friendship) over the course of the last two weeks. It has been a dusty perusal of era after era after era long gone. We’ve found teeth, World’s Fair 1939 memorabilia, and a pair of ladies underwear I could’ve worn as a vest. Each day, covered in grime, I step in to the light of the modern day and everything seems a little too new, a little too fresh.
Amongst the many, many new ventures by Sub Pop, this little band Happy Birthday (Kyle Thomas of King Tuff’s new schtick) stands out as particularly apt to my meander through the decades. It’s new and fresh and grating, but when the song hits thirty or so seconds, all of sudden I’m standing in Mary Pini’s closet amongst Spyderknit sweaters, gold coins and the urge to spin my date in one skirt-swooping spiral.
Or maybe I’ve just been inhaling asbestos and rat fecal dust for a little too long.