In American pop culture clear examples are often made in the duality of art and capitalism. Consenting scientists agree, in an artist one quality cannot coexist with the other and still yield real credibility. In the last year The Harps have effectively snowballed into a powerful rock’n’roll outfit, and now they have to decide in which direction to take the band. On one hand, the band is fresh faced enough that it might look easy to proselytize their boyish charm and sabotage their intentions. However, they’re earnest enough that they might actually see the point of making records.
They’ve yet to experience the friction that still makes rock a legitimate form of expression. Standing at the base of a R’n’R’s proverbial Mt. Rushmore, the band hasn’t even reached the actual rock (pun intended). They’re still sifting through the gravel hoping to soon stab their glistening arch-top axes into the base of this mighty edifice and ascend. The idyllic faces they see carved at the top are predictable and meaningless to cite. Yet I’ve found that the boys are particularly receptive to less obvious aesthetics within rock. Detroit pillars like MC5 and the Stooges make sense to them and their interest in chaos, though, it’s insincere and they’ll likely never say F@K! on a record. Instead of beating dead horse ideals like overblown rock shows with theatrics and trans-gendered gestures, they’d be wise to examine Crazy Horse ideals; and anchor themselves in the same simplicity, honesty, and lust for sloppy 15-minute song extensions. They might pay attention to the genuine American vision of Parsons’ Burrito Brothers, and know that a mohair suit is as much a respectful salute to the aforementioned as it is a recipe for a bar fight with a boy named Sue. One hopes that together they find their own “Big Pink†in the hills of Southwest Washington and begin to write about Biblical tragedy and wars they’ve never fought in. They’re inevitably going to stumble down previously traveled roads, but it doesn’t have to be a discouraging prospect. It’s heartening to see them pass out and wake up with the inspired taste of Tennessee sour mash in their mouths. They’ve seen first hand the pitfalls of ego, and they’re reluctant to bombast. Ideally their youth will lend to their curiosity, and maturity will make them eager to develop beyond the idolatry, posturing, and homage riffs to a British empire. Under corporate guidance you’ll see them shamelessly marketed as the next American counterparts to precisely that empire. In reality they’re young enough to be steered beyond the superficial aspects of the modern music industry. I encourage them to grow, as men and their artistry will follow suit. Here’s to the pursuit of American rock and roll.
Mitch, like Samson, is learning to wield two nylon tipped jawbones to slay would be philistines -- er I mean hit toms hard. Kyle is a lanky fellow with a passion for dirty, dirty low end. His bass lines reflect his focus and his hair is pretty and long. The result is a burgeoning rhythm section roughly capable of magnitude 8.4 on a Richter scale of clout. Chris can be a basket case of emotion and self doubt, but as long as he can dime the shit out of 4 tens and torment his B string like a Greek deity strangling a raging 6 headed serpent he does just fine. Trevor, the doe eyed voice box, is a volatile character with nothing to lose but his pride. He, also, is a more than able jangler. Together, with guitars, they hope to create and write cohesively a la Mick’n’Keef. Road cases in hand, they’re all staring down a long dusty avenue. It might take 20 years for satisfaction to manifest itself. Regardless, in their eyes, now, you’ll see a twinkle and in that twinkle you’ll see the reflection of probably just a bunch of beer bottles or shiny guitars, all the same it’s a damn fine way to see the world and play dress up.-Chais Kinder
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