Those who don't know who Ty Segall is will probably be taken back by the first thirty seconds of his self-titled album. And even though I knew who he was (and knew what to expect), the transition from reality to this damaged fantasy is still jarring. I usually snicker at what passes for “garage rock” these days: bands with numerous tricks and a slick production staff to wring out every merry hook and faucet drip beat. It's polished post-punk or power pop or...well, anything but garage. This, on the other hand, is what it should be—so messy and raw that you can't imagine it being recorded anywhere but in an oil-slick, paint can-festooned, dust-and-grease-burnt garage. Not the clean ones with stained wood shelves, pretty new tricycles and electric doors, but the ones where kids huddle in the cramped corners to huff glue and old Buicks go to die.
If you've heard a raucous, tooth-rattling garage band in the last few years, chances are, you've heard Ty Segall in some capacity. Like John Dwyer, he hops in and out of bands faster than the Stilt went through mattresses. If you're familiar with the Traditional Fools or Thee Oh Sees or Epsilons or Party Fowl or the Perverts (and more), then you've heard Segall play. Even if you haven't, any sampling of the Black Lips, Coachwhips, Foxboro Hot Tubs, Detroit Cobras, Mr. Airplane Man, Dirtbombs, Sic Alps, Ariel Pink or the more vitriolic pieces in Rhino's Nuggets series will give you a good idea. Or, lacking that, imagine Jack White and Iggy Pop and add a lot more muddy gravel. I list these bands for a reason—interchangeable identity. Sure, you can cherish one straight to your scolded heart, but you'll never be at a loss to explain who they sound like. Good garage rock can be hard to find but you know it when you hear it. Because the style requires utter simplicity, mimicry can be found by a dozen bands practicing less than ten blocks from where you live. It doesn't mean they're gonna make it, doesn't even mean they're any good, but its sound can't be mistaken and anyone can give it a shot.
Ty Segall's solo effort isn't a case of spotlight-grabbing ego nourishment, though. This isn't a leader ordering around his dirty-haired bandmates with a sneer and mic swing. Ty Segall is the act. It's a one man band. And he's not just layering different instrument tracks and mapping the whole thing (i.e., “producing”). He's the only guy in there, slapping out simple drum patterns on floor toms and bass drums while wringing out all the splintered life of a murky electric guitar and then howling into the microphone. Yes, it's noisy as hell, but simplicity gives the tunes breathing space; the gaps are engorged with distinct audio hiss that vibrate with the last echo. But make no mistake about it—this may be as lo-fi as it gets, but the sound is never tinny or canned. It sounds like the guy's pummeling these songs out in the same room you're in. You know, the scum-crusted garage, where your glue high is getting interrupted by some jerk causing a racket with trash can lids and rusted pipes.
There may be only one thing on the menu, but Segall cooks it up in different ways. Swampy blues, snotty punk, scuzz rock, grungy psychedelia and black fuzz are all swirled about and each track gets slathered up with one or another as the focal point. Grimy ballads like “Watching You” and “An Ill Jest” break things up, but Segall prefers low-key raves like the hungry highpoint, “The Drag,” the sprinting groove of “Oh Mary” and the feverish trainwreck that is “Don't Do It.” He also finds time to run through a Ramones number (“You Should Never Have Opened That Door”); dig that ear-splitting scream. But good track placement keeps the more caustic and clattering segments at an even pace. “You're Not Me” even offers a few archly melodic moments that eases the song's mid-tempo friction. The chorus builds up to him spitting the song title by letting him belt out a few ooh-ooh-oohs beforehand.
The distortion keeps the audio snagging on previous notes, but like any good trash rock number, the filth and fuzz give them a grizzled charm. It's tough to imagine clean versions of these songs, and it's unlikely that a twinkling cover would do them justice. The vocals are so scruffy and ragged that, apart from a few choruses and the quieter numbers, what he says is usually incomprehensible. Based on what little I did understand (and what's typical of the sub-genre), it's neither revelatory nor embarrassing—a lot of yeas, nos, let's gos, etc. These are stylistic choices, naturally, so it's just as tough to blame him for keeping thought at a distance as it is to blame him for going with what's appropriate. Gut reaction needs no insight.
Gut reaction is Ty Segall's selling point, actually. While the songs grew on me still after the fourth and fifth listen (at only about twenty-four minutes, it's a speedy endeavor), you'll know right away whether you'll enjoy it. Segall plays it straight and authentic, so it's all about your tolerance for gritty, threadbare rock music. It's thoroughly uncomplicated, which lends itself to benefits and debits both. But if you ever need to stomp your boots, he'll give you the beat.
"Ty Segall" is on sale December 9, 2008 from Castle Face.
