With Moonshine Simplicity

The Flat Duo Jets, The Flat Duo Jets(1990)

Flat Duo Jets(1990)

 

The Flat Duo Jets trafficked in a compelling mash-up of 50′s Rockabilly, neo-surf, and garage rock. Christ that’s a mouthful. These are no washed up middle-aged hipster wannabes; that's Dexter Romweber (guitarist) and Crow (drummer), two greasy younger cats from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, whose hillbilly guitar, raspy cigarette pipes and energetic ‘Rabbit Foot’ bass pedal stompin’ recaptured the primitive white trash brilliance of early tonalities that bring to mind some fucked up hybrid of Wanda Jackson and Dick Dale. While other fans of the old stuff simply try to replicate the past, the Flat Duo Jets somehow became the real thing, displaying a psychopathic hint of nostalgia.

Jack White’s White Stripes and The Black Keys should be sending the Jets royalty checks. From the stripped down, raw nature of the Flat Duo Jets, both bands learned a thing or two about just how broad an emotional and sonic platform you can have at your disposal after peeling off layers and finding that good old ‘vein’ of rock that fed the aortas and ventricles of Buddy Holly and Bo Diddley. While the Flat Duo Jets didn’t play flashy solos, wear matching outfits, spawn an industry of hipsteria, or create any sort of mildly pleasing MTV aesthetic, they packed one king hell fuck of a visceral punch and performed with a grimy authentic assertiveness that reaches depths neither White nor the Keys ever reached, no matter how successful both have become with their designs, formulas and minimalist blues ideologies. There are no overdubs, no studio tricks, no pretenses, just unabashed Tru Grit. The album sounds murky; it gives you that claustrophobic feeling that really good vinyl pressings do, as if you’re right in the room with them, adding to the tension, feeling the sweat. You’re either in the dredges of a North Carolina smoke-filled-pool hall, or an Appalachian moonshine distillery, sippin’ on bathtub gin. Either location fits perfectly.

Wailin', hootin' and hollerin’ like bootleggers in a high speed getaway through some dismal bayou and generally acting like the Dukes of Hazzard headed straight for the ninth circle of hell to rip Lucifer’s jugular out. Romweber runs on pure forward momentum on this self titled LP, through mindless rockers like "Wild Wild Lover" and "Please Please Baby," then becomes a backwoods hillbilly Romeo for wonderfully pomade-smeared serenades like "Baby" and "Dreams Don't Cost a Thing."

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