FRIDAY
November 2, 2018 | doors at 9:00pm
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Triple Ds presents:
GG KING
TIMMY'S ORGANISM
John Wesley Coleman | Mongo
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  • ADVANCE
  • DAY OF SHOW
GG King
When the Carbonas died, Atlanta wept. Mothers and children, left orphaned by the deceased, wandered the streets with tears streaming mottled faces. Strong and silent men struggled to maintain composure, and they retreated to basement workbenches, biting lips, cracking knuckles, running hands through thinning hair, sullenly wondering: "Why?" Skies darkened. A palpable feeling of devastating loss plagued the city. Nay, the world.

Thankfully, ex-frontman Greg "GG" King wasted little time in yanking up his knickers and pursuing new noise. He wrote a series of tunes not unlike those he contributed to the Carbonas – that winning mix of hyperstrummed '70s Europunk and brawny stateside r'n'r pummel intact – and amassed a crew of friends and former bandmates to help him flesh out the din. He released a handful of solid teaser singles, played a number of good shows. He reasserted himself as one of Atlanta's greatest exports.

And now, with the release of Esoteric Lore, his first full-length longplayer, the venerable GG King moves beyond his old guard, skindiving in new sinkholes.

Yes, herein we find some highly Carbonic moments – traces of Hubble Bubble, The Kids, Zero Boys, et. al. – but we also hear the King & Co. vamp on vibes harnessed only previously by goth-punk forebears: early Christian Death, 45 Grave. We sense smudged traces of minimal mania a la 100 Flowers. We catch whiffs of the emblematic hardcore of the Germs & T.S.O.L., feel the plod 'n' thud of Negative Trend. We're treated to bits of hijacked shortwave, aural static clinging 'tween songs proper, bleeding into the tunes themselves. And we hear a walloping wayward punk rec that nods knowingly toward L.A.-circa-'82, but in melding its influences, somehow sounds distinctly Atlanta, and right now.

Timmy's Organism
Since setting the scuzz-punk gutter ablaze in the mid 90's with the Epileptix and the increasingly influential (and downright killer) crew the Clone Defects and HUMAN EYE. Timmy Vulgar has continued to solder together the oft-disparate worlds of savage Proto-punk and Drano-gargling noise-core!
Weirdo art damaged Musik. Holding it all together with some ballads too!?! T.O. is a must see LIVE!!!
John Wesley Coleman
When he's not working solo, John Wesley Coleman III plays guitar and sings in Golden Boys, a much-loved Austin band whose Whiskey Flowers set a standard for a certain kind of loosely strung, wildly played, country-and-Southern-soul influenced garage rock. Put them on next to the Oblivians, Reigning Sound or sometime tour partners Strange Boys, and Golden Boys' sound made perfect sense, an amalgamation of Stax and the Stooges, Chess Records, Charlie Feathers and the Ramones.

Coleman's second solo album doesn't fall too far from the tree, his high, wavery vocals linking his songs to country and rockabilly, a barrage of fuzz-blistered guitars and wheezy organ tying him back to Nuggets-era garage. If anything, it's a little less laid-back, a little more bad-assed, than Golden Boys. There's a Who song bashing its way out of album highlight "Fields of Love," a Clash guitar riff clawing up from the bottom of "Get High Babe," and the album closes in a riot of straight up and down strumming with a cover of Swell Maps "New York."

Lyrically, Coleman is an odd bird, a poet and an outsider artist who takes rock and country clichés like bad girls and tries to dance well past their logical extremes. His opening salvo, "Bad Lady Goes to Jail," is, in musical terms, an off-kilter slice of classic rock, all power-chord guitars and rollicking Warren Zevon-style piano. It's a happy song by the sound of it, the kind of thing that you put on while you're getting ready to go out, maybe applying mascara or digging a pair of high-heeled boots out of the closet. But, whoa, listen to the words, and you might never go out again. There's a girl on such a downspin that she can't even steal her boyfriend's car, because he's too poor to gas it up. Similarly, the slouchy, catchy "Fields of Love" — the most obvious sing-along song on a very infectious album — seems, on closer inspection, to be about the work life of a prostitute. And what to make of the one true love song on the disc, a high lonesome crooner with Orbison-esque vocals and jangly, minor key guitars, that is, somewhat unconventionally, dedicated to basketball?

Coleman attacks even the oddest subject with a crazy glee, a "yi-yi-yi-ing" abandon that is as hard to resist as it is unsettling. There's a vertiginous vibe to his bashed-out chords, his careening edge-of-control singing, his manic, pounding rhythms that makes you feel like you're not on the firmest of ground, that perhaps you and Coleman are pumping your legs wildly, Roadrunner-cartoon-style, in the instant before you plummet down. And yet, you don't fall. Bad Lady Goes to Jail is a giddy, exuberant, crazily appealing ride from one end to another, and a rickety tour de force that seems like it could blow apart at any minute, but never does.

By Jennifer Kelly

http://www.dustedmagazine.com/reviews/6188
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