THE DUNHILL BLUES - The Dunhill Blues (self released)
It's the New Year after a lazy Xmas break, spent a couple of hundred kilometres away from the Bar, and (as usual) there are twin towers of vinyl and CD cases sitting like unopened presents on the coffee table, waiting to be listened to and then culled or reviewed. You know there'll be some real dross in there but there'll be some gems, too.A cursory listen outs this in the latter catergory. This self-titled 12-inch EP from a Sydney band I've never seen stands out like the Hope Diamond in a window of Pandora bracelets. Which doesn't mean it's over-polished and sparkling - quite the opposite, in fact.
Just six songs in a supposedly outmoded (and not very portable) format but excuse me for taking a break from this review to rip a copy to CD-R to play in the car. The good news is that if you're not turntable-capable, it comes in that shiny aluminum disc format too, procurable from the band's Myspace.)
The Dunhill Blues are a Sydney four-piece who play a mutant blues-country strain. It's dirty and un-mannered and all ragged 'round the edges but that's how it should be. They call it country garage blues but the best bands know genres count for fuck-all and only give rude reviewers the chance to use words like "cunt-ry" and snigger behind their keyboards. So I won't. Really.
The Dunnies aren't much for press releases or fancy bios so let's do the same and let the music do the talking: Opener "Wake Up Call" gets along on the back of a swinging beat and greasy blues harp. "Coffee" deals a strutting feel and hammer down guitars that stop and re-start to signal a taught lead-break and break-down, then more wailing harp. Again, simplicity's a winner.
"Cash" unreels chicken-squawk guitars and an anguished vocal and falls to pieces in the middle eight in Beefheartian style before picking up where it left off.
Barroom piano and handclaps augment "Jesus May Forgive You (But I Never Will)" but if this is country (as the radio tear sheet claims) then I'm Willy Nelson's de-tox diet roadie. Over-heated garage guitars run rampant before yielding to the even more urgently riffing "Hell", which sounds like a cousin of the Beasts of Bourbons' "Elvis Impersonator Blues".
"Hell" effortlessly becomes a song called "#92", to the point where it's an extension of the previous tune. Confused? Don't be, it's part of the fun.
I don't know what wisdom dictated going out with a 12-inch EP and care even less. You should do the same and score a copy before bombarding the band with email and asking them why it wasn't a full album. - The Barman
