Bobby Hecksher, former Beck session musician and guitarist for the Brian Jonestown Massacre, has led jam sessions under the banner of The Warlocks since the early naughties. Since day one, their records have been plagued by calls of obvious derivation from music critics with a sense of history. I like The Warlocks well enough when their record is spinning; if they muster enough inspiration, they bring some adequately compelling grimy stoner rock, rooted by a wash of shoegaze and oldies influences.
I have a soft spot for many of the satellite BJM bands that have formed out of pieces from the Anton Newcombe "egominsaniac asshole fucking himself into oblivion" fallout. Dig the retro fuzz of The Raveonettes and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club — The Lovetones and The Quarter After are not without their charm, either. I want to like The Warlocks too, but, sadly, their case isn't so much what not to like, but what to remember.
2002's Phoenix, their sophomore/breakout Mute album, saw a lot of support from people who desperately wanted this generation to have a Velvet Underground, no matter how close the band of the week actually was to them. Lord knows this magical Hecksher octet consumed an Exploding Plastic Inevitable worth of drugs to try to live the life. (Bobby even went so far as to attend parties with the notorious acid guru Dr. Timothy Leary in the early- to mid-’90s.) Phoenix featured not one but two tracks with the word "dope" in the title, while pairing their half-baked, fuzz-bomb riffs with several minutes of broken amp drone. It was obviously made by and for extremely high people.
The problem was (and still is) that Bobby Hecksher is not Lou Reed. He has a whiny moan of a voice, and his lyrics are often forgettable hipster tripe. Nobody in the band is even trying to be John Cale, and there is no Andy Warhol guiding their image. Even with all the drugs and myriad classic influences feeding them, they have consistently failed to come up with anything that is inarguably their own, stylistically or musically. It is like former Canucks coach Marc Crawford fronting The Black Angels, if The Black Angels stopped trying and Crawford started.
Opportunistically dedicated to the then-recently deceased Elliott Smith, the next Warlocks album Surgery fared no better with the critics in 2005. Bobby shifted focus from distorted psychedelia to doo-wop and Shangri-Las-style, early-’60s teen ballads, but to no avail. The move came off like a highway prostitute buying a new pair of shoes. Pitchfork postulated that "the only reason Warlocks put out records is to keep others from taking their band name." Certainly, it did not sound like a record that needed to be made for the future of music's sake.
2007's Heavy Dream Skull Lover saw the band size diminish to a quartet, and was a move in a somewhat positive direction, capturing more of a live-off-the-floor feel, as well as some of Hecksher's most coherent vocals. The album came off as their most authentic, displaying peeks of the band simply doing what they wanted without concern for homage. Despite no longer receiving Metacritic ratings, critics responded to the record with almost universal praise. (Well, it at least received average reviews where previous albums had slanted downward.) Sadly, whatever modest gains were made with Heavy Dream Skull Lover have not been built upon with their latest effort.
The Mirror Explodes is more of the same psychedelic rock pastiche we saw on their first album, mixed with the fuzz of their last album. It is all of the same ingredients we have come to expect in their soup, and although every spoonful is slightly different, the broth never changes. All the riffs, drums, and lyrics seem to struggle against the current of a constant drone, with odd sounds bubbling out of the muddy puddle, yet remaining stagnant, as it were. There is nothing remarkable or striking about this mirror's explosion.
When they play fast, it comes off as forced; when they play slow, it appears lazy. Every move seems over-thought yet underdeveloped. It is far too easy to doubt their sincerity and dedication, which stems from their root problem: that they have distinct, albeit worthy, influences, yet continue to fail to do much of anything with them. They act more as a cushion than a springboard.
The only people who would be really impressed by this album are those who either have not heard a single record released between 1965 and 1972, or those who think every record should sound like it came from that period. Even then, The Mirror Explodes would be lucky to get a mention in the Acid Archives. To be sure, Anton Newcombe is one of the biggest douchebags in the history of recorded sound, but he remains the creative light bulb to Bobby Hecksher's moth.
1. Red Camera
2. The Midnight Sun
3. Slowly Disappearing
4. There Is A Formula To Your Despair
5. Standing Between The Lovers Of Hell
6. You Make We Wait
7. Frequently Meltdown
8. Static Eyes