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The Fine Art of Distilling

I owe Mr. Powerpopaholic a beer thanks to his glowing but reserved review of ' The Fine Art of Distilling album, an album I have been spinning since yesterday afternoon. Indeed, he had the same problem, finding it hard to take it off the old player, swimming in the Incurables lake, so to speak. I get it. I, too, am finding it hard to move on. In fact, I feel like distilling something. Anything. I feel like buying a distillery. I have been distilled.

If there is no such thing as distilling music, perhaps these guys are onto something. Maybe there is and no one knew how to define it until now. Maybe there isn't and no one knew how to define that. When you hear music that impresses you as much as these guys' music impresses me, you lose perspective. You struggle to compare--- who do these guys sound like? And the answer is, it doesn't matter. Good is good and The Incurables are a step or two above good. Maybe more.

You can grab onto the standards. Everything Pop has to have a bit of The Beatles in it, doesn't it, and isn't that little bridge straight out of ELO? Do I hear early Hollies in that bit of vocal background, and why do I get the feeling that I am hearing the ghost of John Lennon here and maybe Pete Ham there?

Aren't you paying attention? It doesn't matter! Sometimes music--- even music with definite influences--- rises beyond comparison. Sometimes it is so f**king good that that is all that matters.

Of course, you have to take what I say with a grain of salt. I am a Pop freak and a Power Pop nut. Thing is, I don't hear Power Pop here as much as I hear just excellent rock. And it gets better with each listen. I think if it gets too much better, my head is going to explode. If it does, please play The Fine Art of Distilling at my funeral. End it with No Heaven for Billionaires. Not only do they not deserve one, if I have to trip off this mortal coil, I want it to be to this song. It's a killer.

Frank O. Gutch Jr.

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