Segall’s latest album, the second of three due this year, finds him recording with his touring band – presumably with every single dial in the studio twisted to 11 (excluding the air con).
Not that his previous albums haven’t had heavy moments, it’s just that on this short(ish) offering, the fuzz and chaos that always threatened to bubble over finally does – and runs off down the street bleeding and screaming. With tracks titles such as Death and The Tongue, you know it’s never going to be as Beatles-esque as last year’s Goodbye Bread; nevertheless, there’s evidence throughout of an easily adaptable songwriter at the peak of his powers, verging from Sonics-style 60s beat (Oh Mary) to gnarled, suggestive black noise (the 10-minute Fuzz War).
The fidelity is shockingly low at points, but the sprits are high. On the bracing That’s The Bag I’m In, things fall apart completely, yet Segall urges his band to keep going, admitting that he doesn’t know what’s happening. It’s a pertinent moment. A little bit of crazy on an album is a very good thing, and Slaughterhouse has it in spades.