That rumbling sound you hear is the onrushing freight train of hype that'll be dumped on the United States in the near future, as Australian sensations WOLFMOTHER make their belated way to our shores. Already bigger than big down under, this lean, mean power trio could actually bridge the gap between the stoner rock underground and the STROKES and WHITE STRIPES-loving mainstream "alternative" intelligentsia. Not bad for a band that basically sounds like Robert Plant fronting BUDGIE!
The thing is, WOLFMOTHER may just live up to all that acclaim, because they don't buy into it themselves. On this four-song EP, they put their heads down and concentrate on rocking the fuck out, and they do it with swaggering abandon. Notice that all four songs here are different — "Dimension" marries a primal fuzzbox stomp straight out of the CREAM archives, with some early OZZY warbling and a buzzing, noisy, off-the-floor rawness. "Mind's Eye" merits the ZEP comparisons, with some of that misty mountain pseudo-mysticism and tasty Jon Lord Hammond organ flourishes.
The deliciously goofy "Love Train" dishes up the whole denim-and-bongwater aesthetic, but adds in a dollop of Seventies porno funk, along with the slickest, sickest bass tone in recent memory, creating a three-minute hit single that's also a garage-rock jam, so infectious it'll induce diabetes. And lest all that butt-shakin' distracts you from WOLFMOTHER's ultimate blacklight-and-lava-lamp vibe, they close with "The Earth's Rotation Around the Sun", a lysergic outro that lumbers down the mountain like a drunken Sasquatch, all flanged out and laden with trippy analog knob-twiddling sound effects.
The whole package, while slight, is about as perfect as a Johnny Wadd 8mm film festival in a wood-paneled basement rec room, washed down by some warm Gennessee beer swiped from Dad's workshop. It's retro, yeah, but it's crafty, and unlike a goodly portion of their skunkweed-reeking artistic brethren, WOLFMOTHER are songwriters first and foremost. They know what they have to do to get a hook into your head and bury it till it takes weeks to come out, and they do it. Mercilessly. You can get in on the "they're too big to be cool" backlash now, and be ahead of the curve for once, or you can just shut up and rock out to what's bound to be the feel-good hit of this, and at least a few subsequent, summers.