by Nick Hanover
This week the Austin Chronicle asked “Who the fuck are the Young?” on their cover and for most of Austin’s music savvy populace, that’s a good question. When Brittany Campbell first covered the Young for us back in 2011, she predicted their then-new signing to Matador Records meant “it’s only a matter of time before they are playing sold-out shows with the likes of Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks and the New Pornographers.” But so far that hasn’t really happened, as their Matador debut Dub Egg mostly disappointed reviewers (including our own Carter Delloro) and certainly didn’t have much of a commercial impact. For a band that has existed about a decade, landing a cover story in your local weekly that makes your relative obscurity its headline might seem unfortunate, but as the Young’s new LP Chrome Cactus proves, the Young are a band that couldn’t care less about the route or sounds a buzzed about indie band should pursue.
That comes down more towards general apathy than a willful rejection of what’s en vogue, though. It doesn’t take long to realize the prevailing sound on Chrome Cactus is a listless haze, Hans Zimmerman’s frustrated reedy wail bleeding out from walls of heavy sustain and distortion as he guides the Young from revved up power pop to a lethargic take on glam to whatever the term is for the psych drenched industrial clang of “Ramona Cruz.” The only real constant is Zimmerman’s essentially monotonous yet strangely melodic vocal and his ability to make his guitar go from low V8 hum to banshee wail in no time flat.
The album begins with the relatively straightforward “Metal Flake,” a track dedicated to combining the antithetical worlds of ZZ Top and Cheap Trick. “Metal Flake” stands out from the rest of the album not just for Zimmerman’s unusually focused songwriting, but also for the even mix between the guitars and his slack vocal, a production choice that honestly works in Zimmerman’s favor since it allows his athletic guitar skills and his disenchanted vocals to create an intriguing contrast. But nearly everything about “Metal Flake” is abandoned by Zimmerman and crew immediately.
Starting with “Cry of Tin,” the Young ditch their more obvious classic rock influences to pursue an enigmatic groove, elements of Krautrock and early industrial music fused together like an indie rock Frankenstein’s Monster. The hybridization pays off on “Cry of Tin,” largely because the motorik rhythm leaves ample room for Zimmerman to display some of his most potent and emotional soloing. Other sections of the album suffer from an overly clinical distance, but “Cry of Tin” has Zimmerman shaking off his more robotic tendencies in order to open up through his guitar. The closest the band gets to that raw emotional territory again is the double header of “Apaches Throat” and “Mercy,” though they sacrifice the addictive groove of “Cry of Tin” and take the tempo down to DXM tripping levels as they do their best to approximate the feel of peak era T Rex B-sides.
More exciting is “Ramona Cruz,” some fucked up fuzz monstrosity that has the band toying around with buzzsaw synths to augment their usual sustain heavy guitar heroics. Here drummer Ryan Maloney is the secret weapon, though, taking a straightforward beat and defacing it with unholy machinery, matching the synth excursion with a symphony of metallic percussion and what sounds like some pitch shifting on the snare courtesy of producer Tim Green. That industrial feel carries over to “Dressed in Black,” where Maloney sticks to the toms as Zimmerman lets the guitar screech through string bends and neverending delay.
A band more dedicated to breaking through to the Urban Outfitters approved section of indiedom would perhaps add, say, more disco flourishes to all that industrial racket, but for the Young it’s just another playground for their tonal experimentation. It’s a commendable move and there’s no denying that Chrome Cactus is an enchanting batch of noise for most of its run time, but at the same time the Young could stand to be just a slight bit more focused. Towards the end of the album in particular the militant dedication to a particular tone begins to feel like pink noise, something that’s alright for leaving on in the background but which nonetheless fades from memory almost the instant the needle leaves the groove. But it’s undoubtedly a major leap forward from Dub Egg and a strong sign that Hans Zimmerman is starting to become as confident with his songwriting abilities as his guitar skills.