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Twin Town High (vol. 8) |
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Northern Soul: Giljunko Gets their Rocks off in Duluth
Wednesday 09 October @ 10:25:03 |
 Donny Doane takes a look at two recent offerings from a group of Duluth musicians: Giljunko’s The Accomodator, and Glijunko frontman Mark Lindquist’s solo effort, Evil Says “Eight Ball In The Side Pocket,” both on Shaky Ray records.
Some words are especially fun to say, not only because of how they sound, but also because of how they feel in the mouth—which points of mechanical articulation get manipulated and so forth. Duluth’s Mark Lidquist has two new releases out. His band Giljunko’s new album, The Accomodator, offers more of the band’s usual port city musings. Lindquist also has an excellent, kicked back living room solo effort. As evinced by the misspelling of the Giljunko album’s title, Lindquist’s humorous wordplay remains a central element of both works.
Opening The Accomodator is “Cuidado.” Starting just south of the Canadian border in Duluth, Lindquist and his dirty white band travel just south of the U.S. border to Tijuana with this spaghetti-Western tequila bender. High points include the guitar scratches in the chorus, and El Marko himself croozing en Español. Despite the fact that “cuidado” means “be careful” or “caution” in Spanish, it’s evident that Mr. Lindquist and Co. don’t proceed with much of that. And that‘s a good thing. As always, things are loose and ragged, and as always, that’s half the charm. On the title track, Lindquist declines the one who accommodates by simply telling that character, “”Cos I don’t need it/And you can keep it/ So let’s leave it/ Our little secret.” The vocal tweaking lends the brittle echo of Thurston Moore, and in fact, the entire tune could pass for a Goo-period Sonic Youth outtake.
Evil Says…however, stands in stark contrast, as Lindquist goes solo. His songs poke up like goose bumps and swagger with a skeletal majesty. Even naked and unadorned, their inner beauty is evident. “Don’t Blame Keith Richards” lopes along to a very Keefish riff while defending the old Stones’ honor: “Some critics accuse him/Of killing Brian Jones/But that’s not the way I hear it/On my headphones.” Appearing on both discs is “Bet I Can’t”. The chorus, “This is my last chance/And I bet that I can’t,” might suggest woeful resignation; but between the lines lurks the notion that if you keep your expectations abysmally low, everything might turn up cherries. And while those of “heightened” tastes might consider these chokecherries, these two offerings are cherries nonetheless. The production is pleasingly lo-fi, which is fine, because the last thing we want this stuff to sound like is some slick-boy record by a band like say… Leep 27.
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