Swell - ...well?

SWELL GELS; SINGS WELL

by Manuel Esparza

Driving down U.S. 82 to Lubbock in August is a journey into a vacuum cleaner bag. The grit pervades every pore and portal, gumming them up. Every so often it swirls up into a dust devil careening along like a drunken cyclist. The road takes on a dreamy look as the heat warps the sunlight, creating an oasis that can never quite be reached.

Swell's ...well? travels down those back highways. They navigate the musical motorway in a meandering "let's not miss any of the sights" manner. Your guide is a sexagenarian lounge singer, Richard McGhee, whose demo tape was "borrowed."

Their music has an uncluttered arrangement. Gritty guitars roam without colliding into each other. Usually guitarist/singer, David Freel, will go into acoustic strumming while John Dettman wrings stinging riffs from his. Their differing techniques open up the sound, making Swell's music as wide as west Texas. Hitched to an easy tempo, the songs emit emotions like heat from a fire.

Though the music is serious, the album is fun. Just when the album seems to get too heavy, Swell inserts samples from McGhee's ridiculous demo, such as the section of him belching a monologue. McGhee's ramblings are all the more humorous when it becomes obvious he means it. Swell taped street sounds from San Francisco's seedy Tenderloin District where they live. Included is a band practice recorded at their apartment one rainy day by the microphone they keep outside the window.

Freel's vocals seamlessly complete the sound. Sandy and soft, his singing is the bridge that links the instruments. He wields it with understated power.

Swell has put together all original material (minus McGhee's bumbles) in a solid disc. Tracks like "It's Okay" and "Wash Your Brain" are songs that span genres. They are classic in sound, progressive in attitude and well-written works. There is an economy of music -- just enough is used to create the sound without it being sparse. The simplicity in style gives the band room to create detailed songs.

The result is a number of songs like "At Long Last." This has the electricity of the gun fight at noon with all the townsfolk watching. Short, choppy semi-subliminal cryptic lyrics temper the rage on guitar.

. . . Well? marks the second full-length release from this Bay Area quartet. Interspersed with bits of background patter between tracks, Swell weaves curiously mesmerizing musical odes pulsating with a subdued energy, not quite descending to a state of lethargy. David Freel's brisk acoustic guitar and oblique vocals enhance cryptic but rarely indecipherable lyrics. John Dettman's psychedelic guitar drone rumbles about, at times creating a sinuous reverie that feels quite warm and enveloping; other instances it swells with slide guitar noise, reverberating and searing authoritatively but never becoming too overbearing. Propelled by Sean Kirkpatrick's finely punctuated percussion and Monte Valler's surging stacatto basslines, . . . Well? is quite an anomaly. Sweller than swell: "At Long Last," "The Price," "Suicide Machine" and "Tired."