The Thermals
The Body, The Blood, The Machine
[Sub Pop; 2006]
Portland, Oregon natives the Thermals have been hovering on the periphery since their 2003 debut, delivering solid records to undersized acclaim. The band’s third album, The Body, The Blood, The Machine, conjures an America piloted by some sort of Christian-fascist regime ("They’ll pound you with the love of Jesus…They’ll own your days/ They’re only God’s babies/ They follow, they know"), and traces the frantic, fiery flight of an ex-pat and his girl ("I can see she’s afraid/ That’s why we’re escaping/ So we won’t have to die, we won’t have to deny/ Our dirty God, our dirty bodies"). The Body’s story is just vague and gruesome enough to be weirdly terrifying, totally Orwellian, and grander, louder, and more electrifying than anything the Thermals have spit out before.
Original drummer Jordan Hudson ditched the band in 2005, meaning that during the recording of this album guitarist/vocalist Hutch Harris and bassist Kathy Foster were twitching for three, bouncing around from instrument to instrument, filling in the gaps, injecting percussion, keyboards, organs, bass, and plenty of guitar into their lo-fi basement punk. Produced by Fugazi drummer Brendan Canty, The Body is appropriately reminiscent of the Thermals’ previous two full-lengths, but far more ambitious in narrative and sound– the production is cleaner, Harris’ vocals are less prickly and more impassioned, and every slammed chord soars. Both in theory and execution, The Body, The Blood, The Machine hits like a less playful, less suburban American Idiot, its apocalyptic, heavily religious iconography conveniently layered over pounding, Ramones-style pop-punk.
The Body’s unrelenting lyrical gravity is also its single biggest strength– this isn’t the first time the Thermals have gotten political (on 2004’s Fuckin’ A, Harris bleakly instructed us to "Pray for a new state/ Pray for assassination"), but, from the opening organ chord of "Here’s Your Future", it’s clear that this is the band at its most somber– when Harris seethes "So here’s your future!" a few beats after inciting "the new master race," it’s impossible not to feel like you should transfer all the energy you’d usually waste pogo-ing around your living room into scrawling letters to elected officials. "Returning to the Fold" employs a classic post-grunge melody, Harris’ big, punchy wails poking through his guitar-web like it’s 1994 and you’re watching "120 Minutes" in your parents’ basement. "St. Rosa and the Swallows" is a thorny ode to escape ("Passing the corners, we kissed in the rain/ Passing the old rusted warning signs/ What did they say?/ I think they said run!"), while closing cut "I Hold the Sound" is spare and weirdly engrossing, the closest the band comes to recreating the impossible catchiness of "No Culture Icons", before bowing out in a haze of feedback.
Foster’s drums and Harris’ weird vocal syntax (which contains echoes of the Mountain Goats’ John Darnielle) are nicely propulsive, and The Body, The Blood, The Machine cuts off before it runs the risk of getting too repetitive. But the results of its 38 minutes are still chilling. Harris’ imagined landscape is severe and grisly, leaving us all to sprint for cover, curling under desks, hands over heads, fingers crossed: These tracks land like bombs.
Posted to Pitchfork by Amanda Petrusich on August 22, 2006.