Not that there aren't still some grievances to be aired. Even the most solid of supergroups tend to suffer one key flaw, namely that not all band members are created equal. SSM is no exception. Maybe it's because my personal preferences run considerably more towards Szymanski's and Shettler's other projects than to the Cyril Lords, maybe it's just because he's the only guy in the band whose name doesn't start with an "S," but Morris seems frequently outclassed by his more veteran bandmates; for every moment when his slurred dreamboat vocals are well-served ("No Looking Back" and "Dinosaur" are two examples), there's another one, like the insufferable "Viking's Daughter," when you just wish he'd stop caterwauling and play his freaking guitar.
And, on an unrelated subject, if my previous mention of an almost nine-minute closing jam didn't send up any red flags, let the record show: it's gratuitous. But let's keep in mind that this is a debut album, after all, and when the highs are as soaring as the ones reached here, who can resist cutting a little slack?
So when all is said and done, if Brendan Benson is right and the Raconteurs' record can be considered the Rust Belt's answer to Nevermind, then SSM's debut must be Bleach: raw, ragged, crackling with potential; maybe a little too murky for its own good on occasion, but by and large a harbinger of great things to come. As for its relevance to the transitional scene from which it hails, well, this is as solid evidence as any that Detroit's garage cognoscenti need not hang up their white belts yet. Strap on your space helmets, kids: this is Garage Rock 2.0.
Reviewed by Zach Hoskins
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