Palma Violets: 180

The parmigianas? WTF kinda band name is that? At least that’s the Italian dish name I heard in my head when I first read their name. Maybe I was just hungry. That aside, these guys sound nothing like a sauce and cheese covered delight. They do in fact resemble, at least sonically, the garage rock bands of yore. All rolling drums, chimey guitars and grungy organs that at times sounds like a crazy mashup of The Walkmen, Wu Lyf and The Doors. Of course I hate the fuck out of The Doors, so that comparison is really intangible outside of some of the affect the lead singer puts on his pronunciation and the echo effects placed on his vocals, but there is otherwise none of that wankery or psychedelia that those idiots foisted upon their hippie followers. And the other two are really more of a feel in the recording of the album and its cadence more than anything else. Apparently these guys are relatively popular in England, but here in the US they’re relegated to being reviewed on lame Websites and blasting on iPhones during commutes. Lame in the fact that I know there are better frames of reference for their blustery brand of reverb-drenched, sloppy rock ‘n’ roll than the ones I’ve supplied, but those references have just totally escaped me. I’m certainly not gonna call these guys the second coming of Oasis (or the Arctic Monkeys for that matter) but the Brits sure seem to think they have something going on. Granted there have been a lot of acts that are huge there that garner little more than “indie” status here. Do I see this stuff ever playing on American radio outside of college stations? No way. Is it an album I could see throwing on every once in a while when I get tired of listening to the other three million albums I’m ignoring? Sure. It’s better than I’m giving it credit for, but probably not as good as our friends on the other side of the pond have made it out to be.