Mount Carmel

Mount Carmel

Real Women

Siltbreeze

For those swayed by the magisterial authenticity of Mount Carmel on their eponymous 2010 debut album: its follow-up Real Women finds the band honed and sharper, thus delivering what might be the best sophomore album released by an American blues-based power-trio since ZZ Top’s Rio Grande Mud. Nods to Free, Humble Pie, even Trapeze can be sussed out in the mix, but at the end of the day, Real Women is straight-up Mount Carmel all the way. Searing leads, smokey vocals, thundering rhythms, cascading drums, hyperbolic hyperbole... it’s all here. Mount Carmel brings back the spirit of 1973 like no one else. The only difference now is better weed and shittier barbiturates. It’s hands-down pure rock, no frills. Nary a retro contrivance is to be heard. These guys live it for real. Honest. So climb on board with Real Women and see what you’ve been missing. The results are astounding.

Mount Carmel

S/t

Siltbreeze

The trio of Matthew Reed, Patrick Reed and Kevin Shubak--heretofore known as Mount Carmel--hails from Columbus, Ohio, but if you're expecting lo-fi, greaser's palace pop a la Psychedelic Horseshit or Times New Viking, think again. Mount Carmel is a straight-up blues rock power trio. And by straight-up we mean sans revisionist three-dollar currency, Sub Pop grunge hybridization or ironic posturing. These guys have been weened on a diet almost steadfastly consisting of British blues/rock innovators: Peter Green-era Bluesbreakers, Cream and Ten Years After are immediately recognizable in their sound (in fact, the latter's "Hear Me Calling" is covered on here). This isn't a lark or something these guys are doing between noise projects--it's their life. Good, old-fashioned rock 'n' roll, plain and simple. Some folks never made time for punk, just like you've always snubbed your nose at the drum solo. Hard to believe, right? But just because you didn't live through it the first time doesn't mean you're not doomed to repeat it. The piquancy of '70s-era redbud fusing with the aroma of banana- (or strawberry-) scented paper burning and hanging in the air, the sweet cascade of Ripple hitting the back of your throat, the blurry exotica of Rorer's ubiquitous 714... it's all here, undeniably, unpretentiously and unwittingly realized. In fact, their sound is so genuine, you'll swear you were dead! Or at the very least unborn. Dig it.