Grunge gets both villainized and canonized in equal measures, depending on which music circle you’re quibbling with. Particularly weird is to come along well after the grunge movement (which really wasn’t that long in the grand perspective of rock) in 1999 and still be lumped into that category. Of course, at this time, Josh Homme was still making the transition from Kyuss to Queens of the Stone Age and was about two albums from altering the course of underground rock back into the greasy garages it belonged. Fu Manchu were kings of the quarterpipes and The Melvins were finally getting the respect they deserved as pioneers of the grunge sound instead of Nirvana, as the stagnant nineties finally got its act together. Burning Brides hit the cracked Philly pavement in 1999 with a drop hammer of sludge rock that generated a following that can now take pride in the fact that the sound they embraced is hip, courtesy in large of Queens and Eagles of Death Metal.
But prior to this renaissance of raw American street rock, bands like Dinosaur Jr. and The Pixies were keeping it real in the nineties after Jane’s Addiction whimpered away in the shadow of their mini revolution, and as you listen to Burning Brides’ third album Hang Love, be happy that grunge served a purpose and be even happier that a widely-increasing audience for Little Steven’s Underground Garage on Sirius is opening the gates to this sound.
Since buying out of their contract with V2 following 2004’s Leave No Ashes, the remaining two Burning Brides, Dimitri and Melanie Coates sojourned to Los Angeles and have soaked out all negativity previously hanging over their heads. Hang Love is the by-product of this turbulence and rediscovery. Add ex-Guzzard drummer Pete Beeman to the family, and the Burning Brides sound rejuvenated and inspired to create rock that frequently pounds as it luxuriates in breezy overtures that gives their grimy base a more glossy finish. Dimitri sounds positively electric on his guitar, as if he’s destined to hold court sessions on this style.
Some people might call cuts like “San Diego” and “Poor House” Nirvana South, but there’s more psychedelia and beach-bred pop sludge ala Fu Manchu to “San Diego” and Redd Kross fuzz-laced bubblegummery to “Poor House” than there is a slate-grey melancholy fueling these songs. There’s an air of Jane’s Addiction to the bohemian lightness of “She Comes To Me,” while “Waring Street” comes to play with a Pixies meets Kyuss ambience to it. Drowning itself in an irresistible riff on “Feel No Shame” and some alt rock shades ala Jesus and Mary Chain with a twist of Redd Kross to their closing declaration “And I’m Free,” Burning Brides produces the right album at the right time in a career that feels like it’s about to burst any minute now…
