Critical Reviews

The Austin Chronicle - January 1991

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DAVID GARZA AND THE LOVEBEADS, DUCKHILLS

Texas Tavern, 1/19/91
Reviewed by Saul Bubkes

Of course, it was given that a sizeable gaggle of lacy-garbed nubile nymphs wearing enough makeup to repaint the Taj Mahal would be bickering like the Twelve Tribes of Israel to get within fellatio distance of perky wunderboy David Garza, but what blew me away was the youthfulness of the opening act, the Duckhills.  Geez, I felt compelled to go onstage, give them their bottles, burp them, then tuck them away in their cradles for a night of sweet rock and roll dreams.  Gosh, these guys make Sprawl look like they belong in a Geriatric Ward.  The rail-thin, red-headed and freckle-faced lead singer/guitarist looked like he could've been the kid brother or, hell, the illegitimate son of Michael Hall.

But man, could he rock! That little pipsqueak was belting out some hellbent cries that came from so far down in his gut you'd need to ram a ten foot pole down his throat just to touch their place of origin.   No doubt, this kid's rock and roll soul is ten times bigger than his body and the rest of the band wasn't made up of any spiritual dwarves either.  The Duckhills seem tough enough to keep the Wannabes, Balloonatics and Big Cars of this town on their toes.

So what is this David Garza and the Lovebeads stuff anyway?  Simple:  Twang-Twang-Shock-a-Boom with some international flavoring.   The little goody-two-shoes Hispanic Catholic School bourgie-beat kid with the wavy page boy haircut is still whimsically fawning over the profound wonders of puppy love, fishsticks and other remote comers of his facile and naive world.  This time he's got some exotic instrumentation and a couple of white ennui-stricken fashion plates trying to be the Mahotella Queens backing him up.  And you thought Paul Simon was up to some nefarious things with the rhythmical riches of the world.  Nevertheless, I'm the first to concede that the kid's incredibly talented.  His writing form is spectacular.  Still, it's what he's writing about that's really in need of fortification.  When he gets his heart shredded a time or two, he could be dangerous.

THE DUCKHILLS

Remembering Spongecake

It's healthy to have a band like the Duckhills around.  Their boisterous sound and absurdist approach sends up flares to countless other bands:  STOP TAKING YOURSELVES SO SERIOUSLY.  Remembering Spongecake is literally bursting with ideas, imaginations run wild.  My only reference point is the Ralph Records gang of a decade or so ago (or maybe Zappa and the Mothers), but the Duckhills are looser, less thematic, more approachable.  They veer from bent funk ("Freaky Transactions"), to skewed guitar pop ("Helen"), to outrageous satire, in an anxious (and generally successful) attempt to bend every rule.  I prefer their hard won dogma ("I think apartheid is bad/I think world peace is good"), as spelled out in "Politics," over that of, say, U2, and I like the fact burgers and fries and Cokes, and chili cookoffs seem to come up a lot in their lyrics.  A little focus or direction here or there could turn the Duckhills into a wondrous and beatific band with few peers, but discipline of .that sort might just ruin the anarchic edge that makes them such goofy fun.  A steady diet of this stuff, no.  An occasional excursion away from the known and predictable, sure thing.

***

THE DUCKHILLS

Remembering Spongecake

Reviewed by Don McLeese

On the new Remembering Spongecake tape, the Duckhills sound like they're having way too much fun to limit themselves to a single musical direction - or even a half-dozen - which should come as no surprise to those who have experienced the band's cartoonish club performances.  As these quacksters decide what they want to be when they grow up, they'll presumably leam to distinguish an inspiration an in-joke, and frontman Benjamin McDonald will figure out which voice is really his.

In the meantime, there's something weirdly exhilarating about a band that can sound like Chili Pepper funksters on one cut, junior Zappas on another, limp-wristed Lefty Frizzells on a third and a collegiate band of considerable promise when it puts its mind to it.  (Critical insight:  the songs on the tape that begin with "S" are the ones that are played comparatively straight).

The Duckhills tape-release party Wednesday at the Cannibal Club comes complete with a kissing booth and an opening set by Balloonatic.  When a record-company guy scouted Balloonatic's set at South by Southwest, he was very impressed but remarked "They seem so young."  Wait until he sees the Duckhills.

THE DUCKHILLS

Litter (Buildagoat)

Reviewed by Chuck Dean

Live, The Duckhills rule. Taking a tight set and bumping it into the realms of super-user-friendly psychopathology, this band has always delivered with its unpredictable brand of quirky, incendiary rock'n'roll.  On Litter the guys reel in this lunacy and leash it.  What we get in the end is a cohesive album - start to finish - that passes the test of repeated listenings, a test most recordings flunk.  Great cuts include "Slide," a song that begins as a conventional pop tune then retrofires into a Adam-Horowitz-crazed rap, and "Oh Well," an apathetic love song about how stupid love can be.  The Duckhills seem to be doing their own thing and having fun in the process.  Luckily, in the case of Litter, we reap the benefits.  (Saturday, Steamboat, 8pm)

****

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THE DUCKHILLS

Steamboat, March 20 [SXSW slot  -ed.]

Reviewed by Lee Moore

I had never seen the Duckhills (apparently I was the last holdout in Austin), and what I'd read about them led me to expect a pop outfit of smart guys with acoustic guitars variety; what I got was smart guys with electric guitars.  If the Duckhills are a pop band, they're a pop band with crunch, mixing quirky tunes with an engagingly goofy stage presence (the band's frontman comes on like an unholy fusion of Elvis Costello and Anthony Michael Hall).  The Duckhills' songs manage to mix smooth pop melodicism, rock grit, and funk bass, and the band throws enough curves, musical and otherwise, to keep things interesting (oblique lyrics, the occasional whiteboy rap).  Okay, now I'm hooked.