THE THERMALS
The Body the Blood the Machine
Sub Pop
· Nothing is sacred to this Portland, Oregon trio. Thank God.
With their debut, The Thermals re-wrote the book on lo-fi. Essentially recorded in their kitchen, More Parts Per Million was a frantic stream-of-consciousness barrage that beat listeners into submission with equal parts enthusiasm and tape hiss. By the time they went into a proper studio to record the followup Fuckin’ A with Death Cab for Cutie’s Chris Walla, they had cemented their reputation as the wild-eyed troublemakers of the Portland scene. By not padding songs with unnecessary surplus, Fuckin’ A was a rock ’n’ roll love letter to simplicity that exploded out of stereos and still stands as the only perfect album of 2005. How could they possibly follow it up?
On first listen, The Body the Blood the Machine isn’t nearly as immediate as The Thermals’ other records. Those, like me, who love the quick hit and crack-like satisfaction of Fuckin’ A, will have to wait till track four, the new wave freak-out of "Pillar of Salt" to feel the rush. However, what this record lacks in reckless abandon, it more than makes up for in surprising substance. In fact, front man and guitarist Hutch Harris, whose lyrics usually have more to do with clever rhymes and random phrasing, has made a concept album.
As the title hints, The Body the Blood the Machine has a few religious overtones. The album art features a white-robed messiah, the track list includes titles that sound like sermons and the lyrics are liberally laced with names of some of the Bible’s heaviest hitters. Don’t worry, The Thermals aren’t hopping on the Christian rock bandwagon. Harris hasn’t found God. It’s quite the opposite. He can’t seem to find him anywhere.
"Here’s to the Future," paints God as an absentee father with a vengeful grudge, using Noah and Jesus to clean up his egomaniacal mistakes. "Back to the Sea" is a scathing condemnation of fundamentalists, where Harris would rather devolve than accept the theories of "intelligent design." For every reference to canonization, baptism and divine love there is equal parts anger, disbelief and blasphemy. Harris chews up biblical myth and spits it out with ferocious velocity, relishing the chance to take the Lord’s name in vain. The best moment paints God as a proto-Hitler, sending down the rains to "create the new master race." This is the kind of record that would incite riots from the Catholic Church, if it actually paid attention to indie bands.
Even without the venomous lyrical content, The Body the Blood the Machine would still stand on its own, because nothing is sacred to The Thermals – not God, not ’50s prom balladry, not the riff from "Louie Louie." They twist all their influences, lyrical and musical, back on themselves once again using simplicity to create something deceptively complex. Are they the best band in America? I might get crucified for saying so, but my devotion is true and belief unyielding. The Thermals are the way and the light. Amen.
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