Baboon-
Secret Robot Control (Wind-up)
A wise man once said, the only things that come from Texas are steers and queers. He was right... well, kinda.
Baboon ain't your prosaic punk band, nor do they claim to be. These simian songsters slide between the barely detectable crevices and subtle distinctions within the highly evolved punk scene.
Simply staggering with their constant stream of uncouth, guitar-driven noise and almost-bestial attitude, Baboon slaps a new meaning onto the Darwinian theory of evolution.
Despite a world-class cultural district and the fine epithet, "Where the West Begins," my hometown, Fort Worth, really doesn't have much going for it. The red-headed stepchild has to live under the dark shadow of its much celebrated stepsister, Dallas; and wilting Chuck Norris chose the very grounds to bury his career, er, I mean to film his action-packed, weekly television drama, Walker, Texas Ranger.
Unless one took a much-revered sojourn to Dallas, the only worthwhile weekend alternative was to check out local acts at the Impala.
Bands came and went. They all glimmered, but most faded. When the metroplex's established holy trinity, the Toadies, Tripping Daisies and Hagfish, were off rubbernecking, whining about having an ecumenical girl and rocking your lame ass (respectively), Baboon was still burning effulgently, holding down the fort for the faithful following.
Now, the Denton-based quartet says, it is their turn-to take their shot at 8 seconds of bumpy nationwide exposure. With their second full-length release, Secret Robot Control, Baboon lets out a long-repressed, primal bellow through the screeching vocals of their lead singer, Andrew Huffstetler.
Baboon puts a hell of a lot of mileage on their instruments. A triple shot of Steven Barnett's sustained drums, Mike Rudnicki's oscillating guitar riffs and bassist Brian Schmitz's steady yet dominant undercurrent would leave any inanimate object in utter ruins, let alone an animate but a breathless, nicotine-drenched fan.
Some bands cram their best material at the beginning of the CD, but these sonic primates know how to spread things around-equally but not too thinly.
The album's first track, "Night of the Long Knives," unsheaths a straining outcry of tumultuous torment, while a refreshingly chaotic smashing of kitchen utensils fills out an otherwise incomplete "I'm OK If You're OK."
Baboon's twisted sense of irony resounds within "You and I," as an actually distinguishable vocal rivulet combines forces with an engulfing audiosensory cascade. "A Sip For Strength" takes a nice dichotomous swig of brassy trombone and guest vocalist Kim Pendleton's ariatic support.
"Who is this?" asks Mr. Rolly Miller, the Chronicle's seasoned music expert and just plain ole' punk.
"Baboon? If they were my kids practicing in my garage, I would have beaten the sh*t out of them."
But he quickly adds, "You could tell they're trying pretty damn hard, but they make it seem easy. I want to be the guy who introduces them. 'Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a loose Baboon in the house.' "
On the road with Karp and Cobra Kahn, Baboon makes their way to Chapel Hill's Lizard and Snake Cafe tonight.
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