Album review: Gozu – Locust Season

OK, hold everything – I’ve just discovered what happened to the band that Queens Of the Stone Age somehow (and rather disappointingly) avoided turning into. They’re called Gozu, they’re on the perpetually reliable Small Stone Records, and their new album Locust Season is riffomatic fast-drivin’ music with a splash of dumb pop sensibilities and its tongue just a little in its cheek.

We blast our way into things with the aptly named “Meth Cowboy”: I can see the titular character in my mind’s eye, burning across the California desert in a stolen pick-up, gurning like a first-time pillhead, murder on his mind and a weapon in the glovebox. The tone is set, and then stuck to like bong-tar – and while an album containing nine iterations of the same essential sound can sometimes be a disappointment, when the sound in question ticks this many boxes at once, it’s all gravy; Locust Season is not clever, but it’s very very big.

Yes indeed; chunky is the name of Gozu‘s game, as well as a blending of all the best bits of the big names in stoner/desert rawk: Fu Manchu’s riffs, heavily palm-muted in a thrashy kind of way and nudged up-tempo by fifteen beats-per-minute or so; Kyuss’ low-slung and sludgy bass and guitar tone (albeit recorded far more clearly than Kyuss could ever afford to back in the day – Small Stone releases are always recorded with respect for the raw tone of quality guitars and amplification, and this is no exception); QOTSA-style lead guitar lines, and vocals that do a grab-bag run on the styles of half a dozen decent singers, from sneery drawls to wails and bawls, and the occasional Homme-ish falsetto “doo-doo-doo” bits. Better polish up that air guitar, my friend; you’re gonna need it for this one.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say again: originality is a fine thing, but it’s rarer than rocking-horse crap, and you don’t really need it if you rip off the right material with enough flair. You’ve heard every element of Locust Season before, probably more times than you can count… and that’s what makes Gozu a great listen. So put your foot down and drive, motherfucker – it’s seventy miles to the next gas station, and I’m all out of cigarettes.