Gomez is still a baby band, having made its debut only four years ago, and the story behind its nearly instantaneous rise is remarkable. Five chums who'd known each other since they were practically still in diapers recorded a demo in their basement and handed it out to friends, one of whom (unbeknownst to them) was a musician turned record-store clerk with serious industry connections. Three weeks after passing on that tape, Gomez had offers from labels in Britain and the United States. The demo became Bring It On, which garnered the coveted Mercury Prize as well as official kudos from NME and Q magazine, just to name a few. John Lee Hooker himself claimed he "done listened to the record over and over and [couldn't] find no defect." Liquid Skin followed in 1999, and a collection of outtakes and rough cuts (Abandoned Shopping Trolley Hotline) came in late 2000. And then Gomez disappeared. Until now.
The group's third official full-length is everything it should be: mysterious, exciting, hinting at new directions and plain old fun. It opens promisingly with the bottom-heavy, Morphine-esque "Shot Shot," an exuberant, confident clang-banger with enough momentum to push the whole record. Not that it needs to: All the links in this 13-song chain are equally strong, due in no small part to Gomez's commitment to extensive dabbling. (Drummer Olly Peacock once told this reporter that the boys in the band would "hit or use anything or sing down anything.")
The result is a provocative mishmash of looped, rootsy harmonica lines that morph into pseudo-electronica ("Rex Kramer"), watery vocal effects and lovely harmonic bridges ("Detroit Swing 66"). The Gomez boys are shrewd planners, as well. (A band with three lead vocalists would have to be.) Singer Ben Ottewell's gruff, gravelly, cigarettes-and-whiskey voice is so distinctive, adding such a specific vibe that he wisely sits back on some songs, including the title track, that require a lighter vocal touch. Vocalists Ian Ball and Tom Gray handle the challenge with aplomb. In Our Gun is a lush, languid, yearning affair that picks up in its last quarter, changing into a frenetic dance mix. It turns the usual architecture of a Gomez album on its ear.
Whatever its music might be called, Gomez has yet to falter in its pursuit of original and dynamic sounds.
