Thee Oh No’s

Generally speaking, styles come and go, but idioms last forever. And when four tuff dudes with the right moxie get their greasy mitts around the correct noise-making implements, settle their deadly attentions upon said idiom (you know, ’60s garage rock), and control their own greasy facial spasms long enough to “play,” well, you’d better hide the fine china. These Phoenix bozos have probably downed more Mummies, Seeds, and Gories records than thee Childish one himself and, as a result, they’ve chucked up a honking, fuzzed-out blare that is a typical consequence of that type of overconsumption (doctors agree). They also call themselves silly things like “Draino” and “Sumo” and wear ski masks onstage, which either proves or suggests that they are terribly ugly young men whose only hope is the garage-groupie poon pool, or that they are a bunch of weird no-goodniks looking to destroy the Great Satan. Either way, don thee now your gay apparel and get your butt to the Ruby Room, where Thee Oh No’s will triumphantly complete their West Coast tour like the champions they modestly pretend not to be.