When I was 17, I spent a foreign-exchange summer in Norway. I signed up for the Scandinavian jaunt mainly for a fantasized processional of hot, topless Norse women. Imagine my delight when, lo and behold, that teen-sex-comedy trope turned out to be somewhat accurate. Someday I’ll tell you about the native pastime of the Naked Bicycle. But alas, this is a music column.
Two pivotal things occurred in the Land of the Midnight Sun that would help convince me, 22 grownup years later, that Wolfmother (yes, Wolfmother) is the greatest band of the 21st century. While lodging with a host family in the Oslo suburb of Grorud, I refused to get my hair cut. At the end of three months, I owned a phenomenal mushroom-cloud ’fro. My wee ballcap no longer fit; instead, it merely perched on my head like a ceremonial beanie.
Man, I
loved that hair.
During that time, I roomed with my host brother, Tor, whose primary indulgence was great greasy slabs of ’70s rock ’n’ roll. I was raised on Elton John and Billy Joel, so the crunchy guitar scrum was ear-opening for me. Tor’s curvaceous older sister was named Trine, who slept in the bedroom next door. Trine was vavoomish and, it should be noted, adept at the Naked Bicycle. Her hairy, scrawny boyfriend, Fruta, loved AC/DC -- probably more than he loved Trine. So the poor lass could only roll her eyes as these three goofy hirsutes headbanged their mighty coifs to testosterrific thunder.
Man, I
loved that summer.
Which brings us, ultimately, to Wolfmother, a young, furry Australian quartet that has no interest in (1) subtlety, (2) modesty, or (3) anything created after 1973 — or whenever Zeppelin made that deal with the devil. Tor and Fruta would have loved ’em!
Wolfmother’s 2005 self-titled debut, featuring the hit
Woman, was one of the best albums of that year; sophomore disc
Cosmic Egg, released just this week, might be even better. It’s heavy, metallic and utterly ridiculous, but it has more shimmery sheen than the inaugural disc. The layered (and layered again) guitar parts come in industrial sizes. A stoner organ swells with B-movie drama. And the drums go from hard to harder — even on the ballads. First single
New Moon Rising is a howler’s delight, with cascading power riffs, schizoid rhythm and lyrics that revolve around busty mystics, a favorite Wolfmother topic (“She don’t mind / She got the time / I see the new moon rising”).
The only member of Wolfmother you really need to know is Andrew Stockdale, 33, who's maniacal, randy and topped by an enormous shag of hair that generates gravitional pull. He’s chasing that great, groovy endless summer, too. As well as writing and playing, Stockdale takes the lead vocals, banshee-wailing not unlike Robert Plant’s snotty kid brother. The randy fantasy
White Feather (presumably about having sex with a busty mystic) and
In the Morning (presumably about having breakfast with a busty mystic) lean closer to “radio ready” than Wolfmother’s last batch of complex sludge — that is, if you could consider the Beatles’
Me and My Monkey “radio ready.”
Cosmic Egg reminds me of the hazy old days, of Norwegian summers and beyond, when our hair was long and our libidos were going full tilt boogie. It reminds me of Trine and Tor and Fruta and that awesomely expanding head of curly locks I grew in the summer of ’87. I’m not sure if I can still muster a killer ’do like that, but I’ll say this: The new Wolfmother album makes me want to try.
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