Rating: NNNN
Too often these hombres who try passing themselves off as psych artists play like they’ve only ever heard their dads’ Electric Prunes and Norman Greenbaum records. Piss off, I say, and leave more room on the shelves for uncompromisingly demented indulgences like the Dins disc by the Psychic Ills. Clearly, this sort of lazy-hazy Eastern-tinged bombast, documented with the appropriate levels of echo and a sprinkling of fairy dust by Charles Burst (of Black Dice infamy), is not the work of career-minded guitar school grads angling for a spot on the next Widespread Panic tour. It sounds more like the basement foolery of four hairy shut-ins who are convinced that releasing Dins will get them a contract with Houston’s International Artists so they can partake in some peyote rituals with Roky Erickson – it’s that good.
