If the 90s taught us anything, it’s that we
need bands like Forget Cassettes. In the midst of a
scene in which raw garage sparseness is the most commonly
tapped access to any presumed sense of “authenticity,” it’s
refreshing to find a rock band whose relatively hi-fi
polish fits like an Isotoner and blackens nails both
of fingers and the would-be coffin of today’s
icy approach to angst in rock music. What’s more,
while angst is supposedly as inherent to alt-rock as
love is to pop and bravado is to hip-hop, to get it
right is still no small feat. Like a punch to the disaffected
face of Jack White, Beth Cameron’s fiery, clenched-fist
vocals and calculated guitar blitz catapults Salt straight
through our detached commercial scenes with a dead-on
earnestness not seen since Doc Martin’s stock
was sent through the roof by the underground’s
revolt against hair bands. Salt is a driven,
hard-rockin’ affair whose deftness of songwriting,
while always impressive, only narrowly averts mainstream
accessibility with its flashes of exceptional inspiration
amid songs too lengthy for mass media either way.
FC
stretches the brooding Tool/Helmet spectrum in some
surprising directions, such as in “Lonely Does
It,” which hints at influences as varied as Slint
and early Alice In Chains while recalling, just for
a second, in an anomalous passage of vox harmonies,
Genesis. Even the almost danceable weak point “My
Maraschino” saves itself with a mid-song moment
of deconstruction, and then slowing again towards the
end of its sprawling seven minutes, as if to indicate
that any so perky moment is inherently fleeting. FC’s Salt reminds
us how bands like Tool and Helmet ever warranted their
fifteen minutes, and how if there’s any space
left in the dark heart of mainstream rock for actual
emotional authenticity, Forget Cassettes deserves at
least as much, if not a thousand times more.
Favorite: Track 1 “Venis On ”
Steve Gunn is a hard-boiled suburban New Yorker with
a PhD in rockology and the propensity to point with
full-throttle moxie up to his ears and unflinchingly
declare, “Hey! These things ain’t garbage
cans, y’know!” sisterray@myway.com