- Alex Maas (far right) ponders how a quintet can have six musicians.
Although they've been tagged shoegazers, the Angels' arid, sunbaked whirr differs from the Jesus & Mary Chain's ringing walls of stereo chorus as well as My Bloody Valentine's overdriven distortion. Their murky buzz doesn't cop dream-pop's fierce sensory overload; it's about the deep groove and stoned, psychedelic sway, echoing Spacemen 3 and, closer to home, the 13th Floor Elevators.
It's a well-articulated vision right down to the album art for the band's full-length debut, Passover: The group's name and album title ripple in concentrically overlapping black lines. Simple in design, it's nonetheless incredibly evocative, essentially invoking their musical approach -- wave after wave crashing at the foot of the listener.
The quintet takes its name from the Velvet Underground's "The Black Angel's Death Song," a noisy, droning paean that's a clear antecedent to these modern-day Angels. Hell, they even have a woman drummer playing a simple kit, like Maureen Tucker -- and they're unabashed about it.
"We've always liked the idea of having a female drummer just because the Velvet Underground had one," says singer-bassist Alex Maas from the Austin pad that four Angels share. "We went through, like, 20 male drummers, and they were all trying to do stuff that was ridiculous. Their kits were too big, and they listened to too much Guns N' Roses. But Stephanie [Bailey], while she listened to Guns N' Roses, was able to do stuff with our sound that was conducive and create a tribal kind of sound."
Indeed, the expansive, slow-burning nature of their songs gives them a trancelike quality that induces you to rock and throb in time with the sturdy hum. "Whenever we play the music, it's definitely like a spiritual thing for us," explains Maas. "It's our outlet for tons of emotions that we might not get to express day to day."
The band formed around Maas and guitarist Christian Bland a little over three years ago, but its history goes back even further. Bland and Maas were friends in junior high and reconnected after college. "As kids, we would hang out, and we always had this creative energy that always bounced off each other, you know? As far as conversation and even writing songs," says Maas.
When Bland moved back to Austin from Florida to get his master's, Maas couldn't help but think of those old days. They got together one night, and the rest is history. "I brought my digital recorder over, and we wrote and recorded like eight or nine songs that night. It was awesome, and I was like, 'It's too easy,'" recalls Maas.
Perhaps one key to their fruitful writing partnership is their different personalities. For one thing, Bland's a preacher's kid; his dad was Maas' pastor. "He's got a graphic design background. I went to school for business management. We handle stress different ways," says Maas. "It's weird, because we communicate so well through music."
They're prolific writers with a large catalog of finished and half-finished songs. For Passover, they went into the studio with 15 tracks before culling down to 10. In fact, they've already tracked 14 more songs for the next album (some of which will go toward a split with Brightback Morning Light). Six of the songs were just added during the week off between tour dates.
"We've got tons of songs," complains Maas. "It's a pain in the ass to figure out which ones we want to record. It's not a fight, but totally a long debate and discussion."
Even the album's sinister reverberations were something they talked about. The haunting overtone, for one, was a conscious choice.
"We just went for evil -- an evil tone. If it wasn't evil -- if we didn't look at each other -- it didn't make the cut. We'll get a lot of tones where we'll be, 'It's just too happy and too frilly.' It has to fall into a certain category, and I can't even tell you what that is," admits Maas. "We did a lot of trial and error."
Passover's tone dovetails nicely with the dark political imagery and lyrics. Songs such as "Young Men Dead" and the hidden track, calling for us to get out of "The Iraq War," are direct, overt appeals, while others -- "Empire," "The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven," and "Call to Arms" -- speak more generally to the malaise and selfishness of the times.
"There's probably a lot of subconscious paranoia for one -- all the stuff that's going on and the fact that there's still this kind of cold war going on," says Maas. Some songs -- "The First Vietnamese War" for example -- just came out of the guitar tones Bland was making, which spurred images of pontoon boats in the Mekong Delta (while faintly echoing the twisted instrumental haze of Hendrix's "Machine Gun").
"We try not to be over the top with [the politics] -- not too preachy about it. And that's kind of our way to do it -- just doing images," says Maas. "It's a lot easier for us to write the lyrics to a song than to come up with a cool tone or instrumental sound. So it's surprising more people aren't talking about this, because it is so easy."
Most of us couldn't write a hook or vocal to save our lives, but the war is going down before our very eyes, and that's probably the most direct and honest inspiration a musician can have these days. It's a connection to a larger whole -- a shared experience to which we all can relate in some way. It's a suggestion that life is about more than just losing yourself in the throb of an open chord; it's also about bearing witness.