The Monks -- Black Monk Time

Because of cd-discounter's treachery, my goal of subsuming myself in mid-sixties garage rock was delayed by a month (I got my refund today, and promptly re-ordered The Sonics from a seller I know to be trustworthy). But my dissatisfaction is minimized, because now it's Big Time, it's Hop Time, it's Monk Time!

Picture this: five army draftees stationed in Germany in 1965, sick of the cutesy melodies of the Beatles and their clones. One guys plays guitar and sings, one guy drums, one guy plays bass. So far, so good. The fourth guy plays an organ. Interesting, but not too interesting. Ray Manzarek did that for the Doors, and several bands in the sixties messed with that. The catch is the fifth guy. He plays banjo, with a microphone stuffed in it. Then they all give themselves tonsures -- the reverse mohawk that's been the symbol of the monastic lifestyle since the Dark Ages -- and wear black gowns with white hangman's nooses.

Exactly.

Some folk call the Monks the first punk band, which is taking it a bit far to me. These guys have the abrasiveness, the repeated riffs, the joy in being nasty, but they're missing the crucial element: speed. Granted, the Velvets didn't play all that fast either. It's a conundrum best left to the individual listener.

This stuff is truly demented. The songs lurch along like broken machinery, tearing themselves apart in their bumping fury. My favorite track would have to be "I Hate You," which highlights the band's sense of humor. It's a simple joke, but I haven't seemed to get tired of it yet. Nor of the Monks. Bring it on, Sonics.