A conundrum wrapped inside a problem shrouded by confusion...the "sounds like" war rages around a new SparkleJet record

The first time I’d heard these guys – about two years back now – I was impressed by how easily they walked the thin-wired triangle between pop, what was then being called alt.country, and good old melodic hard edged rock. Departed guitarist Rich McCulley apparently had much to do with the first two sides of the aforementioned Sparklejet triangle and, seemingly at a creative crossroads with his former band, pretty much took the sounds him into his solid solo aspirations. McCulley’s solo disc left me wondering what on earth Sparklejet could do without his pop/melodic counter punching ability – or if Sparklejet would even survive.

Astonishingly, this record, bar guest, amounts to a brilliant second act - a Lazarus noise of white hot, spastic guitar rock that, ah-hem, is a better record than its predecessor. Give credit to frontman Victor Sotelo, who seems to have wrestled the wheel and steered the Jet straight into a swarm of guitars that press the record further and further into a roaring hard rock/pop amalgam that somehow pulls together its spastic herky-jerk of rhythms, the continuing affection for power(ful) pop, and the edge of disaster spit and sweat energy that could have let the whole thing run away - out of control.

Maybe I’m just being fooled; the production is one that remains gleefully unaware of where things stop and start; songs turn into fragments and fragments to songs. In fact, the whole thing seems like it might just be a series of vignettes fleshed out to give the scenery more texture – and the scenery definitely matters on bar guest, probably more so than any sense of these being "songs". But songs they are, by definition I guess, and they work perfectly in the context of this thing as a long player (lp) – the way records used to do. Sequences, textures, moods, these all matter on this record - and the whole clearly is a different beast than all of its parts.

"Pixies" said a friend who’d been over at my place drinking my beer and smoking up my house. "Bossanova," he added, cigarette wobbling on his bottom lip as he spoke.

"What?" I asked. He looked to fucking content to me.

"The fucking Pixies man. These cats are like the fucking Pixies – write that down in one of your little fucking columns. Do someone a favor for once and just tell the folks what the goddamn band sounds like."

"Sounds Like" reviews having always been a pet peeve of mine (i.e. "The Griffins sound like the Raspberries crossed with Elvis Costello by way of Black Flag" – Huh?!) my friend smirked and took a swallow of his (my) beer.

"Fuck that man – why don’t you right the fucking review then?"

He laughed, and then swallowed more beer.

"Hey," he yelped as he moved toward the kitchen for another beer, "that there sounds like that closing bridge on Bowie and Queen’s "Under Pressure."

I heard it too: "Emilio." Sounded pretty goddamn good.

My friend returned with his beer.

"Sounds good," he mumbled as he popped the beer open. "I dig these guys." He paused. "The Pixies man – I’m telling ya, these guys listen to the goddamn Pixies."

"I get where you’re coming from man, but they don’t sound like the Pixies."

"Maybe to you they don’t, but, man, I’m tellin’ ya, to those of us who aren’t music fucking geeks, these guys sound like the Pixies. Especially the music stuff."

"Okay, I guess I can live with that then. I’ll let everyone know you thought that."

"Hey," he sucked a mouthful of menthol and then knocked it back with a gulp of beer, "thanks man. Just thought I’d give the people a little of the "real" perspective. You, know, for the ones who don’t like your heady, smarty-pants, better-than-you, egghead shit. You know, just a little help from a friend." Laughing, he added, "Just keeping it real."

"I appreciate that man."

He winked, "Anytime."

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