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Psychic Ills take their musical cues from a variety of like-minded bands, including Spacemen Three, Sonic Youth, and the Jesus and Mary Chain. Their sound is submerged in swathes of echo, and they make a virtue of the drone. But though they approach each song the same, each sounds unique: "I Knew My Name" combines a Can-like rhythm with psychedelic guitars and shifts time signatures halfway through, while "Witchcraft Breaker" blends ring modulator, synthesizer, and hippie percussion in a haze of electronic ambience. Vocals are intentionally indecipherable, but, as the point here is to lose yourself in an all-enveloping noise, it really doesn't matter.
Audio Mixer: Charles Burst.
Recording information: Sea Side Lounge.
Photographer: Brian Tamborello.
Psychic Ills: Tom Gluibizzi, Elizabeth Hart, Brian Tamborello, Tres Warren.
Personnel: Jesse Trbovich (horns).
Magnet (p.110) - "[I]t's final track 'Another Day, Another Night' that scales the energy being erected for the last half hour, completing a masterpiece of controlled squall and sonic catharsis."
The Wire (p.68) - "[They] set their stall somewhere between oceanic guitar abstraction and the brittle crunch of psychedelic garage rock, feeding their extended chugging jams through a thick fog of fuzz." Dins Review
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The Trews, The Whole Trews And Nothing But The TrewsPronunciation - troozEtymology - Scottish Gaelic Date - Circa 1568Tight-fitting tartan trousers typically worn in the Scottish HighlandsRecent Accomplishments & Awards:Group of the Year at the 2005 East Coast Music AwardsFavorite Album at the 2005 Canadian Independent Music AwardsBest New Rock Group at the 2005 Canadian Music Radio Awards "Not Ready To Go" became the #1 Most Played Rock Song at Canadian Rock Radio in 2004Nominations for New Group of the Year & Single of the Year ("Not Ready to Go") at the 2004 Canadian Juno Awards (Canada's version of The Grammys)The Trews are:Colin MacDonald (Vocals/Guitar)John-Angus MacDonald (Lead Guitar/Vocals)Jack Syperek (Bass/Vocals)Sean Dalton (Drums/Vocals)Biography:Niagara Falls is an unnecessary city situated at the fundum of Canada's southern border. It has, over the years, produced a tragic assortment of killers, scam artists, and petty-thieves - as well as providing, for most tourists, a perfect contrast between the majesty of nature let loose and the ignominy of bad-taste let-looser. This is also the city that the Trews call home, in its thriving crack district, where demented rats sometimes three feet in length feast on the cadavers of American tourists unprepared for the potency of Canadian narcotics.They are Niagara's second wonder.Jesus Christ. The Trews piss me right off. For one thing they're younger than everyone else I know and for another they don't appreciate how much God loves them. While the rest of us are consumed with earthly troubles like eating, sleeping, and fixing our credit history - the Trews blithely fart about, dripping talent and blowing the rest of us off the stage. How many girlfriends do they have to steal before somebody finally takes a machine gun to these feckless little satyrs? What proof does one need that the universe is a hostile, random and brutish place, other than four saucer-eyed and clueless pixies behaving as if it isn't - and getting away with it.Take singer and keyboardist Colin, for instance - he's like a fairy-tale character...or a magical eunuch who floats in and out some somnambulant trance to unleash a voice marked by its fathomless beauty and sense of joy. His band-mates are apparently afraid to look at him for too long, lest his spooky gifts evaporate or worse, kill them.Meanwhile, John-Angus MacDonald wields his guitar with the certainty that it will at least save his life and at most save the world itself. In a corrupt and savage century it is incumbent on each and every one of us, striving towards any kind of rationality while the air around us conspires to bring death and sorrow, to protect, cherish and foster John-Angus MacDonald. His kind is rarer than miracles.Bassist Jack Syperek is like a forty-foot boner squeezed into Montgomery Clift's haircut. He plays like a sixty-minute man and acts like a homeless and barely sentient enigma who can chew the glass off a long-neck beer in a bar fight. Or a dime-a-dance kinda pretty boy all lost and beautiful, out of some anthropological survey of Times Square back in ...
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