We are giving away a pair of tickets to Ty Segall and White Fence @ Revolution Hall on October 6 . To win, comment on this post why you’d like to attend. Winner will be drawn and emailed Monday, October 1.
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Ty Segall and White Fence
October 6, 2018
All Ages | Doors 8 p.m., Show 9 p.m. | $28 ADV / $30 DOS
1300 SE Stark St., Portland, OR
Garage-rock wunderkind Ty Segall’s collaborative album with Tim Presley of White Fence is an absorbing maze of detours. They’re the sort of people who seemingly enjoy pulling support beams out of songs to see how they hop along without them.
Garage-rock’s secret recipe has always been one part loving memory to two parts imperfect recall. The best stuff misremembers what it enshrines, producing a jarring little chamber of echoes that plays upon beloved memories while confusing them– I love this song/wait, is this how this song goes? Ty Segall and White Fence’s Tim Presley are masters of garage-rock’s indirection game; their collaborative album, Hair, is an absorbing, bleary maze of detours and red herrings. To hear them steer their demented little dune buggy through rock history is not unlike partaking in the American history lessons that Abe Simpson pieced together “mostly through sugar packets”: All the familiar players are here, but they’re acting funny.
The songs they write together — Segall on drums and rhythm guitar, Presley on bass and lead– are not anthems. They are puzzles built from rock-music parts, and you don’t pump your fist to a puzzle. But they are peculiarly absorbing, and they only grow more so with repeated listening. In every song, there’s a jump, an oomph, a missing-reel moment, in which a sudden left turn devours a song whole or a stray thread bumps everything off the designed course. The opener, “Time”, eases its way into a sweetly evocative folk-rock strum, pitched so accurately you get instantly lost trying to track it: something from George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass, maybe? But then, in its last minute, the song drops into a forceful blurt of fuzz guitars so abruptly that its tendons nearly snap. It’s a bracing reminder that you are not, in fact, listening to George Harrison.