“Origin & Tectonics”
No Doctors
Joseph S. Harrington

Y’ meet a lotta interesting people in San Francisco—just walkin’ up the street you could run into Joel Gion or Craig Ventresco. You could also run into midwest transplants No Doctors (Chauncey Chaumpers: voice, guitar, piano; Elvis S DeMorrow: guitar, bass, voice; Cansafis Foote: saxophone, voice; Mr Brians: drums, voice) as Tony Millionaire, the man w/ the biggest dick in San Francisco, did one day. From there—well, after they all sucked it that is—it was a short step to getting the esteemed “Maakies” master to draw the cover of THIS, their new alb (and obviously the shit you’re holding in your hands is capable of drawing doodles on your skull in its eye-popping excellence!) But that’s only one part of the deal w/ the aptly-named Origin and Tectonics—the music is the other half, and this is the Docs’ most fully-realized work yet. They start right out w/ tacos blazin’ on “Yerba Buena” which tackles the immigration issue by finally bringing fucking ELECTRICITY south o’ the border. A prairie dog’s eyeview from the faux “border” of the meat packing district. This is the Motown—or is that Mobtown?—“dance” mix. And don’t think these guys don’t have it in them to provoke jigging faster than a bottle of Carlo Rossi at a Swamp Witch Revival recording session. “Lost in a Fog” is a full-blown blare that honks from the same honky heartland that produced the E Street Band and Asbury Jukes. And see if you can resist jigging to the Beefheart/Devo/Same Band gouge of the “Birdman & Snakearms” (a modern-day ROCK ANTHEM complete w/ “eclectic” tinkles of triangle!) True to its enthno-inspired name, “Yardin” sounds like something the Sun City Girls wouldn’t disown. Double-entendre’d meanings go a long way in this wild-eyed celebration of agrarian pursuits that brings to mind the words of Anthony Bourdain: “I like farming communities everywhere. We share a certain world view over a host of burning issues.” The plaintive ballywhack of the sea chantey “For You” is as “earnest” as a case of the piles (featuring additional acoustic frinka-plinker from Mr. Brians). Another perfect examp o’ the Doctors’ weird artistry is the Velvet Monkey-delic peel of “Invisible Clopes” where Beefheart and the Magic Band frolic on the desert with Ornette Coleman. Good ol’ Van Vliet himself would tell you that the PLANTS on the desert are the cause of the ELECTRICITY. “Tunin’ the Sundial” ANSWERS the question while setting the controls for the heart of the sun. Triceratopsian stomp (and you KNOW where the horn is going!) Horns? Did someone say horns? Oh yeah, No Doctors is JAZZ (altho’ less so this time around unless Borbetomagus is also “jazz”). Really these guys are just like a great amalgam of all the major movements in avant-garde music over the past thirty years. At times they remind me of the VoidOids two-stepping over a field of burning American flags. One thing’s for sure—the Docs have a lot more than stethoscopes and heart pills in their seedy little leather MD’s bags. It’s what’s known as a REMEDY—be it the dancing fandangos of “Lost in a Fog” or the Zappa/Soft Machine live-at-the-Albert-Hall effects of “Man’s Eternal Quest for Salty Pleasure.” Here, and in other places, they don’t turn their backs on Steely Dan, and neither should you. Even though they have names like Chauncey and Elvis, they’re regular ol’ greasemonkeys who even like heavy metal. On “AAO,” their metallic opus, the guitars actually STUTTER like all great heavy-mental, from the Troggs’ “Feels Like a Woman” to the immortal Budgie. Play it between a slice of Ocean and the Sword. Then there’s “In an Opal”: beautiful intro w/ vocal genius to rival the great masters: Gibby, Lemmy, Joey and of course Danzig. Wrangling guitar, like someone burned the American flag emblem off of Neil Young’s dusty blue jeans while he was wearin’ ‘em. Clowns like the Hold Steady (and other Americana slobs) could really learn a thing or two from these guys. Best use of horns n’ grunge since Lou Reed’s underrated Street Hassle. These guys are the Duke Ellingtons of raunch. This is the funky-junkie-punky-monkey-flunky opus of the season. You don’t need a doctor. You don’t even need viagra. Take up thy stethoscope and walk.

Joe S. Harrington
Kapital Ink
P.O. Box 1098
Portland ME 04101