The Patsys 

Saturday, August 28; Frederick's Music Lounge

Like most garage bands worth their grease, the Patsys dig their vintage gear and vintage yelps and yeahs, but they also attack songs like time-warped double A-sides -- two years together and they've only released singles -- or taunts to Neighborhood Watch to shut their shit down. With a Yardbirdsy guitar snarl and a hellacious drummer, this Columbus, Ohio, foursome cuts trashy go-go grooves with hooks too shiny for punk and too violent for power pop. They write prickly, flaunting kiss-offs, promising never to kill on the first date, brooding over a wedding band getting tighter with every itchy second and tallying betrayals like the devil's CPA. They rock like they want the world yesterday and they want a receipt, even if their sometimes vengeful, sometimes righteous threats mean they're bound to fuck it up further. "If I had a dollar I'd buy this town," bassist Tutti Jackson scoffs, "and spend every nickel just to burn it down." At the precise moment the garage Zeitgeist threatens to stiffen into a Nuggets diorama, the Patsys jar loose that tricky, electric thrill that is rock & roll's toughest secret -- play it like you're making it for the first time.

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