Tonight: John Wesley Coleman III, Rayon Beach at The Horned Hand

Wednesday, August 3rd, 2011, 2:30 pm by Ben Salmon

The thing I love about The Horned Hand — the new art/retail/music space on Colorado Avenue in Bend (catch up here and here) — is that it’s … well, it’s weird.

It’s weird in a cool way, with hanging taxidermy watching your every move, funky furniture strewn about, unsettling films projected on the wall. It feels like a cozy dive in Twin Peaks, Wash., or as operator Wesley Ladd once told me, a Satanic T.G.I. Friday’s. (Is there any other kind?)

In its first few weeks, The Horned Hand has hosted a number of solid bands, but tonight brings the first show that, in my opinion, really matches the place’s off-center vibe. Tonight, Austin, Texas “trash poet,” garage rocker John Wesley Coleman III stops in, along with opening act Rayon Beach.

Coleman’s music is a warped and woozy take on psychedelic garage-stomp, where sneakily catchy pop songs are fuzzed up and scuzzed up and veiled in an unscrubbable haze of lo-fi grit. It’s like the Nuggets box set doused itself in skunky old sweet tea and then rolled around in a gutter for days.

And I think it’s good stuff. Certainly, if it’s good enough for Goner Records, it’s good enough for you. Here are a few videos, followed by a bit about Rayon Beach.

Rayon Beach is in the same vein: noisy, psychedelic punk from Austin. Here’s what their label, HoZac Records, has to say, which is better than whatever I would say:

Rayon Beach are one of the most head-blasting, endorphin-rushing musical anomalies we’ve stumbled across in a while, and these six tracks of exotic punk psychedelia are just what the doctor ordered. Located terrestrially in Austin, TX but borne of outer limits only imagined by acid casualties trying to find where Syd Barrett lives, Rayon Beach take us on an incredible ride through surreal sound-scapes and off-center arrangements, and pull it all together under a tight black umbrella, soaked in afterbirth and glowing like weird moon rocks. With aural slices so scrappy and inspirational, they effortlessly conjoin shards of obscure noise, not unlike the uncategorizable brilliance of The Deviants, Swell Maps, and The Soft Boys, in that inescapable running of the primal Pink Floyd nuance through the chainsaw-style state of mind.

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