The Apes

A few months ago, a man was severely mauled by two chimpanzees at an animal sanctuary while he and his wife were visiting another chimp that was removed from their Los Angeles home years before. They were bringing the estranged chimp a birthday cake when two chimps in an adjacent cage escaped and attacked him, chewing off most of his face and ripping off his testicles and a foot. The chimpanzee can be a very jealous creature, especially when it comes to buttercream frosting. The Apes, however, are a different story. This Brooklyn by way of D.C. quartet won’t rip your balls off in a frenzied show of territorial aggression, but don’t let that be a deal breaker. Their most recent Birdman disc, Baba’s Mountain, pounds out a guitarless mist of sweaty organs, primal bass, and singer Paul Weil’s chest-beating Jim Morrison impression. These Apes speak in a language of barely controlled howls, grunts, and cosmic shout, shout, let it all out. The Apes are already halfway down the valley and into the urban sprawl, with an eight-minute drum solo, to boot! – Audra Schroeder

This article appears in August 5 • 2005.

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Greg Beets was born in Lubbock on the day Richard Nixon was elected president. He has covered music for the Chronicle since 1992, writing about everyone from Roky Erickson to Yanni. Beets has also written for Billboard,Uncut, Blurt, Elmore, and Pop Culture Press. Before his digestive tract cried uncle, he co-published Hey! Hey! Buffet!, an award-winning fanzine about all-you-can-eat buffets.

San Francisco native Raoul Hernandez crossed the border into Texas on July 2, 1992, and began writing about music for the Chronicle that fall, debuting with an album review of Keith Richards’ Main Offender. By virtue of local show previews – first “Recommendeds,” now calendar picks – his writing’s appeared in almost every issue since 1993.