The Futants
(Aerosol)
Anyone who grew up listening to radio in the Seventies remembers the mellowtone, Rhodes piano-driven aura of progressive jazz and the cool uncle types who played it in the background at their bachelor pads to trick girls into thinking they were with the program. Now imagine a band overlaying this sound with mood-killing bleats and squawks of dadaist-inspired tomfoolery. Yes, confounding expectations is what Austin’s Futants are all about, and their debut CD issues forth like a playful raspberry in the face of convention. “If I Only Had a Radio” has the Rhodes give way almost immediately to a weird march-into-hell vibe that would be the perfect soundtrack of a short student film illuminating the mundane horrors of consumer culture. “The Diligent Brick” and “Kid on the Hill” veer closer to Morphine territory with sinister, bottom-feeding reeds right up in the mix, while “Flashing Swords and Scimitars” comes off like the theme of an Old Country game show produced on public access. The Futants’ only vocal turn comes on “Backspackle,” a whimsical song about a bicycle rear tire’s propensity for leaving your back spackled with mud. Hearing someone singing about backspackle after 10 instrumentals may come as a surprise to Uncle Lothario, but mavens of aural mania won’t mind a bit.
This article appears in September 8 • 2000.
