Pure Dumb Fun
Turbo Fruits debut their vibrant rock ’n’ roll
by Andrew J. Smithson
Clearly, being in Be Your Own Pet isn’t quite as taxing as it looks. Being all hyped up and on the road for the better part of the past year would leave most of us a little bit buggy, not to mention reluctant to tumble haphazardly into a drum kit. We might want to opt for a short turbo-nap instead and, who knows, maybe consider eating something.
But for Jonas Stein, things look a bit different than for the rest of us. Having music-biz parents with what must be very hip vintage record collections probably contributes to his savvy, but even so, all of those BYOP kids are uncommonly prolific. Anxious no doubt to prove himself as more than just another pretty mess of tousled hair, Stein has promptly taken his shot at playing the lead. With boogie-punk trio Turbo Fruits, he’s backed by fellow-BYOP drummer John Eatherly and a mysterious, rangy bassist called Turbo Max. Together in recent live showings, they have displayed an immediate potency, the certain resonance of “it” essential for vibrant rock ’n’ roll records but so often lost in translation to tape.
The self-titled debut isn’t nearly as frenetic as their live incarnation, short as it is on sweaty physicality, but you can almost see the affected disaffection, if not the pogoing teenyboppers. It sounds as if they didn’t fuss over the actual recordings much. By and large, they didn’t tarry over the songs themselves, either, but that’s hardly the point.
By way of introduction, “No Drugs to Use” is marble-mouthed, Ramones-style slacker pop, infectious and giddy. Right behind it comes “Murder,” packing a gut-level stomp worthy of its “I got away with, I got away with murder, murder, murder...” refrain. Songs are almost exclusively fast, Eatherly pouncing on every beat like he’s got somewhere to be in under three minutes. In fact, 12 of the 15 tracks here top out below that mark, and five of them clock in at under two. “Volcano” has got to be the fleetest dope-smoking anthem in that genre’s endlessly indistinct anthology. It’s pure, dumb fun, and like most of the record, it gathers a substantial momentum before burning out abruptly, well before it hits four minutes and 20 seconds.
Turbo Fruits positively drips of low-rent glam, even ripping off T. Rex at one point (“The Run Around”) to outstanding effect. “Tennessee, Baby” seemingly pays homage to home, and is as inviting an advert for our state as there has been in quite some time, in that it in no way involves people dancing in synchronized lines. Lyrical concerns, though, are for the most part visceral: girls, sex, smoking dope. Although it’s not hard to interpret “Fight This!” as muddled war protest (“We can fight this violence”), it may well be about battling a sinus infection (“My sinuses are full of shit”), or it could be both (“I got red, white, and blue in my spit”). It doesn’t really make much difference, confusing doggerel though it is, because the exuberance of youth continually belies its own awkwardness. Still, the listener is left with the impression of a band too young to be what they appear, but too talented and driven to stay that way for long.
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