Church Mouth


"Sell me, I'm a skeptical boy" are the opening lyrics on Church Mouth the new electric soul craft from Portugal The Man, an arresting Alaskan avalanche whose singer John Gourley squeals like a falsetto foot between the thighs, escalating past the stairway to Robert Plant's heaven, shooting a substantially intensified load that only the mouth of Mariah Carey could blow.


In 2002, three strangers to the sun formed Anatomy Of A Ghost which vanished shortly after, forcing the pale snow shovelers to relocate to the more artistically nurturing city of Portland and inhabit the body of Portugal The Man. The arctic cools, whose birthplace was purchased from the Ruskies in 1867 for a mere $7 million, released their debut You Vultures! in 2006 on Fearless Records, and will up follow that frigid beast on July 24 with the release of Church Mouth, a towering iceberg with cumbersome guitars and revered spirit of esoteric proportions.

As for the band name, well, pot is legal in Alaska. Yes, and Gourley did at some point, plan on penning nostalgic ink about his father and memories, for a dream that may still become a novel called "The Man." And of course you remember Portugal as the westernmost country of Europe, bordered by Spain and the Atlantic Ocean.

There isn't one alarm clock snooze maker in this entire house that Portugal The Man built, as it's thumps and grinds like an all night whorehouse, rattling the roof with rambunctious drums, tumultuous screams, with a voluptuous clobber of distinct noise so orgasmic that even deaf porno actors take notice.

"Church Mouth" is an icky thump like White Stripes with a vicious streak like Wolfmother being crashed down on by the burning flames of Led Zeppelin. "Sugar Cinnamon" is nothing like its sucrose Manchester sister Sally, although it tastes just as sweet, with a constant smattering of drums, cymbals, claps, that make the entire event feel like a Sunday morning church service on the eroded banks of the Mississippi.

"My Mind" brightens up the album's swarthiness with a copacetic change of synthesized sensations that bang on like Zero 7, Portishead, or Massive Attack/Primal Scream, which conflict and confuses as much as it cures the album's aggression, if only for a few amiable moments.

"The Bottom" is the favorite son of this family of cretins, with its colossal mid-song crash, perfectly placed in the breast pocket of this devastating rocket, that continues to penetrate the Milky Way with a disaster immeasurable by even our planet's most expensive computers.

Church Mouth should be played in schools so children around the world can learn the art of diversification, while smashing their young brains with this thundering example of how to effectively agglomerate a priceless piece of audio gold. Honestly though, like for serious reals, I still think Gourley is a chick singer, but I also thought that Brody Dalle from The Distillers was a DUDE, am I wrong?

"Church Mouth"





"The Bottom"





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Church Mouth