Neon Blonde, Chandeliers in the Savannah

I’ve got a soft spot for Seattle noisemakers the Blood Brothers, it’s true. Unlike a lot of their fellow travelers in the noise-rock arena, they always seemed to hang onto to some semblance of a groove, and vocalist Johnny Whitney always staggered relatively close to comprehensibility. Out of that whole scene, they’re one of the few I can listen to with any kind of regularity.

Of course, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to listen — the Brothers may be slightly more better-put-together than some, but repeated listens are still somewhat akin to being beaten on the head with a lead pipe. For that reason, I was immediately eager to hear Chandeliers in the Savannah, the product of a “side project” by Brothers Whitney and drummer Mark Gajadhar (they put out the Headlines EP earlier this past year, but this is the first full-length), wondering if maybe it would serve as the missing link between actual accessibility and Blood Brothers insanity. And it is. Kinda.

There’s certainly a lot of “quieter” moments here, alongside real-live melodies (first single “Headlines”) and seasick pianos (“Crystal Beaches Never Turned Me On”), and there’s a far clearer sense of structure to the actual songs, but at heart these guys are the same twisted, strange creatures they’ve been all along. The album kickstarts with the raw garage-stomp of “Black Cactus Killers,” which brings to mind Houston’s own Fatal Flying Guilloteens (Whitney’s falsetto shriek, in particular, reminds me of Guilloteen Shawn Adolph’s shredded-throat howling) and which incorporates guitars that occasionally step just to the left of where my ear thinks they’re supposed to be — the effect is kind of unsettling.

Throughout, Whitney comes off like an alternate-reality version of David Bowie if he’d started smoking crack rather than getting hooked on coke (“Chandeliers and Vines”), while Gajadhar manages to just barely hold things together (especially on “New Detroit,” which literally makes my head hurt, and “Princess Skullface Sings,” which could probably induce seizures if played loud enough). Gajadhar deserves most of the credit for the album’s sound, to be honest — Whitney’s pseudo-Freddie Mercury stylings are intriguing, but it’s the slinky beats and cyberfunk grooves (“The Future is a Mesh Stallion”) that really make the show. Samba rhythms saunter in and out, the programmed drums practically scream for finger-pointing disco, and the taut balance between craziness and processed funk makes the whole mess feel paranoiac.

This may not be quite the mess of noise these guys generally make, but that doesn’t mean it’s not just as bizarre. For proof, see tracks like “Dead Mellotron,” where Whitney’s multitracked, sing-songy caterwaul sounds like a tribe of Oompa-Loompas gone feral — the song’s strange as hell, but it still flows, somehow. This is some truly damaged, whacked-out shit; I can hardly believe I like it.