Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
For some people, they just can't wait to do something different, to be a bit of a different person. They're tired of being stuck walking in the same footprints that they've been making for what seems like ages now. It's the path that the farmyard animals make to the house for their dinners, worn raw into the lawn - a squiggly, circuitous and illogically random trail from one bigger place, funneling them to somewhere more specific. It's what they follow, no matter what the weather conditions are, without even thinking about it.
Georgia's Gringo Star are our favorite rock and roll equivalents. We hope that they never change any of their steps. We would like for them to blindly follow the tracks that they've already led, making the kind of rock and roll that never gets old, but is mostly from an olden time, when it was young. They write about love and little else. They write about it from the insides of dirty closes, from within earshot of their vinyl record collection - one informing the other and vice versa. They write about love and women in the way that romantics do, with stars in their eyes and hard-ons in their pants. There's nothing wrong with any of it. It's just being honest men. It's looking at love from the point of view that it's about the most mysterious thing out there, the most aggravating thing that anyone can get messed up in.
They've not figured much out over their handful of records - one of which seems to come out every year or less than a year, the kind of output that the Stones, the Beatles and anyone worth their salt were doing in the 1960s. The women are as feisty as the holes-in-the-bottoms-of-their-shoes garage rock that the Gringo Star boys can't help but churn out. They'll admit to you that they're not at all trying to reinvent the wheel because wheels work. They have set out solely to create music that reminds us of something else, of women past, of poorer, empty pocket days and of the sounds that we've all internally immortalized as the top of the heap.