You ever heard what a bass sounds like when it’s trying to gnaw at your fucking ears?
You ever heard a guitar and keys riff on the same riff at the same fucking time and have the riff turn into this head nodding, neck yanking riff that ends up combining the entire band together on one riff so that when the guitar that was once riffing turns around and just fucking murders a riffy guitar solo that sounds like a cobra raping a Weber grill?
I’M ONLY TALKING ABOUT THE FIRST SONG DOOT. DOOT. Seriously.
Zechs Marquise have completely dominated my instrumental music cravings with an ethereal desert traipse through the semen soaked sands of my subconscious, and I’m fucking loving it. As progressive and dynamic as an Omar Rodriguez-Lopez album, but with a focused band direction that allows the air drummer in all of us the chance to sit in the pocket and fucking groove.
Every direction you turn with this as the soundtrack turns into a Spaghetti Western where the protagonist is running at something rather than fleeing like a fucking bitch. Getting Paid feels like you’re the one doing the chasing, with intricate but accessible guitar mastery as your snakeskin boots, an insane attack of the synth variety as your custom stitched finger gun holsters, a bass guitar representing the palpitations of your enemy’s heart, and a drum led groove so fucking thick I’d both fear and envy it if I had to shower next to it.
Zechs Marquise, and this fucking master-ass monstrosity of an album titled Getting Paid, is the fucking sober confidence to kick down cacti in musical form. I’ve waited forever to feel comfortable in these fleece chaps, these houndstooth ugg boots, and this woodland camouflage framed pair of wrap around imitation Oakleys.
Thank you Zechs Marquise.
By: Joel Frieders