Anton Newcombe isn't your run-of-the-mill cult figure.
Fact is, he's not very adept at keeping a following - just ask one of the several dozen would-be disciples to play in, and summarily quit, his '60s revivalist collective The Brian Jonestown Massacre.
Those who've seen the death-by-psychedelia "DiG!" documentary know that this guy simply spends too much time threatening violence to lull anyone into a false sense of security.
His songs are a different matter.
The Massacre's 13th studio album, "My Bloody Underground," thrives on a straightforward formula: lay down a devastatingly hypnotic groove. Sustain groove. Repeat.
It's a simple ploy, but oh-so-effective.
Opener "Dropping Bombs on the Whitehouse" introduces the main ingredients - four or five chords, an Eastern tinge, obscenely offensive mumbling. A mesmerizing slab of musical genius, it will unfortunately land Newcombe on the FBI watch list.
The belly of the album - more groove, a little piano - plays like a stroll through the streets of Haight-Ashbury. It's a mellow high crashed only by the jarring riffs of the dangerously intense "Golden Frost." The spiritual sibling to Primal Scream's "Accelerator," the tune is so good that Newcombe could shout Icelandic insults throughout its flawlessly rocking duration and still not ruin it.
It's a good thing, too, because that's exactly what he does.
"Auto-Matic- … for the People" nearly matches this track in terms of sheer sinister force. The noise-jam's drowned out screaming only enhances the menacing rhythm. When the apocalypse nears, this is the song that will herald its coming.
And for many that's a disconcerting notion, which brings us back to Newcombe's dilemma.
He and his band exist in an unsettling parallel universe, one without boundaries, governed only by sound and guitar.
To those who concern themselves with worldly matters, reality in particular, Newcombe's cultish appeal isn't especially attractive.
The tunes, on the other hand, will have you slurping Kool-Aid.
