Stubb did not emerge out of London’s heavy underground as a band trying to keep secrets. There was no asking how they did what they did on their 2012 self-titled debut (review here) — it was all right there for the listener to hear. Issued through Superhot Records, Stubb‘s Stubb collected eight tracks of just-varied-enough riff rockers, driven by a dense fuzz and hooky songwriting that unfolded to some later jamminess. As debuts go, the eight-song/35-minute outing was not void of ambition, but it was what it already showcased in its dynamic that made it so enjoyable, whether it was the PG-sleaze of “Soul Mover” and “Scale the Mountain” with its “And I hope I can scale your mountain sometime” chorus and “Hard Hearted Woman” in the classic panacea of British heavy or the opening pusher “Road,” the winding boogie of “Flame” and on and on. Happening concurrent to the beginning stages of a boom in UK heavy fostered by Desertfest in London, Stubb‘s laid-back but still weighted grooves, the interplay on vocals between guitarist Jack Dickinson and bassist/vocalist Peter Holland (who went on to join Elephant Tree) and the solid foundation of the established chemistry between Holland and drummer Chris West from working together in Trippy Wicked and the Cosmic Children of the Knight helped to enrich the songs and give the record all the more personality.

Tempos shift through side A’s four tracks, but the songs are united through the vitality of the performance, the tried and true power trio dynamic that lets Dickinson‘s guitar get playful on “Road” before the more relaxed rollout of “Scale the Mountain.” To contrast, side B starts with the acoustic “Crosses You Bear,” still catchy and deceptively quick-moving in the guitar, but at just over two minutes, it’s enough to efficiently signal the increase in the album’s scope and the departure from the ultra-straightforward shove of Stubb‘s first half. The album was recorded by Tim Cedar of Part Chimp, and though “Road,” “Flame” and “Galloping Horses” had appeared on Stubb‘s Dropout Sessions demo in 2007 — a completely different lineup around Dickinson at the time — they each sounded fresh in their inclusion on Stubb, the latter closing out side B with a stretch past the seven-minute mark that found the band purposefully breaking their own rules in terms of craft, setting up a catchy progression of repeated lines early — “The skies are crimson red,” “Ride on high/Crimson sky” — before turning just about at the halfway point to a broader jam. There’s a stop preceded by West wailing on his snare, and Dickinson‘s guitar returns in standalone fashion to set the stage. Holland and West reenter and by the time they hit 4:30 of the total 7:13, they’re underway and headed outward. Dickinson — who by then has already impressed in terms of soloing on “Road,” “Flame,” “Soul Mover,” the bluesy drift that emerges in “Hard Hearted Woman,” and even the melancholy penultimate inclusion “Crying River,” on which the guitar seems most to sing the chorus on its own — leads the trio’s exodus as Holland and West offer sharp but not overblown groove coinciding. A brief return hinting at the hook finishes out, and Stubb finish out with a crash and a bonk like they hardly got a speck of dirt on them despite kicking up so much on their way.

2012 saw a few landmark releases, from Conan‘s Monnos and Orange Goblin‘s A Eulogy for the Damned in the UK to records from the likes of Om, Neurosis, Kadavar, Greenleaf and Colour Haze elsewhere. Through that glut, Stubb still managed to make an impression with these songs, and again, it wasn’t a mystery why. They represented a next generation of English fuzz that, far from trying to escape the past, embraced it and pushed it forward into a new era. In some ways they were a vanguard of things to come from London’s soon-to-be-flooded underground, but while there was a buzz in the town at that time, it’s friggin’ London. There almost always is. In any case, the fact that Stubb had already toured — they did a UK stint in 2011 with Stone Axe, whose guitarist Tony Reed (soon enough to reignite Mos Generator) would end up mixing and mastering the LP — undoubtedly had an effect on how the songs ultimately came out. They feel tightened and worked through in their construction even eight years after the fact, but maintain their natural base, and the clarity of the recording only helps the organic guitar and bass tones shine through with the drums punctuating underneath. Stubb were the kind of band a kid could listen to and want to start a band, and I suspect a few did along the way.

Stubb toured again with Stone Axe  and Trippy Wicked — Holland and West pulling double-duty — in Europe, and I was fortunate enough to see them in Eindhoven (review here). What a night. What a blast. Hard to think about it now and not get sentimental. In any case, Stubb went on to sign to Ripple Music ahead of the release of their second album, 2014’s Cry of the Ocean (review here), which incorporated more soulful influence and psychedelic range. By then, Tom Fyfe (now also The Brothers Keg) had replaced West on drums and a split with Mos Generator (discussed here) followed in 2015 through the then-emergent-since-collapsed HeviSike Records. Stubb continued to play shows, bringing Tom Hobson in on bass and exploring jammier and more psychedelic textures on the 24-minute 2017 single “Burning Moon” (premiered here). That blowout is the last they were heard from in terms of studio work, though they played Ripplefest in London and have maintained a social media presence all along. The latest is they’re passing ideas back and forth digitally during COVID-19 distancing, so perhaps a new album could follow in the next year or two. Cry of the Ocean hardly sounded like a band with nothing left to say, so whenever such a thing might surface, it would only be welcome on these shores.

An album that, for me at least, is a bit of an escape into nostalgia, but which has not at all gone stale in the actual listening. As always, I hope you enjoy.

Thanks for reading.

—

Thanks for reading.

So, we got a dog. A Wheaten/Poodle mix. She’s eight weeks old as of today — bought her from a family in Wisconsin who had a litter; my mother-in-law trekked out there to get her — and we’ve named her Iommi, though she mostly just goes by Omi. “Omi come,” “Omi sit,” “Omi don’t chew that,” “Omi no!” “Good girl, Omi,” and so on. She is currently asleep and dream-wiggling on my feet.

Kid and dog together is a lot. Either on their own is plenty, to be honest. I’m not sure The Pecan is in an emotional place where he’s ready to share things like attention with something new — it’s like he got a little sister — but it is what it is, and unless the dog starts showing crazy aggression, which seems unlikely given what we’ve seen of her personality this first week, I don’t think she’s going anywhere.

I wasn’t really ready for a new dog either, to be honest. I thanked my wife this week for picking one that was all-black, as opposed to the still-much-missed Dio, who was just about all-white. But behavior comparisons are inevitable; puppies, like people, engage in certain universal behaviors. I catch myself playing with her a certain way or talking to her a certain way and feel a bit like I’m cheating on the memory of my old dog. Which I suppose I am, if you want to come right to it. Isn’t that what you do when a dog dies and you get another dog, like some broken toy you replace?

What a species we are.

But it’s been nearly two years and the boy needs a dog — the one overriding point with which I can’t argue and, ultimately, the reason we have a dog — so there it is. She’s cute, as nearly almost all puppies and baby animals are. It’s a transition. Everything is change. Constant change. Every new reality, every new ability The Pecan demonstrates, it’s all a new world to which my puny hew-mon brain stumbles in processing.

We picked him up from daycare yesterday and while we were changing his shoes to leave — they put them in slippers to hang out — he pulled the fire alarm. I was holding him at the time, and he just looked up, saw a thing, reached up and pulled it. The bell was right above us and it was loud the way you think of Sunn O))) as loud. It was also naptime, so as caregivers rushed out of the adjoining rooms to see what the hell happened and/or what was on fire, an entire daycare’s worth of kids and babies woke up crying. That’s my son. I feel relatively sure that, having done it once, he’ll try it again. I can only hope a plastic box of some kind is placed over the fire alarm.

“He’s not the first,” said the woman who runs the place. I told her that was very comforting and kind of her to say. I said this while wearing a mask that, sadly, could not hide the shame in my eyes.

By the end of the day, it was already kind of funny. I suspect in years to come it will grow more so. But off, living through it was a rough and loud couple minutes. Then The Pecan ran away from us on our way out to the car. He was overwhelmed — obviously; we all were — but still totally unacceptable. That was another meltdown that basically ended with driving home and putting him down for his afternoon nap.

The dog is awake and puppy-chewing my toes. “Omi no biting.”

You can see perhaps why I might have been driven toward a nostalgia for simpler times in picking Stubb to close out the week.

No Gimme show today. Back next week with a new one.

Have a great and safe weekend, and again, thanks for reading. Be safe, have fun. And don’t tell anybody, but I’m going to have another post up after this.

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Tags: London, self-titled, Stubb, Stubb self-titled, Superhot Records, UK

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