I first met Joe Froeber, front man of The Drunk Monkeys & a friend of my roommate, when he was hallucinating on my couch. His wide eyes burst beyond the borders of his sunglasses, frizzled hair glowing white by the summer sun as his words moved everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.
& I, in classic strung-out writer style, exchanged pleasantries with him and abruptly shut my bedroom door to carry on with my ‘work’. What I did not know at the time is that he was in the process of making his first full length album. The Drunk Monkeys, akin to the personality of Froeber, are a representation of a world that may be better off without critics, yet we got to eat too, & he knows this (he works as a waiter to make ends meet).
That’s where patience comes in & real conversations, caught in the push & pull of life, churn industry & non-industry that most artists & musicians find reprehensible. After more run ins, I listened to the album, & then one morning when I found him on my couch after his car broke down during a long night of partying, we did an interview.
The Flaming Lips jump to mind, yet I hold back on such a staunch assertion and pigeon-holing comparison when considering songs like ‘Maw’ or ‘Naked, some of Froeber’s favorites from the record. ‘Naked’ is a catchy dithyramb that is able to assert, yet equalize gender in its quirky, taste your bottom teeth, hook ‘I’m naked under my clothes/ naked under my clothes/ naked under my clothes’.
‘Yeah so what’ says my psyche to the more basic mind, ‘oh it’s ironic, of course he’s naked.’
Thought echoes ripple as puddles on the city street are driven through by tires & the wholeness of my attention is upholstered with The Drunk Monkey’s music and my thoughts take on a summery lightness. Seemingly easy to categorize, the energy and forward movement is gilded with a tactile superfluity.
The album begins with a swelling of guitar melody and a restrained energy, building momentum as horns and the rhythm section lazily peak over the horizon. Pockets of light checker the tapestry of sound until the peak of the album, like the peak of a gnarly acid trip, culminate in the roughage of ‘Maw.’ Counterpoints to other songs found here, ‘Feelin’ & ‘Maya’, ‘Maw’ is distorted, huge and gnarly, deserving to be overcome in order to deserve rest.
‘I’m a seething mess of drunk rage and destruction,
And you’re a whore who likes to lie and undress.
So come on over, babe, there’s no need for discretion
I’ll split you open, and we’ll both cease to exist.
Do we matter at all?’
This is the through line of the album ‘Do we matter at all?’
At the drop of these lyrics, cymbals crash, the distortion is set into overdrive and the music crashes around you as if caught in a lightning storm. Call it a cis-white dude band (Whatever that means anymore) if you will, though I give you a counterpoint to this fallacy.
‘Without music life would be meaningless.’
Thanks Nietzsche. The Drunk Monkeys, working outside the realm of the outside, but still making music, are a testament to this fact of meaning & so, are heard, even unto themselves.
Album Art: Alec Hutson (Warbird Creative)
Black & White: Danny Zapata
Color: Kaya Blaze Kelley
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Chris Hughes //// is a poet & writer from Boston, Ma & music editor of bostonhassle.com. //// They can be reached at [email protected] or @crsjh_ via instagram & twitter.
