Feeling oversexed? John Dwyer can relate — he’s San Francisco’s most prominent orgasm connoisseur, thanks to his perfectly cropped bangs and the fact that he fronts Coachwhips, a raw sex party dressed in generously lubed riffs and pulsating percussion. Bangers vs. Fuckers is party music, driving music and hate-sex music all rolled into one. Agree to engage in a booty call with your ex-girlfriend even though she has a new boyfriend? Play some Coachwhips and take her to bed while he’s out playing soccer. Meet some good-looking dude at the show who can’t stop talking about himself? Shut him up by blaring Coachwhips and take control. Then kick him out of your apartment and tell him how puny he was as he flees in terror. With this record in your grasp, the world is your dirty playhouse.
Longing for some goddamn honest lyrics? Good, because honesty is Dwyer’s specialty. Piercing through seething blues chords cranked up to broil, snare pops pinched between crash cymbals beat to shards, and a three-dollar Casio organ matching the guitar with reckless abandon is Dwyer’s passionate wordplay thrusting like a pocket knife through the speakers.
The band’s overall approach takes the fun part of making music and strips it down even further, leaving all the good stuff exposed. It’s beyond simple garage rock: There’s no bass guitar, no kick drum on the recording, not even a proper microphone for Dwyer to sing through. Instead, he Duct Tapes the bottom end of a custom-wired telephone to a broken stand and goes from there.
At such screeching treble, his voice sounds almost indistinguishable from the tone of a guitar solo, but if you listen closely, you can uncover a bit of NC-17 poetry. Centering on a topic close to his testosterone-laden heart, Dwyer spills tale after tale of guy-on-girl action like a pro. The first song on the record, "You Gonna Get It," features honesty like no other: "Tonight you’re gonna get in bed / It will be the worst you ever had." Pretty straightforward, huh?
It becomes obvious after you pick out bits here and there that he dreams of a life of coitus, and after meeting him, it’s a safe bet to assume most of it is true. He’s a tall figure with boyish good looks, equipped with an intimidating level of coolness handed out by God to one of three billion people. The ladies simply can’t resist. Naturally, neither can Dwyer.
At twelve tracks, eighteen minutes, Bangers vs. Fuckers isn’t long. It’s not that it ends prematurely, but it does leave you wanting more. The length actually works to the package’s benefit because it leaves room for the live show DVD on the same disc — a rare glimpse into territory that Coachwhips was born to dominate.
Always apt to refuse a stage, the band huddles in a corner of a New York apartment as hundreds of coke-frenzied hipsters dole out black eyes and impale themselves on the drummer’s cymbal stands. It’s an underground party gem captured through one angle by a camcorder held high above the crowd. It’s a taunting dare for you to see Coachwhips live. Which, if you survive to tell about it, will rock your pants off and steal your belt.