Welcome to the Apocalypse. No, I’m not talking about the End of Days. I’m talking about that mythical taproom perched somewhere between heaven and hell (I would situate in somewhere in the environs of Detroit) where every day is Judgement Day and harsh punishment is meted out to the evilest motherfuckers amongst us.
The night guy at the Apocalypse is the proudly foul-mouthed anti-folk saboteur Edward Hamell aka Hamell on Trial, who has been proudly offering up his unique blend of acoustic punk, spoken word agitprop since 1989 or thereabouts.
And we’re lucky to have Ed there, because he just so happens to be the best American storyteller this side of John Darnielle. Ed hears all, sees all, and tells all in his brand spanking new Saustex Records release The Night Guy at the Apocalypse Profiles of a Rushing Midnight, and let me just state from the outset that he has some harrowing yarns to spin.
Forget about Charles Bukowski; Hamell’s darkly hilarious tall tales of brutal revenge, crimes both small-time and large, dysfunctional love, and drug- and alcohol-fueled mayhem are a million miles away from America’s original barfly’s quotidian tales of ordinary madness. At the Apocalypse people get taken out in some not so very pretty ways, but don’t get too disturbed–they really, and I mean really, have it coming.
Hamell has been down the road of addiction and he remembers everything; the junkies and hookers and petty criminals, the bar fights and the fucked-up heists, the way shit has of always going south. Hamell emerged from hell a man of conscience; I don’t know anyone who’s angrier about the injustice we see all around us, or who so despises the power mongers, hypocrites, and all-around assholes who wield the levers of power in Donald Trump’s America.
Hamell fights them all with a guitar he doesn’t so much play as abuse, and a tongue dipped in pure vitriol. And on The Night Guy at the Apocalypse he sings about a final reckoning–about a big payback that doesn’t occur in the next world but in this one.
The fucked-up cast of characters–prostitutes, petty thieves, drug addicts and pushers, etc.–who inhabit the Apocalypse are Ed’s people. And in Ed’s Apocalypse these down and outers serve an Old Testament purpose–they are the least who judge the most, and who exact God’s wrath on the truly odious souls who make this Earth a living hell. The altar-boy-fondling priest? They set his bed on fire. That fucking Nazi? They cut him “from cock to chin.” Detroit’s “Foreclosure King”? He’s in his car at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Because the Apocalypse is “one place that shit don’t sell.”
And all of that–and more–is just in the LP’s opener, “Slap.” On this rollercoaster ride of an LP–which Hamell recorded entirely on his cell phone on the quick, in such traditional recording venues as a restroom of The Keflavik International Airport in Iceland–Hamell exacts a whole lot of other Jehovah-style vengeance on a slew of other cretins, and tosses in some closely observed tales (the man’s a a bona fide poet of the mean streets) of life on the edge while he’s at it.
Elsewhere Hamell sings about the joys of “Love at First Sight” (“When she stole my wallet it was love at first sight”), offers up a glowing testimonial to the tedium-breaking nature of a good “Bar Fight” (“It’s a bar fight/Thank fucking God”) and offers up a toast to being “Too High” (“When I begin, oh you know I can’t stop/It was the gin that said go fight that cop”).
On the live “That’ll Be the Bloody Day” the bar’s habitués get even with a guy who has squealed to the cops; sings Hamell, “Karma wields a hammer/The justice bell has rung/Bobby better learn sign language/Cause we’re cutting out his tongue.” While the audience happily sings along, no less.
Meanwhile, on the deceptively breezy singalong “Aggie and the D.A.” (my LP fave) Hamell splits his time between celebrating the joys of fucking and the nasty business of taking care of a district attorney who happens to be a pedophile (down to the basement go the Apocalypse regulars to “shoot him in the head”).
On the pivotal talking blues “The Night Guy” Ed lays down the bar rules. He’s been around forever and he’s the keeper of all secrets–imagine the guy behind the bar in “Piano Man,” only this bar’s in purgatory and Ed’s not there to listen to your problems.
As for the crazy rappin’, guitar body slapping “Rollin’ with Icarus,” it’s the freewheeling story of one convenience store heist and a crackhouse shooting with a heartrending stop at a hospital ICU in between. And the song has a motherfucker of an ending: the boys head back to the Apocalypse and Ed sings, “I go to the jukebox, play a Nick Cave tune/Shit sounds real when you’re high as the moon/Roll with Icarus man, getting close I guess.”
And that’s the best thing I can say about The Night Guy at the Apocalypse–this shit sounds real. Icarus indeed: Hamell knows from hard experience what it means to fly too close to that chemical sun, and he brings it all back home–like the hammer of karma–on this one-off from Saustex Records, which is being released on limited edition vinyl and digital only.
Come “Closing Time” at the Apocalypse the pros really go weird; there’s a hooker’s over there with her dress over her head, the lights go out, the cops pour in, some shots get fired. But Hamell isn’t ready to call it a night; “Life should offer more,” he sings, “Let’s rob a liquor store–it’s closing time!”
If you’re smart, you’ll buy this LP and help Hamell the night guy turn out the lights. Then follow him to his car. But be forewarned–you’re in for one wild fucking ride.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
