Pitchfork

Dark Meat's debut album, Universal Indians, begins quietly, with the lone voice of Page Campbell singing an a capella intro with a distinctly pastoral lilt. Just when your ears have become accustomed to her folksy mellifluousness, "Freedom Ritual" explodes in a rapture of sound, as approximately two-thirds of the population of Athens, Georgia, come in all at once. Or at least that's how it sounds. Dark Meat is a Southern rock (or Southern-rock) collective headed by Jim McHugh and spiritually guided by free-jazz saxophonist Albert Ayler, and Universal Indians features nearly 30 musicians seemingly playing at the same time.

These sprawling songs hang together loosely, dense and busy with different textures, which are caked on in thick brushstrokes to sound large and layered: Jeff Tobias and Alexis Daglis' saxophones squall through "Assholes for Eyeballs", adding a grainy dissonance, while the marching-band brass make "One More Trip" sound like the coolest field show ever. "Angel of Meth" features girl-group harmonies and "Be My Baby" drums. Descending guitar riffs fall through "Dead Man" and "In the Woods"; choirs of backing vocals echo the choruses, punctuating McHugh's drunken vocals with Stonesy staccato ooh-oohs; gospel cries occasionally pierce the din. Ambient interludes "Birdsong + Footsteps, Flute, Horn" and "Disintegrating Flowers" betray a hippie party vibe, offset by the children chanting and giggling through "Well Fuck You Then".

At times Dark Meat lumber along, as if cramped by the tiny compact disc that holds them all like General Zod, but the loose rhythm section-- at least four strong-- keeps the band surprisingly agile, laying down classic-rock thunder and r&b boogie with equal bravado. As a result, even when the songs descend into a mire of controlled cacophony-- and almost all of them do-- the band can easily and gradually rebuild the rhythms and melodies element by element. If it becomes a predictable tack, it's no less effective for being repetitive.

At the center of this maelstrom is McHugh himself, the ringleader and chief songwriter. Not only does he demonstrate résumé-quality personnel management skills, but his lyrics-- whether conjuring a dead friend, detailing an arduous spiritual journey, or just flipping the bird to anyone in earshot-- walk the line between angry and hopeful, fearful and fantastical. As a singer, he sounds emboldened by the crowd behind him, as if drunk on their company. Universal Indians would be interesting only for the logistics of the undertaking-- I imagine shows where the distinctions between performer and audience is blurred completely-- but the group's communal excitement make Universal Indians a fascinating feat, surprisingly accessible and rewarding.