PureVolume

The FIrst time I saw Centro-matic play was basically the Platonic ideal for Centro-matic shows. It was in the band's hometown of Denton, Texas, in the spring of 2002, at a small rehearsal space/nightclub/bar/vintage-video-game parlor called Rubber Gloves. It was packed beyond belief with devout followers and close friends of the musicians--so packed that it seemed like everyone in Denton must have been there. Centro-matic were unbelievably loud and forceful, but also refreshingly full of grace. Through the onslaught of guitar, bass, drums, piano, and fiddle, what stood out most clearly was the delicacy of the arrangements, particularly the vocal harmonies. As the four Texas boys stood on the stage, looking down, never moving much, I had the distinct sensation of discovering a new favorite band, and because I was the only one in the room not singing along to every word of every song, it was clear that the rest of the crowd was way ahead of me.

In the weeks and years that have followed, I've seen Centro-matic and their various satellite bands probably 50 times, and I relive that palpable sense of discovery nearly every time I get to see them play.

There's a shroud of mystery around Centro-matic. Offstage, you couldn't meet a nicer bunch of guys. Onstage, however, as on record after record, they are enigmatic, close-lipped, almost shy. Which is only funny because they are also incredibly exuberant, catchy, and--did I mention?--loud as hell.

To illustrate this seeming contradiction, I always go back to that first show. Near the end of their set, as the room roiled with the band's feverish momentum, they blew into a song that climaxed with a single line repeated what seemed like 30 times. "There's smoke coming from recording machines," sang Will Johnson, the band's songwriter and wiry centerpiece. He sang the line again and again, until everyone in the room, myself included, was chanting along with him, then the song exploded into a massive instrumental finale and the show was over. I ran to the merch table in search of that song and learned that it hadn't been released or even recorded, even though they'd been playing it for years. It has since come out on the band's most recent EP, which offers its own lesson about Centro-matic's veil of mystery

The Flashes and Cables EP is named for a song from Centro-matic's 2003 LP, which is called Love You Just the Same, their best record to date. Now then, "Love You Just the Same" is also the name of a song, one of their best and most instantly recognizable when heard live. The song, however, is not to be found on the record of the same name, though it is on the subsequent EP--along with the song about the smoke coming from recording machines ("Infernoesque Grande"). It's confusing, and occasionally frustrating, but it also safeguards what I consider to be Centro-matic's greatest glory: their infinite capacity to be discovered.

Centro-matic is the loud rock band department of a musical cottage industry centered around Will Johnson, who--speaking of infinite capacity --writes more songs than most songwriters you know, put together. He writes so many songs that it takes Centro-Matic, as well as South San Gabriel (a lower-key band anchored by the same four musicians, plus a steel guitarist), Johnson solo, and the performing duo of Johnson and his wizardly musical partner Scott Danbom--to record and perform them all. The records are recorded just outside Denton, at the Echo Lab studio, co-owned by Centro-Matic drummer Matt Pence, who serves as engineer and mixer for all three recording projects. Between the various titles, Johnson, Danbom, Pence, and bassist Mark Hedman have made 11 full-length records (of increasing quality) in the past 10 years, along with countless EPs, singles, split releases, and one-offs. The difficulty is that new listeners might not know where to start. The beauty is that once they do, there's practically no limit to the wealth of smart, sad, urgent, sweet, and raucous rock music--with grace notes of country, punk, folk, and swing thrown in for good measure--just waiting to be found. -- Sean Nelson, Seattle, WA.