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Dec 30, 2015 Web Exclusive By Nate Rogers

With each project essentially squatting on borrowed time, existence is fragile in the start-up world. Mike Donovan, a longtime staple of the San Francisco music scene, seems to have that frenzied mindset in common with his new neighbors. For nearly a decade now, each release that Donovan has been associated with—from numerous Sic Alps albums to various collaborations, side projects, and more recent solo work—has had the air of carefully calculated reckless abandon. It’s a creative strategy and a means to an end at the same time. Flash-in-the-pan rock that challenges listeners partly out of design, partly out of necessity.

The byproduct of this approach is that Donovan’s new releases are not an event, and, occasionally, quality work has been somewhat overlooked. Case-in-point: his latest project, Peacers, which is actually an all-new “band,” in a sense, but the self-titled “debut” could really be thought of as another Donovan solo release—albeit one with a little inspired varnish thrown onto it. Helping to apply the polish is Ty Segall, who acts as the de facto rhythm section on Peacers, in addition to being credited as a co-writer and engineer for most of the tracks (Eric “King Riff” Bauer is cited elsewhere as a contributor and executive producer).

Fog-drenched, off-kilter, and far-fucking-out, Peacers is half-an-hour of fun, guitar-driven weirdness, and a throwback to the type of music that Drag City used to put out in their mail-order days. Disorienting at first—though ultimately quite centering—the experience is like listening to someone run ‘70s arena rock through a tin can before then amplifying it back through a Marshall stack again. Or like listening to a very talented psych ward patient attempt to cover a Who album by memory (Donovan nods to this influence by jokingly [?] crediting Pete Townshend on “Mary Jane/Glorious Sunrise”).

Maybe (and hopefully) Peacers will live on. Whether it does or not, though, this album will endure as the type of artifact that stays in your car’s cassette deck for an obscene amount of time, say, or as the soundtrack of your move from San Francisco to Oakland. It thrives in its own perceived cultural irrelevance. Partly out of design, partly out of necessity. (www.totalpeacers.com)

Author rating: 8.5/10