Here Are the Remedies
The CD is called Here Are the Remedies. Beatlesy title aside, what was the damn ailment? Well, supposing it was a hankering for Brit invasion hookery without Yankee indie-kid pomposity; or a longing for the chug of ’90s Dinosaur Jr. or Mudhoney with the unpolished luster of, um, ’80s Dinosaur Jr. or Mudhoney; or even just a search for some bright fucking hooks, emo-be-damned, in a scene currently dwelling on other distractions too hackneyed to rename – then, gentleman, step up to the apothecary.
Shake hands with Gainesville’s Remedies sometime. You’ll see they are smart and boisterous enough for indie rock elitism, but brilliantly eschew it for unassuming love songs, glistening hooks, and probably a secret fascination with classic rock radio. Their unrefined elements keep ’em grounded, and even go as far as make their high-decibel jangle-fest seem downright cuddly at times. Like Gainesville’s own Pepsi One, all the sweetness of underground rock, without all the calories of bloated noise, lack-of-talent-passed-off-as-love-of-Pavement hipsterism, cryptic introspection, or goddamn sweaters.