For a day of supposed evil, 6/6/06 felt a bit anticlimactic. No awe-inspiring explosions, no random fistfights, no satanic sacrifices. Just a couple of semi-ironic indie-metal bands playing to a sold-out crowd at the Bluebird Theater.

With desperate, ticket-seeking fans milling around the front of the venue, the air of privilege hung in the interior air. The Giraffes opened with an explosive set of ear-tickling anthems, at once bluesy, grungy and melodic. The Brooklyn-based mayhem enthusiasts are perhaps the only remaining band that's truly dangerous onstage, jumping into the audience, pouring entire bottles of whiskey onto their fans and generally enjoying their roles as rock figureheads.

Eagles of Death Metal played next, their sunglasses-clad lead singer unable to stop telling the audience how "awesome" and full of "hot chicks" it was. The pseudo-supergroup was diminished by the absence of drummer Josh Homme, whose regular gig in Queens of the Stone Age is a big factor in the Eagles' popularity.

The thinnest layer of irony separated the band's fans from an impromptu NASCAR rally, and that's certainly not good for the music. After The Giraffes, the Eagles' straight-up classic rock facsimiles were a middling disappointment. Too bad they couldn't take a lesson in rock from their boozy, able-bodied openers.

-John Wenzel -Denver Post

As the Giraffes took the stage (Mercury Lounge) after a quick changeover, it was amazing to see a crowd that had been sitting on the floor seamlessly morph into a wild, tattooed mob of Brooklynites. The lead singer, Aaron Lazar, looked over the raucous crowd while swilling from a pint of Jack Daniels. He stroked his handlebar mustache, passed the whiskey to the rest of the band, and proceeded to rip through a forty-five minute set that felt like it went by in less than ten. Lazar owned the crowd, taunting them to throw empty, ice-filled cups, and prompting a mass fist-pump with middle fingers outstretched.

The mutton-chopped, fu-manchued guitarist, Damien Paris, lurked and stomped around the stage with a frenzied energy, a perfect complement to Lazar’s menacing energy. If the band weren’t smiling at friends and obviously having such a great time, they would scare you to death. This was never truer than during the crowd pleaser “Having Fun with Assholes,” as Lazar tried to intimidate the audience with his verbal assault while trying to conceal his smile. The Giraffes followed that song with “You’re Going Out,” a fuck-you style anthem, and then a track with a sneering, condescending chorus of “La La La’s.” The standing-room-only Mercury Lounge crowd was totally consumed, bobbing up and down to the music and chanting along.

As the Giraffes poured into “Million Dollar Man,” I couldn’t help but think that this is the group that would have been formed if Blutoi and D-Day from “Animal House” had started a band. If the Giraffes were to play a house party, any house party, that house would inevitably wind up trashed. After a minor bass string mishap, the band closed with their rock anthem “I Wanna Tell You,” and left the stage to a torrent of shouts and beverage cups. The Giraffes were pure power and whiskey, and owned the Mercury Lounge that night.

-Tom Yaps LooseRecods.com

There's still something to be said for word of mouth when it comes to discovering new music. While actually hearing music is the best way to decide whether or not you like it, it's best to have some kind of impetus to get you to hear it in the first place. Be it a quest to find new music on your own or a scour through a music publication such as Treble, something has to direct you toward it. But if you're the type to trust your peers about musical recommendations, word of mouth is most likely your first way of gaining access to bands you wouldn't otherwise pay any attention to. Case in point: The Giraffes. Treble writer Chris Pacifico had been emailing me about this weird band I had never heard of, and I figured he might be on to something, but I never actually felt motivated enough to actually seek out the band's work. After a few more mentions, he finally emails their record company to get them to send me a copy.

It turns out the motherfucker was on to something. The Giraffes are a very unusual band to hear today, amidst endless Gang of Four soundalikes and David Byrne imitators. While those are both fine and good, they get tiresome. But The Giraffes take from inspirations extremely far from post-punk. Some reviews have mentioned Soundgarden, Corrosion of Conformity and The Butthole Surfers, to name a few. And I can't say that those are all that far off. But I would also mention Queens of the Stone Age and Alice in Chains.

Having recently delved into the heavier and more heroic entries in my music collection, I took to The Giraffes' self-titled debut pretty quickly. It's a throwback to a time when the line between "alternative" and "metal" was extremely blurry, for better or for worse. In the hands of many, this type of album could be dated and obnoxious. It could have even been outright terrible. But, luckily, The Giraffes rock adequately and with just enough of a smirk that their unholy ruckus is equally fun and menacing.

Mixing doo-wop vocals and Sabbath-y riffs in "Jr. At His Worst," shredding on Slayer-style guitar licks in "Wage Earner," veering into a boogie shuffle on "Sugarbomb" or revving up some Horton Heat-style psychobilly on "Million $ Man," The Giraffes find many unique ways to rock on this fireball of a record. Frontman Aaron Lazar even sports a mighty moustache as well, one that even Lemmy might consider enviable, though Lazar doesn't have any gnarly moles, as far as I can tell.

Sadly, I did not partake in the festivities at CMJ this year, though the word on the `net is that The Giraffes kicked some serious ass during their set at the giant New York festival. I imagine they'd be a sight to see. I'm not sure if I would like to see too many more bands like The Giraffes popping up, but that they exist makes us all the more fortunate. When more and more skinny kids learn how to play guitar like Andy Gill, it's refreshing to know that somebody learned to play like Kim Thayil.

-Jeff Terich- Treblezine.com

Doesn’t anyone remember Rock And Roll?! It may seem like an absurd question at first but hear me out. I found myself enjoying The Giraffes self-titled debut for Razor and Tie Records and decided people would enjoy it at a party. As it played, people were telling me that they liked it but at the same time were confused. Needless to say, these people listened to emo and punk-pop and were trying to pigeonhole The Giraffes into some genre that didn’t even exist like post-punk rockcore. It’s just fucking Rock and Roll, enjoy it!

Doesn’t the fact that this band can be compared to Monster Magnet and The Who intrigue anyone? It sure would arouse my interest. The Giraffes embody most of what makes rock so great. The singer sports a handlebar mustache and can belt out a powerful chorus with the best of them. The guitarist can actually play his guitar, which can be somewhat of a rarity these days. Songs like “Man U” are a prime example of what the band can accomplish. The song is about a soccer riot by Manchester United fans and contains a catchy chant of “You’re going home in a fucking ambulance.” If that wasn’t enough, the video is simply two members of the band punching each other in the stomach endlessly while the rest of the band drinks beer. How rock and roll is that?

If the video and song for “Man U” has caught your interest, this is an album made for you. It contains some of the best guitar solos and shredding I have heard in years, i.e. the guitar solo in “Sugarbomb”. The drums barrel through over the bass and establish a fast tempo which maintains throughout the entire album. No ballads here. There are very few weak points throughout the album. Some songs just don’t seem to snag your attention as much as others but that’s not to say they are bad. “Million $ Man” verifies that they can play cock-rock that actually has some balls.

I’d like to shake the hand of the man who signed The Giraffes to Razor and Tie. This is one hell of a fun album. With bands such as The Darkness and Death From Above 1979 using heavy rock influences and gaining incredible hype, it’s amazing this album hasn’t caught on. Why no one knows this band is beyond me. If this band had any push by the record label whatsoever, I could see them gaining a considerable following. I mean, who doesn’t love rock and roll?

-Decoymusic.com

While it seems like the lions share of the bands that come out off
Brooklyn these days tend to be composed of pompous and arrogant art
school hipsters, it is nice to know that the Giraffes are here to save
rock on their third and self titled album which will go down as one of
the greatest underground records in all of the 21st century. Singer
Aaron Lazar has the voice of an ashtray that leads this gritty band of
rabble rousing misfits who are here to take over all music that is loud
and heavy because most bands that claim to "rock" these days just have
no vision. On this album their range of influences who have inspired the
Giraffes can be described as immeasurable at best whether it be
Corrosion of Conformity, the Melvins, Black Flag, Queens of the Stone
Age, or even the Who along with a shitload more.

"Jr. at His Worst" shines with some good ol' rock sleaze and a beat that
makes it perfect material for strippers to whirl around on the pole to
at a titty bar. The track is chock full of sludgy vocal harmonies that
may be the fist paradigm of metal doo-wop. The Giraffes show that they
are not afraid to step on peoples toes as they throw out a dis to
someone they know who got greedy and quit a great band because he
couldn't support his girlfriend on "Wage Earner". It has the quarrelsome
fury of Zeke with drummer Andrew Totolos' wicked double bass drum beat
down. These boys can even make a crafty song about the perils of being a
junkie with the swift commotion from guitarist Damien Paris as Lazar
sings about the people who ask you to borrow your belt as they shade off
for twenty minutes that know how to "make the most of it". Aside from
the lyrics however the song also has an edge to it that can perfectly
overflow with frustration and defiance. When it comes to the hectic
situations and the dregs of society in life, the Giraffes have no
problem telling us about them. Take for example "Man U." a song about a
soccer riot filled with the insanity of skinheads and violence alongside
some prime doom metal riffs and some angry mob chanting not heard since
the early nineties when fellow Brooklyn asskickers Biohazard were
putting out decent music. I would also like to recommend that you should
go over to thegiraffes.com to witness the twisted video to this song
that will make you laugh to the point where you have a stream of warm
piss trickling down your ankles. While the Giraffes clearly can be put
in a boat with a range of different artists with their eclectic mix of
towering sounds, they show on this album that they can even reign
supreme alongside the likes of legendary hardcore bands such as Madball,
Sick of it All, and the Circle Jerks.

Bassist John Rosenthal lays down a deep foot tapping pulse with the
loungy haze on "Having Fun" at it morphs into a sound style that could
be described as the bastard child from both of the self titled albums
from Black Sabbath and Alice in Chains. Paris then proceeds to bust out
his blazing guitar chops that add a psychedelic tinge to "Sugarbomb"
followed by "BLCKNTWHTCSTL" as Lazar screams like a fire breathing
carnie parallel to the surroundings of bluesy brutality. The bizarre
death metal zeal of Fantomas on "79 & Weightless" will make you bang
your head hard enough to give you whiplash as "Honey Baby Child" has
mountainous riffs that could take down Godzilla. I may have used the
word "metal" a few times in the review and while the Giraffes will
appeal to metal fans, they cannot be pigeonholed when it comes to
describing their particular and abrasive sound that you must immediately
hear. While an immediate forty percent salary raise is practically
unheard of for anyone that works at an independent record label, I feel
that the person who at Razor & Tie that signed this band should at least
get their own parking space. I would like to end this review by saying
that if you don't like the Giraffes, then you suck.

Chris Pacifico-Pivotal Rage

 

Giraffes just wanna have fun

The Giraffes follow the Homer Simpson philosophy of rock 'n' roll.

"In one 'Simpsons' episode, Homer said, 'Everyone knows by now that rock attained perfection in 1975,' " recounts the Giraffes' lead singer Aaron Lazar. "I think he's absolutely right."

No wonder the Giraffes play rock 'n' roll as if they just caught "Cat Scratch Fever" from Ted Nugent, or like they just staged a Thin Lizzy-style "Jailbreak."

The group's much-anticipated new album, out next month, boasts the kind of yowling vocals, screaming guitars and barreling drum volleys that inspired many a bong hit and fist-pump in the original age of the mullet. That deliciously low approach has helped the Brooklyn-based group stand out from the local competition from the start.

The past few years, the dominant sound in New York rock has referenced such arty '80s bands from England as Joy Division and Gang of Four (examples: Interpol, the Rapture, the Bravery, Radio 4 and on and on).

The Giraffes sound more like they stormed out of Detroit just after MC5.

"We're as derivative [as the '80s-style bands]," offers Lazar, 28. "It's just that we draw from a different set of variables."

To Lazar, the '80s influence on current rock occurred because: "Whatever music was played around the time you were born always comes back to bite you in the a-."

Lazar's muse likewise stems from his childhood. "I grew up in the Midwest and my dad had all that '70s s- playing," he explains.

The Giraffes' attachment to the period has much to do with its bad reputation in the '90s.

"When we grew up, we knew that type of rock wasn't cool - but it was fun," Lazar says. "When we got older, we said: 'What the f-! I want to have a good time.' "

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

Yet a certain distance from the original model inevitably shines through. The Giraffes, like Andrew W.K. or Monster Magnet before them, come to their hard rock sources with equal parts ardor and irony. They really lard on the latter quality when re-creating the form's macho bluster.

"When was the last time you saw someone try to bring off that macho strut and get away with it?" Lazar says. "You have to be able to laugh at yourself. Look at David Lee Roth. He was an idiot. But he knew it."

Similar accusations have been hurled at the Giraffes for their behavior in concert. They've been known to perform stone drunk, and to hurl various objects at their audience. Only once was someone hurt, according to Lazar, and it was a friend.

"I was propellering the mike over my head from the middle of the audience and he says he got his eyebrow split open," Lazar says. "Too bad I don't remember it. I have the drunk excuse."

The Giraffes' live shows aren't just potentially risky for the crowd but for Lazar himself. In January, he was walking through Chinatown when he suddenly blacked out. It turned out he had two heart attacks, something he found out only 48 hours later when he woke up in Beth Israel Hospital. He's now outfitted with a defibrillator - like Vice President Dick Cheney - which sends shocks to his heart if his rate rises too high.

Last week, the band played a show where Lazar was, in his words, "going for it." He got shocked three times. "At least it proves the device works," he says.

Certainly, the result adds drama to the Giraffes' shows. But Lazar insists that he doesn't "want it to be like 'Come to the shows and see the cyborg man who may get shocked!' It's just a fact of life. It shows I can no longer push myself to that point."

There was no history of heart problems in his family, says Lazar. He grew up in working-class Youngstown, Ohio, and studied art at Kent State University. Yearning to come to New York, he applied to NYU, where he earned a master's degree in Fine Art at the end of the '90s.

The other Giraffes - Damien Paris (guitar), John Rosenthal (bass) and Andrew Totolos (drums) - were already playing together as a threesome. They specialized in surf-oriented instrumentals until they met Lazar at CBGB's Gallery in the summer of 2002. He could belt out a Jim Morrison-esque bellow they couldn't resist.

"He can go from holding a note to screaming bloody murder," Totolos explains.

While the group recorded their first two CDs at a studio under a Hasidic dry-cleaning store in Brooklyn, the members maintained their day jobs. Lazar does graphic art projects for the Knitting Factory, Totolos does voice-overs for VH1's "Driven" and A&E's "Biography."

The Giraffes' new recording contract with Razor & Tie has allowed them to spend more time away from their day jobs. It has also gotten them more money for tour support. "Now we get free beer," Totolos crows.

Such things count a lot to a band that's more about partying than about making any grand statements on life.

"Every time I've seen a band that I liked, it was because they were just having a good time," Lazar says. "In the end, we're just here to have fun - and to see how much we can get away with."

Jim FarberThe Daily News
Sunday, June 26th, 2005

 

The cliché of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll could be attached to The Giraffes, but that would be understating the Brooklyn-based quartet. They have songs about disappointing life choices and soccer as well.

Their self-titled major-label debut showcases memorable, pulverizing riffs and dark, witty lyrics that hardly leave a moment to catch your breath. John Rosenthal's bass lines and Damien Paris' guitar licks lead you down a treacherous path of cerebellum-shaking swagger. One moment they are together, leading you through jagged twists and turns; suddenly they spin out on separate spirals before meeting once more in a distorted explosion.

Aaron Lazar's confident vocals command your attention and your respect, cutting through the musical energy like a scalpel. Drummer Drew Totolos holds everything together, accenting the music and the lyrics, propelling each song dangerously close to the next.

While some bands have difficulty translating the musicianship of an album to a live show or the energy of a concert to disc, The Giraffes proved they could scream the talk and thrash the walk Friday night at Mr. Small's Theatre in Millvale.

Like the album, the show was an unabridged, high-octane excursion of abrasive intensity. Lazar, dressed in a dark suit and black T-shirt, looked like the ringmaster at a circus as he leaned on the stage monitor, his hands directing the audience's attention to the appropriate musician of the moment. Paris' guitar squealed and screamed through each song with authority, standing well on its own without the overdubs of the album.

A stubborn microphone stand, which would not stay off of the floor, and the inherently poor acoustics of the venue kept Rosenthal's bass riffs from delivering their full potential; his fingers were left dancing across the fret board for naught. Totolos's tireless drumming helped keep the momentum of the music from dragging, though. Anyone questioning the show's intensity should have been made to mop the sweat and the spit from the stage.

Seán O'Donnell PittsburghLIVE.com

 

 

If you remember hearing The Cult's Electric for the first time -- the bone-crunching guitars, head-pounding drums and over-the-top rock god vocals -- you'll relish The Giraffes. They begin with the same degree of swagger and attitude, scale back the guitars to more contemporary garage-rock standards, and kick the whole package up a notch or two. Actually, they don't so much kick it as launch it into outer space. The Giraffes' music is straightforward sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll -- abrasive, catchy, and very loud.

"Jr. At His Worst", "Man U." and "Having Fun" are among the album's best songs -- each one a legendary rock tune in the finest tradition. Equal parts AC/DC, Monster Magnet, Blue Oyster Cult and Black Flag, The Giraffes weave the best elements of their disparate influences into ridiculously catchy rock anthems. Listen more attentively and you'll catch occasional bursts of surf rock guitar at times, as well as Beach Boys-style harmonies that give The Giraffes a classic rock edge.

The band -- singer Aaron Lazar, guitarist Damien Paris, bassist John Rosenthal and drummer Drew Totolos -- makes it all sound effortless with raw guitar riffs, incredible drum fills and some of the best heavy metal breakdowns since early Soundgarden. Lyrically, The Giraffes' songs are typical hard rock -- fire, sex and violence. "Man U." is a song about a soccer riot (presumably Manchester United fans); despite its subject matter, it's a humorous take on a serious situation. The song's latter half introduces the repetitive chant, "You're going home / you're going home / you're going home in a fucking ambulance"; plan on pumping your fists and singing along. "Jr At His Worst" touts pyromania (chorus: "Start a little fire / watch the death toll rise / start a little fire / and watch everybody... begging for their lives"). The "shoo bop shoo bop" background vocals and classic rock riffs help to keep the song light and poppy -- because you don't want your song about arson to bring everybody down, right?

Just as Queens of the Stone Age made it a little cooler to be a headbanger, The Giraffes' back-to-basics approach is a timely reminder that sex 'n' violence once went hand in hand with rock 'n' roll. Why should rappers have all the fun?

-- David A. Cobb

 

 

Austin, Texas - To say that the South by Southwest music festival is a zoo is an understatement of mammoth proportions.

Nearly 1,500 bands played the Lone Star capital since the 19th year of the madness kicked off Wednesday. Navigating the traffic demanded the expert ability of a wilderness tracker trained not only in the handling of wild animals but the rock 'n' roll variety as well.

The Giraffes, New York's booming answer to Nebula and Supagroup, slayed the Austin masses with a surprisingly soulful guitar-rock show Wednesday that left fans awestruck.

Ricardo Baca-Denver Post

 

If you are reading this now, don't stop. It holds the secret to the one band you simply can not miss at this year's SXSW. You may have never heard of them; you may never hear of them again, but once they've come, things won't be the same. They will have left their mark; they will have corrected any previous misconceptions of what it means to truly be rock 'n' roll, and they will have quite possibly abducted Robert Plant.

They are the Giraffes, and since 1998 they have been capturing the chaos and comedy of Brooklyn, N.Y., and transforming it into a brilliant blend of brutality and beauty that surpasses the boundaries of both time and genre.

Imagine first, a lone mustache; behind it, the overpowering presence and growl of a man with twice your wit. To his left, with his guitar inverted, a man that connects the dots between Jimmy Page, Jimi Hendrix and Eddie Van Halen and continues to scribble all over the page until he's sure he has left his mark. Behind the drums, a modern reincarnation of Keith Moon, complete with relentless machine gun snare drums and insane symbol thrashing. The bass guitarist is left with the seemingly impossible task of accommodating all of the band's many strengths, weaving together spaghetti western and metal, punk and surf, and rock with blues.

What results is a sum greater than the already amazing individual parts, one that simply can't be completely captured on its self-titled Razor and Tie debut. It must be seen live to fully appreciate and understand, there's just too much there. So do yourself a favor; don't keep this secret to yourself. Grab a couple of long necks and take in the Giraffes.

Austin Powell- The Daily Texan

 

 

When The Giraffes' van died recently in Austin, Texas, drummer Andrew Totolos rented a Chevy Uplander for the long drive back to Brooklyn. For sure it had a DVD player; the metal band was looking at 28 hours of bad, boring road.

And what was the on-board entertainment? Martial-arts movies. No surprise. ``Family Guy.'' Check. And, um, ``Mission to Uranus.''

``Of course we had porn,'' said Totolos, who also hosts the DIY channel's ``Tricked Out'' car show.

Whatever happened to passing time with the license-plate game?

Talk about auto-erotica.

``You've got five guys in an Uplander watching porn,'' said Totolos. ``How sad are we?'

Christopher Cox-Boston Herald

 

 

 

Listen, I’ve spent a whole lot of time in taverns and clubs either as a musician, hanging out, doing this here thing or various combinations of the three. After a while you develop a sixth sense about Trouble. Liquor and music don’t always add up to good times. Being ready for a quick duck, shove or standing leap can often mean you don’t get hit with that flying bottle, chair or airborne drunk. So it makes sense to pay attention. The night I went to a joint I usually don’t frequent I didn’t know any of the bands, but I did know that the loud group of hard-drinking guys mingling around me were out of place. For one thing most of them had facial hair. What tunnel did these dudes crawl out of? Now, before you cry “Elitist Profiling,” consider this was mean facial hair. The kind outlaw bikers and WWF bad guys grow. One of them, a stocky fireplug of a guy, had a shaved head, too. And the tall one - who seemed to be the ringleader of the lot - was sporting a mustache that … well it looked like a demented version of the one Charles Bronson wore in the Death Wish movies. Oh, and he was wearing fingerless gloves. The kind you pull on when you don’t want to mess up your knuckles on somebody’s face. And these guys were getting seriously and severely messed up. Smoking, too. In a New York City club! No mistaking they were Bad Business. And just as I was about to move further back into the crowd and put some distance between me and this crew, four of them mounted the stage and picked up their instruments. The Giraffes are … uhm … unique? Despite what I had seen when they were offstage, I thought this might after all be just an act, and not necessarily an original one. But that sure was a bottle of Jack Daniels they were passing around on stage before, after and during songs. I could smell it. And maybe that joint was really just a rolled cigarette, but they were still blatantly breaking the law, Breaking The Law ... and there was also no doubt they were seriously and severely fucked up. There’s a theory that a great frontman for a rock ‘n roll band has to be at least 50% jackass to carry it off effectively. Whether tossing his drink cup at fellow band members, spilling it into the crowd or flicking his lit cigarette towards the crowded bar, Aaron Lazar filled the bill with percentage points to spare. Playing the loveable Lucifer, Lazar is charming and clever as he’s being cunning and cruel. Imagine an unpretentious Jim Morrison or Henry Rollins who just happen to be smashed out of their heads. The band behind him - a cross between the best/worst of Motorhead and Metallica. Yet even with Damien Paris’ screaming, over the top lead runs, Drew Totolos’ kick-ya-in-the-nuts drumming and John Rosenthal’s bad-ass bass, you’d be wrong if you labeled the Giraffes a metal band. It just isn’t that easy with Lazar’s crafty delivery in the mix. This could be one of the best bands you ever saw, this could be one of the worst bands you ever saw, but you’d probably have a hard time putting them anywhere in between. You know, in my days as a wild one I’ve come thisclose on a few occasions, but ironically the only time I ever actively participated in any physical Trouble in a club or bar was when I was up on stage – perhaps the most dangerous place of all. The Giraffes don’t do anything to dispel that idea.

-Neon NYC

 

From the underground New York rock scene come The Giraffes, whose first full-length album, Helping You Help Yourself, combines the classic elements of '70s heavy metal (complete with blistering lead guitar solos and operatic vocals) with the rawness of the punk scene. This is no slick album -- there's a refreshing rawness not present in much of today's youthful rock. The Giraffes hold back nothing, with porno-inspired lyrics and a sonic nastiness not heard in a while. Every track is worth your attention but a few of the songs will compel you to crank your stereo to the max every time they come on. And that's what it all comes down to, right?

-- Noah Massey Car Audio Magazine

 

 

The GIRAFFES - EP
Okay, so imagine a movie, one that your weird uncle has actually seen, and maybe he owns a copy of it on VHS that he bought at a video store that was going out of business back in 1989. The movie came out, say, in 1968. Maybe Roman Polanski directed it. It's a spaghetti western, but the heavy is actually the undead skeleton of a slain Mexican peyote kingpin who lives in abandoned garage. In the desert. Anyway, if that movie actually existed (and maybe it does), this EP is the soundtrack. The Giraffes return somewhat to their epic surf-rock origins, but keep their theatrical lyrical sense. Drew plays a mean accordian. Aaron looked like a late 19th Century congressman when they performed the set live. "On Lover's Lane" is both the hit and the epic, and will fit seamlessly into their future sets, if they got the nuts. Even if they don't, they've written and recorded the perfect disc to play when you finally spring for that piano-dancing bordello girl, then shoot her sleezy boyfriend and grab his gold.

-Jens Carstensen

 

Ain't nothin like the real thing

1. "I was on the road to hell/everyone I met said they know you"

First things first: This is not like the Giraffes’ previous CD (loud, aggressive, in-your-face rock tinged with rage and sex); this EP is a detour (quieter, aggressive, in-your-face rock tinged with rage and sex). Reaching back to their surf-rock-metal roots, the Giraffes come crawling out of the mud and muck with sexy, understated, hypnotic tunes that find your darkest corners, dig their pincers into you, and feed.

Bookended by instrumentals, the disc (A Gentleman Never Tells) incorporates twisted southern-Cali Dusk to Dawn guitar soundtracks with creeping vocals and subversive sounds made to make you look over your shoulder. If their last CD was someone going postal in a crowded office building, this EP is Hannibal Lecter whispering in your ear just as you realize he might be a bit insane.

It starts off with "A Gentleman Never Tells," an instrumental romp with nice rhythm, tension, and mystery that evokes both Dusk to Dawn and some gypsy meanderings. The first time we get to hear a vocal is "On Lover’s Lane," a slow, sultry, dangerous tune recounting (what I believe to be) a murder between lovers. Lyrics such as "You can’t say you didn’t know," "I’ll never let you go," "Don’t cry, don’t fight/You’re mine, I’ve got the right," echo in your ears as the music slowly builds without ever exploding, maintaining a very deliberate tension. It disintegrates toward the end into a nighttime trance-inducing waltz with Aaron humming ever so loudly each time, "la de da, da, da," which is almost as scary as the earlier lyrics. This builds into an intense, fabulous, sad dance with a corpse— infectious and bittersweet and draining.

The other four songs continue with this exotic, edgy feel, from the demon spiritual "Of This Transaction," with its beautiful imagery and forlorn feel, to "Get in the Car," a tribal song that elaborates and twists and builds upon itself, to "Help Me with My Blood Count," a sick, jerky child’s dance that makes you sway involuntarily like a lounge version of surf-rock, to the closing instrumental, "Gentleman Says," which is fast and punchy and answers the first instrumental with tall tales of exactly what the gentleman wanted to happen.

The Giraffes EP’s differences from its predecessor was a risk, but it paid off because the edge, the rock undercurrent, and the group’s songwriting come through sparkling like moonlight on a cold evening. They create a scene for each song that is vibrant, the guitars and drums and bass painting shadows upon shadows, and layers upon layers, and then topping it off with vocals that sound like Aaron really is a tortured soul on puppet strings singing, narrating his own destruction— or someone else’s.

Grant Moser- The Brooklyn Rail

 

 

THE GIRAFFES: How a band so adamantly 'metal' can be so thoroughly
enjoyable is a bit hard to explain, at least from my point of view. In
my worldview, Led Zeppelin took rock and roll downhill, AC/DC are
nerverackingly irritating, and hair metal will never be funny. Really.

The Giraffes owe their hard-rock edge mainly to their guitar player's
fondness for that highly-overdriven, twenty-times-more-notes-than-necessary style of playing where technical skill and metaphysical cock are indistinguishable. The rhythm section is both rock-solid and free-flowing, with an impressive drummer who in spite of his adamant display of power still shows some restraint, and
an excellent bass player that compensates for the sin of playing his
instrument dangerously high-up with a keen sense of blending heaviness
with groove and melody.

If this contrast between the rhythm and the lead was not enough, here
comes the lead singer, possibly the most talented and charismatic
frontman I have seen this year. Aaron's voice is rich, sincere, and
compelling, recalling both Elvis and HR at once -- America's beauty
finally in one. His stage persona is profoundly magnetic and charming,
ornery yet angelical, and totally devoid of pretention or conceit. If
you could envision the devil as a good guy who would never cheat on his
girlfriend and who would ask for your permission before placing your
hand on his crotch, you'd get close to the gentle swagger of this
sexual icon (yes, I like him, but not that way).

I have seen The Giraffes three times already and they keep growing on
me. I really encourage you to see them soon. They really are like no
other local band, and that alone is something. Gutter-punks and
sorority girls will be equally satisfied: myself, as a blend of the
two, can't complain at all.

Louis Mayo- Rock and Roll Confidential

 

 

 

Helping You Help Yourself

"Demented, pornographic, electric and wide-awake, black and blue and red all over, this much-anticipated release captures a substantial portion of the intensity and excitement surrounding Brooklyn's furious Giraffes. Anybody who has ever seen guitarist Damien Paris perform will not be surprised by the intelligence and ambition informing the stratospheric solos recorded here -- few instrumentalists in the city have the capacity to draw connections between styles and approaches so instinctively. Supported by the muscular (and surprisingly propulsive for music so heavy) rhythm section of Andrew Totolos and Tim Kent, the charismatic Paris swings effortlessly from classic-metal shredding to hammer-ons to authentic Memphis soul licks to soaring and angular lyrical phrases reminiscent of Duane Allman at his most attention-grabbing -- and sometimes in the same twelve bars! Indeed, Helping You Help Yourself preserves most of the musical features that make Giraffes shows so riveting (and occasionally straight-up frightening): the surf-rock-meets-flamenco tension buildup on "Manchester United," the spacious, mounting waltz-time outro of "Looting in the A.M.," the unabridged guitar assault of "The ballad of Sissyfist," the elastic, apocalyptic chorus lead on "Million dollar man," the whiplash riffs of "I'll be your daddy." Thus, those Giraffes fans searching for a good representation of the group's undeniable musical excellence will find ample satisfaction here. And yet the most remarkable feature of this outstanding rock album comes from an unexpected source: lead singer Aaron Lazar, whose theatrical approach and alternately threatening and hilarious stage stance is always compelling in live performance, but whose voice can't always be heard over the combined might of the Paris-Totolos-Kent maelstrom. His voice mixed clearly and bravely foregrounded, Lazar proves himself a master of delivery and subtle inflection, all without ever sacrificing power -- he is a huge, dominating presence on this record, communicative, terrifying, funny, deeply sympathetic even when articulating lyrical content that is, er... unlikely to win Tipper Gore's approval, to say the least. It's a dark and twisted vision of New York City that he illustrates here, and he is unafraid to lead us down some sordid alleys. Tawdry sex, overt threats, homicide, football hooliganism, looting and pillaging, two-fisted braggadocio and cheap torment -- Lazar shines his flashlight on all of them. Even when he shouts, he does so tunefully, recalling Morrissey and Greg Dulli as often as Bon Scott, and his participation insures that Helping You Help Yourself is a thinking man's heavy album, a writer's delight as well as a guitar aficionado's wet dream. An absolute must for hard rock fans, and appreciators of the rougher side of the Brooklyn scene."

Tris McCall-Jersey Beat Magazine

 

 

"Word is these guys are a great live band (though I've yet to see them). The CD they dropped off is stylistically diverse, with a leaning towards joke rock: a four-wheel drive mud flappin' Supersuckers rocker; a slow Cream-like opus to skinheads; a few numbers that evoke Fear, Bad Brains, Rollins Band, and especially The Meatmen but not as overtly jokey. No Tesco Vee but the vocals are solid with plenty of sass."

Sean Bosler-The Village Voice

 

 

"I know you've all been waiting for a band to throw your bras and panties at
--look no further, I introduce you to the Giraffes.

Oh my God? I didn't know this raging hormonal ferociousness of a band was
right in my neighborhood. I ironically initially heard of The Giraffes from
Aesop Rock (the rapper) who suggested I check them out because I was a 'rock chick'. They used to play back-up for him (what?!). I'd noticed The Giraffes playing around quite a bit, but never made it to one of their live shows. I
soon learned how crazy this band rocks. Like, real crazy -I'm talking metal
licks, lots of roaring screams, fast-paced speedy drums and full-on bad-boy
attitude.Their latest record, Helping You Help Yourself (Apesauce) is a rocking and hilarious piece of art all in itself. While songs such as track two "Manchester United" takes the 'tude down a notch to a bellowing riff-rific ballad, and track four "Looting in the A.M." is even somewhat ska-like, most of these songs are just dirty -that's right -dirty like a porno. I bet chicks throw their bras and panties at these guys. Rounding out the album is the last track, "After the Orgy" which makes you realize these dudes are indeed getting 'somethin'"

-'Sup Magazine

 

 

I seem to remember my Time-Life Wildlife cards, saying that the Giraffe is the only animal which makes no sound. Bullshit! My ears are still ringing; of course I have tenitus. If the Dead Kennedys fought Cream to a bloody stand off, and you took the jumpsuit of the janitor who had to mop it up, and rung out the accumulated sweat from it into a shot glass- you'd just be coming close to the carnage I witnessed last night.

Valaire Van Slyke-Detroit Underground Press

 

With the New York DOJ temporarily through with harassing guitar titan Damien Paris, the Giraffes can return to doing what they do best -- blasting the indie rock edifice to pieces with a sonic attack best compared to interplanetary phenomena like spaceship battles or meteor showers. Word has it that the upcoming Giraffes EP (quickly to be followed by the long-playing Black Night White Castle, about which I am already frightened half to death) is a surf-rock piece, which isn't surprising, since Paris has proven he can do just about anything he wants with a twelve-string in his hands. Luna is best known as a light indiepop stage, but it's got the balls to handle the Giraffes if you do. Expect the velvet curtain behind the drum kit to be shredded to ribbons after a song or two.

-Triss Mcall

 

 

The Giraffes: An orgy coordinated by Rob Zombie and Frank Zappa, and involving the members of Motorhead, the Dead Kennedys, Deep Purple, the Misfits, and Thin Lizzy might have been what spawned this Brooklyn four-piece. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing these guys live yet, but I can only imagine that it’s a furiously exhilarating experience.

(Switzer) Village Voice

 

 

"We will never make it out alive"

"I stopped in at Luxx on a Wednesday night in mid-October because the owner, Mishka, told me to see this band called the Giraffes. I was so happy he did.
Opening with a George Thorogood country-blues jam, they immediately took over the club. They continued on, song after song, with pulsing eighties Glam-rock, club-like swing-a-billy, and twisted hard rock fused into a juggernaut of sound. More than anything, they played balls-on rock like the Cult. And helping that impression out was the lead singer, Aaron, who is quite possibly a reincarnation of Ian Westbury- a loud, commanding, deep, masculine voice with a presence. He is not asking you to listen, he is telling you. The Giraffes were electricity on the stage, handled with professionalism and rock-star arrogance. It was a beautiful thing to witness. The songs were tight, the band was tight, the guitar was played with Metallica/Guns N' Roses verve, and the music pounded your head like brilliant thunder. Each song was so powerful and absorbing that when the music ended, it took me a few seconds to register that it was over, that the spell was broken. These guys are not playing music- they are performing an invocation. My notes peter off about midway through their set because I was so absorbed in their music. I finally managed to write "Wow" at the end.Their CD, Helping You Help Yourself, is a tour-de-force of rock. "It's You I Pity" is a punk-influenced tirade with a blistering chorus. "Manchester United" is an infectious, rolling, bass-heavy Cult study that explodes wonderfully. "Million Dollar Man" is blues-house rock with early Van-Halen splintering guitars and machine-gun drums, with sex stuck in the middle. "Looting in the A.M." is a funky number with a Rage feel. "I'll Be Your Daddy" is exactly what you would expect it to be- a nasty, dirty, testosterone-driven feast. "After The Orgy" is a moody, sparse, end-of-the-night/looking-at-the-dawn ditty with ghostly vocals. This is a rock and roll band. A great rock and roll band. Of course the CD cannot do justice to having the Giraffes scream in your face at a club, but it is a good introduction. And that's fine with them. As their guitarist, Damien, told me after the Luxx gig, "A show should never sound like a CD." Good for them. Great for you if you catch them live."

Grant Moser, The Brooklyn Rail, Winter 2003