By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
"That's the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for rockabilly," Galaxy says on the phone from Phoenix, where the Galactix are opening for the Derailers. He speaks in a rich, rubbery voice, exuding enthusiasm and a hint of swagger -- a possible product of finally receiving some widespread recognition after years of hard work. The band's heightened status within the higher echelons of rockabilly has helped it get noticed in new places in both the United States and abroad. Statesiders are now hearing of the Galactix before they actually hear them.
Weiser says Galaxy and his mates ended up on Rollin' Rock after winning an annual battle-of-the-bands contest last August in Las Vegas, where the company's offices are located. Each year's grand prize is a one-record deal with Rollin' Rock. Weiser, whose talent roster is a virtual who's who of the best rockabilly artists from the last thirty years, says a few of the past contest winners have been acts he wouldn't normally sign. But, he adds, that's not the case with the Galactix.
9 p.m. Friday, October 26
Alice Coopers'town, 1909 Blake Street
"There are a lot of grade-B bands that tend to slide into one another in terms of performance," Weiser says. "Outside of those hundreds, there are maybe a dozen top bands in the United States with a unique, distinctive sound of their own. Paul Galaxy is one of those. They look right, they rock hard, and they're not afraid of having other influences."
"I'm not a history lesson. I push the limits on rockabilly," Galaxy says of his music, which he defines as "a guitar tone, an attitude and a lifestyle. This is how I live. We all do." But while he digs vintage fashions and old cars (Galaxy's '31 Ford coupe appears on the cover of Cross the Line), Galaxy says he's "not out to make each song we do sound period-perfect to 1956. That ain't for us."
Formed in 1995, the Galactix have become a staple on the Denver scene by scratching out a living in the region's bars and nightclubs. In 1999 they released their first CD, Flamethrower, which was recorded with drummer Bob Rupp. (Rupp left the group later that year to spend more time running his store, Rupp's Drums.) Minnick, a veteran timekeeper who has played with local guitar hero Rex Moser and others, filled Rupp's shoes.
On the new disc, the Galactix work their way through a solid set of rockabilly numbers that recall the ghosts of Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran, Sun-era Elvis and other stars of the genre. Galaxy handles singing duties with a clear voice reminiscent of Brian Setzer's, while his commanding guitar playing calls to mind Cliff Gallup, Scotty Moore and Cochran. Cuts such as "Pretty Kitty" and "Bad Girl" expand on cars, girls and alcohol, rockabilly's most trusted themes. Elsewhere, Galaxy lets his non-billy influences shine on the "Ghost Riders"-ish "Desert Air" and "Nightcrawler," which recalls Dick Dale's surf-guitar stylings.
Cross the Line -- which was recorded, mostly live, in Weiser's office over the course of three days last May -- also glows with a retro-sounding tone, a product of both the Galactix sound and Weiser's old-style engineering methods. The tracks that made it on the album were chosen, warts and all, for feel as much as marksmanship. "What the hell, it's rock and roll," Galaxy says.
Weiser recorded the band on ADAT, dumping the tracks down to his home computer and mixing and mastering them with Sound Forge software. And although he uses new technology, he primarily reverts to the long-gone methods of his '50s engineering idols. He places microphones several feet from the instruments to capture small imperfections most modern engineers strive to avoid. Minnick's kick drum, for example, was recorded from three feet away, while the rest of his kit was picked up by a single overhead mike. Weiser also eschews digital reverb effects, preferring to utilize dated tape-echo devices to create a roomy, rustic ambience and a vintage texture and feel.
"There are delays and bleed-ins all over the place," says Weiser. "It makes it more exciting. I hate this sterile crap that you hear all too often. It doesn't sound like music; it sounds like a dead man playing.
"It's a sick con game that's been played upon Americans for the last thirty years, that you need to go into this ridiculous studio with all these partitions and foam rubber. If you want foam rubber, go to the nuthouse. It's like cooking, man. You want the flavors to jell together; you don't want to separate them."