A story in the newest issue of Mojo goes eight pages strong explaining the rivalry, in the year of 1964 - the best selling year ever for 45s, between The Beatles and the Dave Clark Five. The Redwalls - now just the core of brothers Logan and Justin Baren from the group that began in high school in the suburbs of Chicago - would have liked to have been born almost 30 years earlier so they could have been around and old enough to have staked some kind of affiliation in that wax war. They would have enjoyed being able to bloody another schoolmate up if they stood in opposition to their personal side of the argument. The brothers would have been allies, siding with the Fab Four here, but had the competition been pitted between the Stones and their beloved mop-tops, things could have gotten dicey. It could have changed at a moment's notice and the bros would have had drag-em-out brawls, spilling out into the living room, down the stairs, into the wood-paneled rec room, banging against the weak legs of the ping-pong table and finally ending when the unpadded foundation wall was plowed into by an unprotected head. The knot would get worked out and then it would start up all over again sometime in a day or two. As they grew up and could finally learn to see eye-to-eye, the Baren boys could stand united in the understanding that there wasn't a better or a worse, just two bands without peers, even if they really did have four other peers/brothas from different mothas. The Redwaalls ooze with the British invasion swagger (less of the wholesomeness) and the worn-in fashion of the times, though it's more of the interesting thrift store fashion that they crush on. Justin speaks like a Keith Richards and…well, so does Logan, just with less affectation. They've both raided the drug closets and guzzled more than enough booze for 20 times as many young men at their young ages. They've used the abuse and the dreams to fuel the kind of ass-kicking, melodic rock and roll that with that time machine again and the dial pointed to the mid-to-late-60s would have been right in the mix of that vinyl fervor, when the actual music was cooler and more desirable than ringtones of that music. There's the bluesy wander and the sleepless preamble to all of the dead-on feeling of some of the most respected and classic music ever made. New song "Edge of the Night" is an ode to throwing the saloon doors open at six or seven in the morning after a torrential blitz of numbing drinking and carousing, just to be blinded by the city lights and a world that's already on the move toward respectable occupations and croissants and complicated coffee orders made by the drowsy, but rested. They should be ashamed of themselves - those people scuttling off to jobs - for not stretching their body and life to its end the way it seems that both of the Baren brothers have done for years and years. That bright light that smacks like a bolt of lightning upon leaving the pub is where the music would punch in were the Redwalls (as a band) set as a motion picture. It would be loud and it would sum everything up and it would frame the stumbles and it would stand in opposition to anyone thinking that there's anything more important than cleaning a day completely off the calendar through as much wavy sight-seeing and fumy, unfiltered cigarette smoke as possible.
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