Pure Punk Picks
In The Congo – The Bongos
Back in the early eighties punk/new wave days, a band or song would sprout up that would make your ears perk up and your soul dance with glee.
It proclaimed to you that, No!- this was not another dull ballad or lame, soft rock hit. Or what a record company wanted you to experience as “rock.”
This was adrenaline shot through your veins, an electrical shot going up your spine, a jolt of pure energy and desire experienced inside yourself. And translated to yourself with a quick snare beat or a cutting guitar line or an emphatic vocal- all on display here.
This band was an obscure, New Jersey band- I recalled them as a New York band- Hey, about the same. (And I hear a bit of the New Jersey band at the time, The Feelies here, too.)
And they produced this one golden nugget of joy and excitement that I still can’t forget to this day.
With a slippery, slide-y guitar lick, like a snake slithering through a jungle, that leads us into a four chord, garage rock bash- the vocals incite a primitive scenario.
“In the congo you looked right at me, you made a promise to me. Natural enemies, natural predators. I want to row back home.” Pretty much all the lyrics except the chorus repeated about 87 times.
To me, this song seems like a battle of the sexes, in the raw, wild jungle of love and lust. And as this song beats forwards with its’ brutal, tribal thrust- it would seem obvious to me that the male combatent has met his match and is retreating after being conquered by the female, most definitely.
There’s a breakdown part- of course, before that term existed, where folks might believe that actual bongos are playing. Though I believe those are roto-toms, popular at the time. Narrow, thin, snare like drums that had little sustain when hit. And there’s a neat, sustaining guitar part that probably makes me think of The Feelies.
This song is fun, full of energy, full of force and fury and fuckin’ great!
When I listen to this song now, I want to drape spools of thread to my ears, adhesion met with scotch tape, which I then, ignite, setting myself on fire while dancing to a devilish, Irish jig out upon a high-moneyed balcony of a condo, not a congo, overlooking the skyline of Greater Boston, much like where I work.
I will pause a second to take the view in, before I topple off the balcony, crashing ecstatically onto the pavement while the chorus of this song repeats- I don’t know, who keeps count?- about 87 times.
(Slimedog)
