Ah yes, one of THOSE albums. A chill, folkish bedroom romp. Thing is, I love these records. And you likely do/did at one point. If you happen to find yourself in the past tense, may I present The Bibs. Or if that’s your present, don’t let The Bibs become your past. The Detroit group has a far more roguish past than what’s present on this debut but it still shines through. This is The Zoltars on ketamine; a drunken xxNoBBQxx stringing together melodies that don’t fall into the coal of the spit. There’s very little excitement in volume or display, but damn it if the slacker can-do-ism of Live from the Fish Houses isn’t the most delightful rainy day interlude. It falls down lightly, but has enough comforting sounds to keep you warm despite a cool breeze passing through the hall. It’s alive—and though it may suffer from a speed deficiency because there’s little Vitamin C from a hidden sun to soak up (but there is some that peaks through the clouds)—but every once in awhile you want to live in the slow-mo. Fantastic slooooooowwwwww burn basement jam.
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