Last month, Detroit rock supergroup The Raconteurs released their highly anticipated debut album, Broken Boy Soldiers, to widespread public acclaim and a critical response that ranged from middling to ecstatic – including a decidedly middling review from our own Megan Giddings. But for those of us in the know, the idea of a Motor City answer to Blind Faith was never quite as enticing as the hysterical reports from NME had made the Raconteurs’ gestation period sound. That’s because we’d already heard the best supergroup in Detroit… and we knew that Jack White had nothing to do with it.

From their absurd blacklight sci-fi album art to their acronymous band name (ELP, anyone?), (John) Szymanski, (Dave) Shettler and (Keith) Morris are a supergroup thoroughly conscious of their status as such. Everything about this self-titled debut is bigger and more exaggerated than the sum of SSM‘s parts, right down to epic nine-minute closing jam “The Seer.”

But what keeps this power trio from descending into bloated self-parody is the ability of each member to take the modi operandi of their more well-established “day jobs,” and coax them into exciting new directions. Sure, the Farfisa-driven Nuggets raunch of Szymanski’s Hentchmen is all over tracks like “Exit Strategy,” “Ain’t Love,” and “Candy Loving”; but hotwired to Cyril Lords frontman Morris’ heavy guitar licks and some double-team percussion courtesy of ex-Sights drummer Shettler and the band’s secret weapon, a vintage drum machine, it’s a whole new beast – one which threatens to breathe some much-needed new life into that rickety bandwagon we call “Detroit garage.”

Ah yes, the old kiss-of-death “garage rock” rears its ugly head. But it’s all but impossible to discuss SSM, who share both crucial members and crucial sounds with the faltering phenomenon, without at least a passing reference. Fact is, a more cynical listener might call this album little more than a bunch of dolled-up Hentchmen songs; standout track “Put Me In” even recalls an unholy blend of those two maligned early-Noughties genres, garage rock and electroclash!

It would be foolish, however, to belabor such a shallow point when a rock’n'roll album as red-hot as this one stands before us. Who gives a shit what decade Szymanski’s keyboards are from, or whether or not Morris is playing an Airline? This album is living proof that Detroit rock’n'roll will continue to be some of the most vital around, whether there’s a “scene” to back it up or not.

Not that there aren’t still some grievances to be aired. Even the most solid of supergroups tend to suffer one key flaw, namely that not all band members are created equal. SSM is no exception. Maybe it’s because my personal preferences run considerably more towards Szymanski’s and Shettler’s other projects than to the Cyril Lords, maybe it’s just because he’s the only guy in the band whose name doesn’t start with an “S,” but Morris seems frequently outclassed by his more veteran bandmates; for every moment when his slurred dreamboat vocals are well-served (“No Looking Back” and “Dinosaur” are two examples), there’s another one, like the insufferable “Viking’s Daughter,” when you just wish he’d stop caterwauling and play his freaking guitar.

And, on an unrelated subject, if my previous mention of an almost nine-minute closing jam didn’t send up any red flags, let the record show: it’s gratuitous. But let’s keep in mind that this is a debut album, after all, and when the highs are as soaring as the ones reached here, who can resist cutting a little slack?

So when all is said and done, if Brendan Benson is right and the Raconteurs’ record can be considered the Rust Belt’s answer to Nevermind, then SSM’s debut must be Bleach: raw, ragged, crackling with potential; maybe a little too murky for its own good on occasion, but by and large a harbinger of great things to come. As for its relevance to the transitional scene from which it hails, well, this is as solid evidence as any that Detroit’s garage cognoscenti need not hang up their white belts yet. Strap on your space helmets, kids: this is Garage Rock 2.0.

Reviewed by Zach Hoskins