Rock‑and‑roll rumors of death have been exaggerated for decades, but step inside any dimly lit club in Portland and you’ll feel its pulse kicking like a stubborn bass drum. That lifeblood courses loudest right now through Chris Margolin & The Contraband, a Northwest foursome that introduced themselves last year with the riff‑packed Carnival Station. If that LP was a proud announcement—“We’re here, and we’re hauling amps”—their brand‑new EP David St. is the afterburn, the five‑song flare telling everyone to keep their lighters handy.
Margolin and company don’t arrive draped in revisionist theory; instead, they double down on the essentials: snare snaps, gritty rhythm guitars, and lyrics that read like scribbles from a bar‑top napkin still wet with pint‑glass sweat. The opener barrels forward on a locomotive groove, and by the chorus of the title track you can practically smell the tube‑amp dust burning. When they ease off the throttle—yes, there are a few breath‑catching moments—you realize how deliberate that volume is: the hush only exists to make the next crash land harder.
Influences? They wear The Black Crowes on their sleeves like well‑earned patches, but Margolin’s voice is the wildcard that keeps imitation at bay. His rasp can sandpaper through a verse and, a heartbeat later, sail above the mix with a blues‑bright wail—vintage in tone yet unjaded, as though he’s discovering each syllable in real time. That vocal magnetism, paired with tightly wound arrangements, gives songs like “Even Stars Align” the kind of cathartic lift that leaves your sternum buzzing.
In the end, David St. doesn’t reinvent the rock wheel, but it does polish it to a mirror shine and send it careening downhill. The EP feels both grounded and freshly sparked, proof that when a band hits its stride, classic ingredients still taste bold. If there’s any justice left in rock land, this release will push Chris Margolin & The Contraband from promising newcomers to fixtures on every late‑night playlist worth its distortion.
