Mermen Create a Sound That Grabs, Tumbles, Seduces

SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO â€”  Even though he is a monster guitarist, respected by the likes of Joe Satriani and David Lindley, the Mermen’s Jim Thomas still seems to let insecurity tug at his insides. Forty-two years old and playing in his first and only band, he revealed in a recent interview how difficult it is for him to relax and enjoy.

Maybe that edgy anxiety adds to his art. In any case, over the course of his trio’s 90-minute set of instrumentals at the Coach House on Friday night, Thomas unleashed a torrent of simply dazzling excursions, from the slow-burning opener “Madagascar� through a jazzy, surf-rock finale called “Joni Mitchell’s Home.�

Refusing to be pigeonholed by soaring in all directions--from pretty, atmospheric psychedelia to electrifying Hendrix-esque soloing to punchy punk-inspired riffing--Thomas, bassist Allen Whitman and drummer Martyn Jones created a careening, intoxicating sound that bit, grabbed, tumbled and seduced via an array of tones, tempos and textures.

Trippy music for guitar-heads? Guitar sojourns for trippin’? Either way, at the heart of their style lies a desire to explore the unknown, though with a patient approach that translates into an unrushed feeling on stage. Like improvisational jazzmen, the Mermen (from San Francisco) share in the musical moment, giving each other room to breathe (no showboating here) and allowing spontaneous departures to unfold in a manner that seems and sounds natural.

Performing as usual without a set list, Thomas appeared to choose--and reconstruct--his selections on impulse.

In “Honey Bomb,� he completely dismantled the recorded version and rebuilt it with heavier, jabbing staccato chords and plucking bass lines. The Mermen put their own twist on the surf standards “Latina� and “Casbah,� giving the latter a lighter, bluesy, poppier quality.

Though “Scalp Salad� and “Slippin’ the Glimpse� rocked the house, the band slowed down several times to explore a softer, subtler side. “Ragland� was atmospheric, cinematic, epic-sounding; Thomas’ galloping guitar lines would have fit comfortably into an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. Equally appealing was the sweet-jazzy “Good Bye.�

Near-euphoria was reached during the strongest offering of the set, the mesmerizing (and aptly titled) “With No Definite Future and No Purpose Other Than to Prevail Somehow,� which brilliantly fused Jones’ authoritative bashing, Whitman’s sinewy bass lines and Thomas’ creamy, colorful leads. The audience seemed suspended by the song’s aching, contemplative melancholy, and the band’s eloquence.

Still, working on a very dimly lit stage and interacting only rarely with the small but enthusiastic audience, the band projected a less-than-endearing presence.