"...Here, the just-barely-under-control dynamic between soaring organ fills, Paul Weil's agonized, wild-eyed vocals, and the doomsday percussion shows just how far they've come. All aspects of their sound have been mastered, unified into an overwhelming, but-- and this is the real trick-- not overpowering force; it's direct evidence of the vastly improved songwriting on Oddeyesee, and there's more to come...an album rich with blasts of awe-inspiring firepower...the dividends paid by the decision to rein in their self-indulgent riff-flogging and take a few steps up the evolutionary ladder for Oddeyesee are indisputable, and more than welcome. Jane Goodall would be proud. -- 8.6/10"
"If a group of Iggy Pop fans were to resurrect the late 60s flashback inducing aura of Iron Butterfly, and find one of the heaviest bass players imaginable, the result would be the dark and dirty sound of The Apes. The D.C. natives convey the electrically charged vibe of early Sabbath, before Ozzy went all “Mama I’m Comin’ Home,” but give it a stop-start blues beat that combines the best elements of early metal and punk. The organs are like a Sunday at a maniacal Cubs game or a spooky 19th century carnival, and the vocals vary from distorted to robot-like. As the menacing keys open “Children Of Brainbow N Brainbro,” it’s clear The Apes thrive on sounding frightening, but they’re ability to avoid the sometime campiness of Alice Cooper, or the musical self-love of a 10 minute drum solo is commendable. -- 88%"
"Let us all share a moment of silence for the heavy metal guitar. The Apes have effectively rendered the Stratocaster an optional rock'n'roll accessory. Propelled by a Tokyo-smashing bottom end, appropriately sneering vocals, and, above all, Amanda Kleinman's gloriously deranged organ, the Apes abandon all the guitar flatulence associated with typical hard rock and get straight to the undiluted punishment. Though ordinarily associated with the good vibes of '60s psychedelia, this DC outfit have converted the organ into pure '70s bombast, dragging listeners through some swampy church graveyard from the darkest of Black Sabbath nightmares until they won't even notice that their friend the guitar is nowhere to be found. Though purists might need to step outside for a Satriani fix just to regain their equilibrium, most will just revel in the surprising addition that's been gained by subtraction."
"The Apes come out of D.C., and they sound like they have ideas about warlords and wealth distribution. An impression immediately gone -- everything's so close at hand that nothing can be discerned. The noise is blinding. If you could perhaps pull back some from the experience, an outline might be glimpsed. But there's nowhere to pull back to, the room's nothing but sound. Sonic clap and cigarette-burn girls leaning against walls that just can't get over being walls, holding the crowd in their hands. The drums sucker-punch, the keys like ice cracking. A sharp intake of breath and a blow to the head. No guitar, nothing clean.
None of these details really conveys much. The band played with heat. The singer all Union blue and scruff, screaming like the lights went suddenly out. The Apes are more than a few pins on the evening's map. These kids plays like the very idea of a map would send them into a homicidal rage. If difficult to pin down, the sound is still consistent, driving, brooding, moving toward something. Perhaps that's the key -- the movement, snarling processional. There's a procession of images beneath this, visible only in what they displace, mouths shoved open, doorway looking newly slit. This is the soundtrack for the darkly inverted, blood leaking out of helmet, abandoned subway, anything methodical, anything that seems to run on meat.
All this and danceable too. Like the Liars but not. Let's just say they rocked. Let's just say they sounded like a dog snarling at the end of its tether: Furious, yes, but thrilled too by its ever-tightening noose."