Whoop Whoop. Guess who’s back on the bottle, y’all?
Today’s drunk review is brought to them folks over @ Ghost Tequila. Now, I’m a known whiskey drinker, but show me a bottle with a cool ass skeleton rib cage thing, and I’m liable to give it a whirl. What makes this review, even more, fun is I don’t usually fuck with the fine agave plant’s sprits. This is uncharted territory. But, real talk: holy horse nuts, I’m shit hammered.
I'm embarrass your family at Christmas drunk. Yell at your uncle cuz he likes to listen to Alex Jones drunk. (Yeah, I’m a liberal. Fight me at the park, neckbeards.) This here Ghost Tequila is like if Patron didn’t taste like cat piss, and was something you’d go out of your way to order. For real, tho – Patron sucks. Who’s ordered that shit aside from that time the random loud guy with the shaved head made you do a shot with him? You know who I’m talking about. He wears a dress shirt with no undershirt, wears a bottle of cologne, his shaved his is shiny, and he drags around a girlfriend who looks miserable. Usually, her boobs are hanging out of her shirt.
Anyhow, on to the music. This week, we’re talking about that ol’ Scott H Biram’s new joint The Bad Testament. This is some good timing music, right here. At first, I thought homie went and got himself a band, but nope. Still just Scott. But, damn, I thought dude got some John Bonham beats happening, but it’s just a kick drum. Blame the bottle, dawgs.
There’s a good mix of some country bummers on here, which I like. I like my Scott H Biram like I like my Ben Nichols: all fucked up. But, the upbeat songs are rad, too. I mean, come on. Scott knows his ballpark. He ain’t gonna go all left turn on us. He knows how to play some bluesy country with the best of em’. He’s a good hermano.
The Bad Testament is classic Scott H Biram. No surprises, just some good ass country music. I’m on team Scott. This bottle has a real dent in it. Holy shit. Scott is cool. Listen to Scott H Biram. Do it for America. Scott H Biram might be the only person who can save us at this point. A little bit of the bottle, a little smoke, and some other cool lyric. Yay for Ghost Tequila. Yay Scott H. Biram.
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The Bad Testament is out tomorrow and you can find it on the Bloodshot site, iTunes, etc.
Photo by Christopher Cardoza
Some bio: With the heart of a genuine Texas bluesman, the head (banging) of a Zappa and Lemmy disciple, and boots resting in the dust outside of town at sunrise, Scott H. Biram journeys through the harrowing human condition like no one else. A walk on the Biram side straddles the chasm between sin and redemption and The Bad Testament lands somewhere west of the Old Testament and south of an AA handbook. It’s a record of hard-grinding lost love, blues and deep, dark Americana.
Scott H. Biram conjured the words and music for The Bad Testament during mad alchemical sessions at his homemade studio in Austin, TX. Through stacks of amps, spools of cable, and a prodigious collection of microphones, he spread his technical wings wide, while never losing the immediacy honed from a life on the road. He added a drum kit and rustic vocal duet to his skill set (which already includes all guitars, bass, keyboards, vocals, and percussion on the album). And strip away the one-man band eccentricity, SHB is out-writing any meeting taker on Music Row. The man writes on a razor’s edge of aggression and deftness, thoroughly contemporary but steeped in the backwaters, back porches and back alleys of our collective musical heritage.
Japandroids released a new album on Friday, January 27th 2017. Let me repeat that- Japandroids released a new album!!!! The thrill of this release to me was probably only rivaled by Sturgill's A Sailor's Guide in recent years. The last album Japandroids released was 2012's Celebration Rock, which a buddy of mine turned me onto way too late in that year. Not sure how I had missed out/dismissed these guys, but I was hooked by the time the ending fireworks were exploding on that album.
On Japandroids' first two albums, the themes were clear- life lived with abandon, with all of your best buddies around you to enjoy every last drop. On Near to the Wild Heart of Life, the enjoyment and positivity is still there, but there seems to be a lens on home and/or the road. In short, this is Japandroids' road album. Most of the songs on this album revolve around leaving home, missing home, or coming back home. But, it's not necessarily a depressed longing for home. It's more of an excitement of what leaving (and going back) home can promise. As someone who left my rural upbringing behind over ten years ago, both of those things hit very close to home for me.
I don't know if it's just me and my excitement for this album, but every single drum beat on this album hits harder than anything the Japandroids have done up until this point. Every guitar note is perfect. It seems that on all Japandroids releases, they've perfected the art of opening/closing songs and Near to the Wild Heart of Life is no different. In my mind, these two songs (opener- "Near To The Wild Heart Of Life" and closer- "In A Body Like A Grave") are two of the three best songs on this album with "North East South West" coming in at a close third.
If you're a fan of rock and roll, of reckless abandon, and of anything Japandroids has ever put out, you need to grab Near to the Wild Heart of Life. If you have been on the fence about listening to Japandroids for whatever reason, I strongly urge you to give in and listen to this album. I saw these guys live around 2013 and had one of the best show experiences I'd ever had- everyone smiling from ear to ear and shouting along to every "oh oh oh oh!" If you get a chance to check them out live, I would definitely suggest that as well. Go support music, y'all!
Near to the Wild Heart of Life is available everywhere and way you normally consume music.
I ran a poll on Twitter last week to 'force' me to review an album. I threw this in on a lark. This was the choice I hoped wouldn't win, but then, I knew it probably would because y'all just wanna see me talk trash. Okay then, let's see how this goes.
Upchurch, Upchurch the Redneck, Ryan Upchurch… comedian, hick-hop rapper. His most recent album (on Spotify) is titled Chicken Willie. The cover features Mr. Upchurch proudly presenting a prized farm fowl. On a surface level alone, this is far more interesting than 99.9% of the other hick-hop album covers I've seen. It shows a uniqueness and a willingness to stand out from the posing-with-muddy-trucks crew.
As country rappers go, Mr. Upchurch is uh, not the most inferior. I know that's like saying he's one of the taller midgets little people, but it is what it is. His flow is not bad. He doesn't rap like he's got a mouth full of Red Man or chicken wings or Keystone like most hick-hop dudes. Basically what I'm saying is that he doesn't sound like a fat honky (I can say that; I'm a non-skinny honky). By no means is he in the realm of talent of say, Yelawolf, but on rapping ability alone, he's head and shoulders above most in his genre.
The songs lean a bit more toward hop than hick. The vocals are front and center and the beats are loud and staccato. It gets pretty tiresome. There's plenty of acoustic guitar and banjo down in the mix, but mostly it's more table dressing than side dish.
The title track is a statement of purpose, if that purpose is saying he's a redneck, white-trash, hillbilly. Mr. Upchurch brags about being the realest motherf**ker, being higher than a tree stand, and being uh, Chicken Willie. There's not much more to it. Not sure how he got the nickname - perhaps from having a 'special' relationship with the cover model chicken?
By the next track, it's clear that's all this album is about. The bragging, not the forbidden love. He's baiting his haters to "come and get it." "It" is a blast from a shotgun, apparently. I'm a little worried about this review now.
There's lots of stuff about trucks and fighting and never turning down and drinking and girls and that really covers most of it. Throughout this album, Mr. Willie has warned me to avoid his neck of the woods and after this review (and even before) I'm likely to heed his cautions.
There's at least a minor improvement from other hick-hop lyrics in this mess of threats and posting up. There's a hint of humor, some traces of self deprecation, and a few interesting turns of phrase. Upchurch is again, one of the honor students at his school for morons.
Basically, I wish I hadn't put this album on the poll. I'd rather review the best of the best or the lowest garbage in existence. It's hard to appropriately hate on Upchurch's album because I've heard so much worse. That said, I still can't stand hick hop. Until they make better use of country instrumentation and songwriting, and until the bulk of the "rappers" don't sound like it's a hobby they dabble in on breaks at the pawn shop, it's just not for me, dawg.
But you know, if you're into crap, Chicken Willie is at the very least, one of the less offensively stinking dog turds. Please don't shoot me with a 20 gauge, mister chicken f***er.
Ladies and gentlemen, chirren, and babies, in-betweens,
grown folks, fuck ups, tweakers, booze hounds, smokers, tokers, midnight
jokers, weirdos, dweebs, sluts, dorks, nerds, rad dudes, sick chicks,
hillbillies, city slickers, burnouts, jerkoffs, and just plain ol’ cool
motherfuckers – Band of Heathens has a new record out next Friday, and it’s like a goddamn
ray of sunshine.
That’s right, you bearded weirdos, we’re doing the drunk
review thing again. And this week is brought to you by Two Buck Chuck at Trader
Joe’s cuz my wife buys it by the case, and I’m already a bottle of red in. So,
let’s get talking about these here Heathens. (My breath smells like your high
school best friend’s hot mom. You know who I’m talking about. You didn’t know
then, but you know now what was up.)
Hailing from my current locale of Austin, TX – The Band of
Heathens got themselves a new record out, it’s called Duende, whatever the fuck that means. I had to Google it, and I
think I heard them say something about awesome shit being one with the universe
and all of the feels. Cool. I like it when the universe doesn’t screw you. So,
good on ya, Heathens.
But, about this record. This shit smokes, dawgs. I may have
consumed a whole lot of alcoholic drinks before this here engagement, but I can
tell you, Duende ain’t “no mouse
music” as the dude from Arhoolie Records
likes to say. Instead, the record sounds like if every awesome dude you knew
with killer taste in records was like, “fuck it man, let's start a band.” And
that band ruled. Duende features the
best parts of acts like JD McPherson,
Black Keys, and the Beach Boys (it’s those huge harmonies). There’s even shades of My Morning Jacket and Neil Young, The Band (Songs from the Big Pink, anyone?) as
well.
Sugar Queen is a
super funky groover that just sounds like the south, man. These dudes totally
sound like an Austin band. The groove, the playing is as tight as a duck fart, and
it feels effortless. The vibe is transparent, and there’s no lame showboating
with taking extended solos, which The Band of Heathens could be that band, but
rather they’re focused on a hard as nails song.
I hate it when music journalists, or guys drunk, alone in
their home office (me) use the word “textured” but, in this one, singular case,
it’s got merit. The Band of Heathens managed to take a whole bunch of sounds,
and layer them in this honky tonkin’ Beatles way that pays off. There’s so much
going on existentially on this record, and I think that’s why I’m crushing on
it. Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I’d take Duende to prom. I’d be a gentlemen. I’d buy it a beautiful flower,
save my paychecks from Blockbuster video and do it big because Duende deserves it.
Bottle two is officially open. I’m going to be hungover as
fuck tomorrow. Let’s cut to the chase: buy Duende.
Go see The Band of Heathens on tour. I bet these songs crush live. Maybe, buy
these guys some shots. Yeah. Shots.
RIP Princess Leia. I need to sleep. Band of Motherfucking
Heathens, y’all – a band’s band that keeps the heart of rock and roll beating.
Ok, I just quoted Huey Lewis in a run on sentence. Good night.
Metallica has a new record out, Hardwired to Self-Destruct and people are losing their shit. And for once, people losing their shit about something non-political feels like slipping into a warm bath of goodness. So, you know what? Bring on the four horsemen – we need them way more than the awkward conversations about the “Alt-right” or emails, or whatever was trending around the Thanksgiving table yesterday.
Metallica has always had a weird place in social and cultural history, in that they’re like the Beatles or Stones: they no longer own their allure or mystery – we do. Metallica at this point are like Stephen King, even if you don’t think your worlds cross over, there’s easy money saying they do. The people, their fans, really everyone, has a Metallica story, a frame of reference, or at least a supposed notion of what the band is and represents – that’s very hard to do in the world we live in today, and the flash in the pan celebrity culture.
The reason people are reacting to the new album is that it’s exactly what people have wanted for twenty years. For over two decades, Metallica has maintained a loyal fan base that worships them, but mainstream adoration, where they belong wasn’t happening due to their self-inflicted artistic choices.
Metallica belongs on the covers of magazines, they’re one of the few bands who are relevant in a world where more kids are playing music on laptops than in garages. Without that omnipresence of James Hetfield making it look like anyone can do his job, a lot of those possible converts are left with some dickhead throwing cake over his turntables, or some dork rapping about thrift store shit.
People are starved for good rock and roll that’s accessible because most people are too lazy to hunt for the good stuff, hence why Luke Bryan has a career. But, Metallica takes fast, blazing fuck your rules and package it so a fifteen-year-old and a fifty-year-old and share the same angst, the same gut punch. The world is opening their arms of Hardwired to Self-Destruct because it represents a notion of self-ownership, and pays off in ways that are too big to gauge. People who like heavy music or just the sound of a guitar cranked through an amplifier to deafening levels have a thing with Metallica.
I don’t begrudge Metallica for the Load/Re-Load stuff. You shouldn’t either. They were a band trapped in their image. What do you do when you’ve written one of the biggest albums of all time? You can’t follow it up. Anything you release will pale in comparison. So, they went AWOL artistically and wrote a record reflective of their tastes, their current passions – they were men in their thirties who were just a little sick of trying to recreate a style of music they helped solidify into an art form.
People evolve, we grew in and out of phases, but the cultural touchstones in our lives circle the wagons more than once. When I was around eleven, I discovered Metallica. I was prime. It was 1992, and they were massive. I dove in headfirst; I had their Binge and Purge boxset, all the records, the VHS tapes, I had a bazillion t-shirts, and a whole wall dedicated to my heroes. But, I was also listening to punk, discovering hardcore, digging deeper into metal. By the time I was fourteen, Metallica was super lame because of bands like Pantera, Sepultura, Black Flag, or ironically, The Misfits existed. Metallica wasn’t that. They couldn’t hang with The Great Southern Trendkill, or whatever I was into – they were writing blues songs with Marianne Faithfull droning along, or trying to go country rock a time or two. I didn’t get it; we didn’t get what they were trying to do.
And it’s there where this all lies: we never got them. Because they’re evolving, emotional human beings that aren’t here for our carnal pleasure. Metallica defined music, abandoned that music to try different things, and never looked back. We chastised them for not being the Metallica playing Orion, but doing stuff like Some Monster – instead, we watched a psychological experiment when four dudes create what interests them, and that’s not a bad thing. Looking back on it, Load and Re-Load aren’t bad records; they’re just different – they’re a step away from what was expected of the band.
Following that period, Metallica found themselves looking back in the mirror, rediscovering the music they helped forge. Metal wouldn’t have survived without Metallica, and to think otherwise is foolish. Once, they had the bad vibes out of their systems; they could slowly figure out the pieces again by instead of running from their ghosts, but embracing them. We got St. Anger, which wasn’t a great record, but showed the band was thinking, considering and interested in heavy metal again. Then came Death Magnetic, which minus a horrid mastering job, isn’t that bad, it’s just a watered down, trying too hard version of the band.
Hardwired changes everything.
The Metallica you were sure were long gone were dormant, were waiting silently somewhere in the depths. The songs feel old, they feel right, and most importantly, they feel genuine. Over the last decade, instead of trying to run with the pack of music that’s evolved into insane directions they could never compete with nor replicate, Metallica have accepted their position in the world of heavy metal – they’re the kings, the band that cannot be touched. You can love Megadeth or Slayer till the cows come home, but they didn’t write Battery or to wit, Enter Sandman.
Hardwired to Self Destruct doesn’t feel trite, or slapped together. It’s a cohesive piece of music that captures those glorious riffs as they’re meant to be heard – loud and without a sense of civility. The songs are fueled by a new age, new technology, and the human crisis driving it all. We’re not getting some new fangled version of a band that’s cool trying to sound old. Instead, we’re getting the rare treat of a band thirty plus years into the game, catching lightning once again. By this time in most bands careers they’re putting out jack off sessions, no one cares to hear, and no one buys.
We take this record so personally because it feels like a coming home, an affirmation of what we want out of our heroes, out of ourselves – we see the band many of us growing up on reclaiming that thing we felt we lost a long time ago. It feels good and feels right. Maybe rock and roll is getting gearing up for another wave, and it’d be nice, thats for sure. There’s a climate for snottiness and a middle finger at authority right now. A few months ago, I bought my first Metallica shirt in over twenty years. I gotta admit, it felt weird having the kid bag my groceries tell me that my shirt ruled. He fist bumped me as a token that we belong to the same tribe. I can live with that now that there are a few grays in my beard these days.
That’s the magic of what Metallica are capable of: they’re reigniting something old, and something pure and Hardwired to Self-Destruct unlocks what we’ve been craving. Old dudes are happy, long hairs are happy, and suddenly, it’s cool to put on Blackened in the bar, and it just feels right. I hope that kid at the grocery store enjoys this more than anyone.
Rodney Parker & 50 Peso Reward have been present in the Texas Music Scene, for lack of a better term, for the better part of 15 years now. They've recorded sporadically, are best known for a Bruce Springsteen cover, and haven't ever been quite at the leading edge of the attack. What they've recorded has been pretty stellar, but much like another of my personal favorites, Javi Garcia, they haven't had the output of the leaders of the scene.
What sets Rodney Parker apart from the pack in Texas is his ability to pare a song, a verse, a line & a phrase, to its bare essentials in order to achieve maximum impact.
In a way it seems fitting that Rodney Parker & 50 Peso Reward are best known for their cover of the Springsteen classic, "Atlantic City," because Parker's style is reminiscent of Springsteen at his best. It's been said that a picture can say a thousand words, but in the hands of the gifted writer, a few phrases can create an entire movie. Parker has always been remarkable at creating memorable scenes with just a phrase or two. The lines from "Tell Me What It Is" come to mind, "...an hour back and forth, just to tell me she's in pain, girl why are you screaming it, you know I know my name..." To me, this is pretty masterful songwriting, that evokes a cinematic quality.
With Bomber Heights Parker and his band, 50 Peso Reward, have created a masterful, literary, cinematic statement.
The album begins with "Steppin' Into Sunshine." The song offers a series of visuals such as "...there is a priceless work and a box knife" that contrast images of beauty and destruction, light and darkness, before the quietly triumphant line "I'm steppin' into sunshine". It sets up the album perfectly.
"Skin and Bones" follows as a prequel to Megaphone, which is found on The Apology Part II.
The next major highlight of the album is "The Road Between None and Some," another masterpiece of cinematic lyricism that is (according to my own highly unscientific poll) the best loved song on the album. The bass line and laid-back pacing of the lyrics belies the dark subject matter, and it works to perfection.
"Night In My Hand" features the loud distorted guitars that have been a hallmark of past Rodney Parker & 50 Peso Reward albums. It serves as a fine change of pace before the heavy subject matter of "Ballast," which also could function as a companion piece to "I'm Never Getting Married" from 2003's The Lonesome Dirge and "The Day Is Coming" on Bomber Heights. "Ballast" again showcases Parker's incomparable ability to create vignettes that are as true to life as anything I've ever heard. If "you were out like a light of my life" doesn't hit you in the heart you might be missing yours.
The album concludes with the dreamy "Moon," a song I see as akin to "Space Oddity" in that it uses the imagery of a man in space (or on the moon as it were) who is to far away to ever return home to the innocence of childhood.
I suggest Bomber Heights for anyone who is a fan of Texas Country, roots rock in general and well written lyrics. The musicianship by Danny Skinner (Guitar, Banjo & Accordion), Brooks Kendall (Bass), Zach Galindo (Lead Guitar) & Grady Don Sandlin (Drums) is nothing short of first rate.
My only wish is that Rodney Parker & 50 Peso would put out more music, but the truth is, you don't write & play like this without being a perfectionist & this album is fairly near perfection to my ears.
Look, I know I’m late to the party on the new Dexateens record. Life happens. I slept on it, ok? My mistake, my bad, and my screw up. But, hey – who doesn’t like a month's late review?
Tonight, we’re hitting them White Russians. And maybe a few Miller Lites to get them out of my fridge. (Side note: Good Half and Half is crucial for a White Russian. That sweet cream is a must have. So much better than milk.)
Apologies aside, The Dexateens turn up the rock and roll, and kick it into straight-up overdrive, and give it fast and hard, kinda like a magnificent skin flick. The songs on Hallelujah are country as hell, but get lit, too. I wasn’t too familiar with The Dexateens, but after hearing them, I’d love to see them tour with Quiet Hollers or Lucero, that’d be a good damned damn tour.
Anyhow, back to this record. Hallelujah goes hard. These dudes play it filthy and you know what, I like this shit. This record sounds like some dudes blowing huge clouders in the back of a Grand Turino on some backroad in the middle of coal country. I bet the singer of this band sold speed to kids at his high school, cuz you don’t bring it like this unless you did some dirt once or twice. The Dexateens sound like beat up black Chuck Taylors – nice and comfortable and feels just right.
Seriously, though. I’m in love with the filthy guitar tones, the stories and the imagination intertwined in the songs. I’m binge-watching Justified right now, and I feel like a few of the scenes up coulda used this here song “Shake and Bake Astrovan” when referring to some sketchy-ass folks up in the hills.
Just popped open a beer. This is going well; I can see straight. But, I feel like a dumbass for not knowing about The Dexateens, this is my shit right here. I’m a sucker for songs about failing and doing it with a smoke in your mouth, and a finger pointed at the sky. Songs about binge drinking, meth, loner chicks with nothing to look forward to – these guys wrote a Bukowski novel, but set in the south. Plus, The Dexateens are blasphemous, I love me some songs about calling church a bunch of bullshit. (I’m a heathen, come at me, bro.)
I think you should buy this record. It’s got some good moments, and you could do a lot worse than ripping some bong hits to The Dexateens. "Jimmy John’s" is an awesome song. It makes me wanna do bad shit.
I give this a four out of five stars. Good fuckin’ times. That groove is nasty, the songs are hot as fuck foot stompers, and they make me wanna drink (more) and smoke the kush while dancing alone in my garage. Ok, I’m gonna puke. Review over.
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You can buy it here and here and probably some other places.
If you're like me, one of the first things you'll notice about Erik Dylan is his vocal similarity to 1990's Steve Earle. It's undeniable. There's also some Chris Knight, some Guy Clark, and some John Mellencamp in there.
Don't let that dissuade you though; this guy's no cheap imitation, and he's got "it." "It," as in songwriting chops, a singular point of view, and an indefinable gravity. He's even got a blessing of sorts from the Earle family by way of Steve's niece providing backing vocals on lead single "Pink Flamingos."
Dylan's written songs for or with Nashville acts like Thompson Square, Eric Paslay, and Kip Moore, but his own music hardly fits the mold for radio airplay. Not to say radio isn't moving his direction, but Dylan's sound would still be considered edgy by Top 40 standards. It's not squarely in the realm of Americana either - there's a clear commercial bent to the sound - he resides somewhere in the middle ground.
And the writing… the writing is pure heartland. Downtrodden blue collar souls, broken hearts, and small town dreamers populate his songs with a depth that's detailed enough to carry a songwriters' night, but a universal appeal to grab more commercially-oriented souls.
All that said and I haven't even mentioned the album yet. Heart of a Flatland Boy is out Friday, and if the first four paragraphs perked your ears, you need to click play or download on this record.
The aforementioned "Pink Flamingos" is "Feel Alright" (Earle) meets "Goodbye Earl" (Dixie Chicks) and if that ain't the formula for a killer tune, I don't know what is. It's a backroads justice tune with a little dark humor and a lot of devil-may-care attitude.
"Astronaut" is a dreamer's anthem. It's a little fanciful and a lot of fun. A working man dreams of getting out, whether by rocket ship or lottery windfall, but he's stuck in a map dot town with a "Copenhagen habit and a GED." And that line there is the hook that will stick in your head long after the album is over, whether you want it to or not.
The album's most moving song is "Fishing Alone." It's a recounting of regrets after losing a close family member that touches the heart and sets the most important things in life in proper order. Give it a listen and then go call your dad.
Heart of a Flatland Boy is a bold debut, full of stories and emotions. It deals less in platitudes than it does in reality, more in grit than gloss, but there's still more than enough catchiness to appeal to even the most passive listener. Dylan is a promising talent who's landed with an album that already surpasses many artists' potentials. It's well worth your time.
RIYL: Steve Earle, Chris Knight, John Mellencamp, Reckless Kelly.
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Heart of a Flatland Boy is available on iTunes, Amazon, etc.
For your reading pleasure: a drunk review of The Sword’s Low Country
Duuuude.
You know who rules? The Sword. They rule so hard, they ran out of rocks
to smash your head against. And you know what, mayne? They can even
strum on them acoustics! That’s right my fellow longhairs, our favorite
space nerd-cum-Black Sabbath- worshiping burnouts from Austin have a new
record and there ain’t an electric guitar in sight. (Insert Matthew
Dazed and Confused guy voice: and that’s all right, all right, all
right. Now, go buy a Lincoln)
But, for real,
though, Low Country is still The Sword, but when jammed acoustic, it
feels like some of those timeless jams like My Captain from Grand Funk
Railroad, or some even some Moody Blues, or Crosby, Stills, Nash, and
Young. Now, before you listen and you get your Doors shirt in a twist, I
ain’t saying this is classic rock, I am saying it has a vibe that works
and harkens to an old spirit we don’t get much of these days. Cuz,
seriously, my dawgs – when is the last time you heard an acoustic record
that rips that wasn’t straight country or some guy with a beard in a
flannel? This is a throw back to the 70’s and makes drinking beer super
easy.
(If you’re keeping score, we’re drinking
Rum and Cokes with limes. Cuba Libre’s if you’re into the fancy titles
and such. I’m on number four.)
It doesn’t suck,
like at all. You should buy a fat sack of that purp, turn the lights
down low and get all down like you wanna talk to Sampson. And then, get
weird to The Sword – yeah. Get weird to The Sword. Go to their shows,
buy all of their shit. I own two Sword shirts, cuz I’m cool. You need to
be cool, too.
The Sword, Low Country – fucking awesome, fully sick.
There's something to be said for consistency and dependability. Some consider those descriptors to be boring, but I think they're sturdy and certain. Without the unfailing constants of minerals and gravity, we'd all be floating in the void. Some things just are. Some bands just are.
Blackberry Smoke is. They are and they endure. If you want steady and meaty southern rock n' roll, look to them. Like the mountain, they stand strong against the winds and rains of change. If you're a fan, do you want to hear Blackberry Smoke has cut their hair and smoothed their edges for country radio? Do you want to hear that they've hit the LSD tabs and decided to explore progressive rock? Hell no! We want Blackberry Smoke to give us thick riffs, hard twang, real life, and foot stomping grooves!
That's what they do on their new offering, Like an Arrow. It wasn't broke, and they didn't fix it. Lead man Charlie Starr still has a cocky whine to his voice and he still spits attitude and proverb filled lines about drinking, living, and love. The rhythm section still kicks, they keys still pound, and the guitars still rip.
Opener and first single, "Waiting for the Thunder," is appropriately electric and a gripping welcome back. It's all buzzing guitars and big harmonies and there's even a great organ into guitar breakdown at the bridge. If this song doesn't get you fired up, rock music might not be your thing.
Later on, "The Good Life" breaks you off some fatherly advice. Songs like this run the risk of falling into the "listing songs" category, but Blackberry Smoke keeps it real by focusing more on the messenger and on applying the message - proving that walking the walk is always a bigger impression than talking the talk.
"Workin' For a Workin' Man" is a growling anthem for the blue collar man. It's fraught with anger and determination. "This bait and switch is a son of a bitch" sings Starr, full of piss and vinegar at the injustices eternally shoveled upon the laborer.
"Free on the Wing" closes out Like an Arrow with a guest appearance from Gregg Allman. The song finds hope at the end of a relationship, exploring the ways people move on. The harmonies are especially sweet on this track. Like an Arrow is a perfect title for another great effort from Blackberry Smoke. An arrow goes right where it's aimed, time always rolls on by, some stay low, some get high, and Blackberry Smoke only puts out Grade A slabs of country flavored Southern rock. If you've never given them a listen, they're highly recommended to fans of Whiskey Myers, Fifth on the Floor, Skynyrd, The Black Crowes, etc.
So, Courtney Granger has a solo record, Beneath Still Waters, and it’s out Friday. It’s nice. It’s warm like bathwater, or a cool like a beer out of the fridge, welcoming as the Louisiana sun.
Granger is best known for playing some mean-ass fiddle in the Pine Leaf Boys, who tend to land more on the side of traditional Cajun/Louisiana music. But, on his first solo record, this is straight up classic country.
Beneath Still Waters doesn’t feel contrived or hokey, or worst of all, trying too hard. There’s nothing worse than some dude breaking his back to come off as a genuine. Even better? This record has nothing to do with Nashville - it’s pure Louisiana, so it’s free of any contextual chains that could poison the product. Instead, the songs on Beneath Still Waters feel like a love letter to George Jones with hints of Merle Haggard, Conway Twitty (lots of Conway Twitty) and you know what? They smoke.
If you’re on a steady diet of the stuff Jason Isbell, Chris Stapleton, or Sturgill Simpson are doing, you need to get Courtney Granger in your life. I think the reason this record hits so hard is that unlike a lot of the garbage chute of music that dumps daily, it’s always a treat to get a homegrown, crowd-sourced record that doesn’t miss a lick.
The playing is airtight, and the songs feel like gut punches. When you’re singing some barroom bummer tunes, that emotion, that vacancy needs to be front and center. That’s why so many artists fail: you can’t fake it. Like an actor, a good country singer needs to be able to draw from the well and pull some serious shit to make your heart ache with theirs. That’s the magic ingredient. Courtney Granger’s got that mojo up in his roux and ain’t nobody’s momma got better. This dude has done Louisiana proud.
I’m hammered after a long night hanging out with my dad who drinks Jack
Daniels like a madman. My mom went to bed hours ago.
Anyhow, back to the record:
We drank ¾ of a bottle of Jack Daniels – wait, nope. I don’t drink Jack.
That was my dad. I just drank a lot of Lone Star and Jameson. A lot. Sorry,
let’s do a fucking review:
Being from the middle of nowhere sure as hell didn’t screw up Kentucky’s
Knocked Loose’s ability to write some seriously pissed off music. Their new
record, Laugh Tracks is a showcase of all the songs, riffs and sounds
that hardcore kids have wanted their favorite bands to drop. There’s some
Turmoil, some Terror, some Comeback Kid and a lot of goddamn violence. As my
Australian friends would say, “these cunts are fully sick.” (Side convo: go
watch some YouTube videos about all the weird shit Aussies say. It’s incredibly
odd and hilar.)
Oblivions Peak is all mad as fuck and foot stomp-y. I like that cuz, I’m hammered and
want to throw my computer at my television and swing my arms like I’m in the
middle of a circle pit. Only I can’t because I’m 35 with a gut, and that would
wind me, and I’d need a nap or a blood transfusion following such strenuous
activity.
My dad is into it. He got me into Black Sabbath, so he respects some hot
riffs and Knocked Loose has got some motherfucking fingers on em.
Whoever the dude singing is, he’s got some serious pipes. Dude has a
shriek instead of just a yell. On My Heroes, that shit is lit as af.
Bass starts all wobbly and Machine Head-y, then it goes all HAAM with the
Slayer riffage. I think he said something Satan, which always works for me.
Remember when everyone was jocking NAILS? NAILS wrote some seriously sweet
songs and were two or three minutes of straight killing. Knocked Loose is like
that – they leave out all of the boring shit and keep it real with the stuff
you can spin kick some dude in the neck to.
Everything on Laugh Tracks is a mosher or at least something you
can’t listen to if need to keep your cool. Cuz, if you listen to this in a
public place, you’re liable to hurt a bystander with some gorilla punches. Buy
Knocked Loose’s Laugh Tracks. For real it’s everything you need to rip the head
off your neighbor. We’re not responsible if you kill anyone in a badass kung fu
fueled rage.
Ok. That’s enough. I’m seeing double, and my dad wants to tell me cool
Harley stories and about the time he saw GG Allin.
The inviting warmth of John Denver, the deceptive simplicity of Kris Kristofferson, and the swampy grooves of Tony Joe White. Comparisons are the crutch of a lazy critic, but I'll be damned if those three traits don't fairly aptly describe Brent Cobb's sound. Throw in a little Van Morrison sublimeness for good measure. If I'm gonna go the easy route, I may as well go all out.
Hailing from a musical Georgia family, Brent Cobb gets both his chosen career path and his sound honest. His dad and uncles were songwriters (in fact, they wrote one of this album's strongest cuts, "Country Bound" when Brent was 5) and cousin Dave, well, you know Dave. He's helmed a few records you might have heard before. He's at the board on this one too, and Shine On Rainy Day stands as a fine first full-album collaboration between the Cobbs.
Distilled to its most central theme, Shine On Rainy Day is an exaltation of home and simple living. Where the typical Nashville writer might see a party spot or a mudding hole, Cobb takes you on a thoughtful stroll through the cattails and dragonflies. It's an appreciation rather than an exploitation; one that shows respect for both the craft and the audience.
You might even say this was a further exploration of the themes of this year's Southern Family compilation (produced by Dave and including Brent and many other rootsy artists). It's certainly similar in atmosphere…the kind of music you'd rather have a front porch seat than a front row seat to enjoy.
"Solving Problems" opens the set with a knowing look at the simple joys of just hanging out with an old friend. "We ain't up to nothing, just solving all the problems of the world" Brent sings, imbuing the moment with an emotional weight that belies the self-deprecation.
"Diggin' Holes" has passed this way before; it's a release from a 2012 self-titled EP and was one of my favorite songs that year. It holds up well, with a sense of humor that recalls Roger Miller and a catchy tune that would fit well in most eras of country radio that aren't this one.
The title cut, previously recorded by Andrew Combs as "Rainy Day Song," is a near celebration of the dark days in life. I know the feeling. It's not about wallowing in misery, but appreciating and feeling the full depth of the lows so you can love the highs …"Laughing ain't a pleasure till you know about crying."
It's a strong and consistent set of tunes without a lull in quality. Shine On Rainy Day isn't a party record but it's light enough for a round of beers on the back porch while the grill smokes away. It's a humid afternoon with a cool breeze. A slow drive down a gravel road on the outskirts of your hometown, with nary a bro in sight. Cobb's debut has all the goods to satisfy both the buzzy ne'er-do-well and the homesick romantic in us all.
--------------- Shine On Rainy Day is available on Amazon, iTunes, etc.
For today’s review, I’m going cold turkey. The head honcho, the
Trailerparkman himself, sent me this here James Leg guy’s new record. In an
effort toward compelling journalism, I’m going to abstain from Googling if Ol’
James here has other records, or if he’s in any bands* I might know. As it
stands, I am currently unfamiliar with James Leg and his new record, Blood
on The Keys. For your reading pleasure, I’m gonna break down every track on
the record. Figure let’s mix it up.
Update: I just jammed the fuck OUT to the record’s first track, Human
Lawn Dart. This is some good stuff. Like, really, really good. It’s like if
Tom Waits smoked some major Kush and played a juice harp. It’s hyped up,
drugged out but not lame and too overtly psychedelic. It’s got enough Stooges
going on to keep it rock and roll.
Track 2, Hugging the Line is more straight forward. It’s a
frantic foot stomper and hand clapper. I like songs like this live because one
can only assume by this dude’s Lemmy stache’ he goes hard in the paint.
Mighty Man is pretty indie-rockish with the obvious Tom Waits vocal thing going
on, but it’s a lighthearted swing.
St. Michael Shuffle has a different vibe than the previous tracks. It feels like a drunk
hotel bar musician going haywire. It feels like a cheap suit and cowboy boots,
or spilling a drink on a man and then fighting in him the bathroom.
I’ll Take It is pretty mellow. Wasn’t feeling it. Skipped it. I like this dude when
he’s playing fast and getting weird. This was too focused and ballad-y. I’m all
about this dude’s party tunes, not his bummers.
Track six, Ain’t You Hungry sounds like a Scorsese fight scene or
someone driving on a highway coked out of their skulls. Maybe someone having a
blurry, drunken night at the bar and they wake up in a pool of someone else’s
blood and with strange money in their pockets.
Dogjaw sounds like it was written about or in Austin, Texas. It’s a snotty bar
room preacher of a jammer -definitely one of the better tracks on the record.
Think the guitar from Magic Carpet Ride meets early ZZ Top.
Tao Te Leg was a little too 80’s synth for me. It’s cool enough, I guess, but
kinda like if Dire Straights wanted to play in dive bars instead of Mark
Knopfler ripping your head off with his badassery. (Side convo: when’s the last
time you jammed some Dire Fuckin’ Straits? You probably need to.)
Blood on the Keys is one of those Nick Cave gospel-sounding deals. I skipped it.
Should’ve Been Home With You was a better song than the aforementioned Blood
on The Keys. Feels like a revocation, a reckoning. This is a good song to
close it out with. It’s approximately Tom Waits without coming off lame.
Overall, I’d say this James Leg fella has a solid record on his hands.
If you’re looking for a great piece of music to have on while cooking or
drinking some beers while working on your car, I’d say this one was worth
picking up. It’s not a party record, but instead, it’s a single record to get
lost with instead of using it as social bait. Give Blood on The Keys a
shot. Leave us some tweets, let us know what you think.
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Blood on the Keys is available on iTunes, Amazon, etc.
As I was listening to this album it hit me hard that this is the album I've been missing. The logical next step in recent Southern albums that are more or less overtly political- from Southern Rock Opera to Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires' Dereconstructed to now, American Band. It never resonated with me to listen to some person from the North (or Midwest or West) to talk about these issues, because they weren't/aren't from here- they don't grasp the subtleties. To hear it from Southern voices, that talk the way I grew up talking, that use the same cadence and same odd slang I use, that's something entirely different. And, to be clear, I don't think you HAVE to be a Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal, to fully appreciate the political air of this album and what it means for Southerners (and the country) right now.
Drive-By Truckers have always been somewhat political. Whether or not they were overt was dependent upon the song, but you can't get more political than past songs "The Righteous Path," "Uncle Frank," "Puttin People On The Moon," or "Wallace." They may not be set in the current time period, but they are political powerhouses nonetheless. Interestingly, it's always seemed that Patterson Hood was the one who was willing to delve a bit more into the political side of songwriting, until American Band. (Which, can I just say as a side note is a perfect name for this album. A political album by a band from the South called American Band. No other regional distinction necessary.) Now we have Mike Cooley really diving deep into the same waters and we are much, much better for it.
I've always been more of a Patterson Hood fan when it comes to songwriting- I like his storytelling and fierceness. Don't get me wrong, I've always loved Cooley as well, but Hood has always hit a little closer to home for me. However, on American Band, Cooley has the knock-out punches to me with "Ramon Casiano," "Once They Banned Imagine," "Surrender Under Protest," and "Filthy and Fried." I mean, when Cooley sings "to half-cocked excuses for bullet abuses regarding anything browner than tan," on "Once They Banned Imagine," it's heavy. That line got me like a punch in the gut. The other Cooley songs on the album are wonderful takedowns of the good ol' boy South. Whatever, or whoever, got us thinking we are too macho, or stubborn, to accept any sort of change has been detrimental to ourselves- and more importantly, those who chose to leave- in so many ways. The South has been dealing with "brain-drain" for years and I can tell you firsthand, some of us want to go back to a better South, not the same old South.
Back to the album though! For Hood, his two songs "Guns of Umpqua" and "What It Means" stand to be two of my favorite Hood songs of all time. "Guns of Umpqua" paints an incredibly eerie and horrible picture of someone on the verge of getting gunned down in the community college shooting. "What It Means" questions the recent violence on young black men in America and what that means for us as a nation. These are supremely touching songs and I can't imagine the DBT catalog without them already.
At the albums core, American Band is all about dealing with the current state of the American way of life. Where do we go from here? How do we process the last couple of years of utter outrage and fear? At what point do we start the healing process? I think it can begin at any moment we want it to, but we have to start asking ourselves the tough questions, and that can begin with those of us in, or from, the South. Southerners are strong people, mentally and physically. I miss the South I grew up in where hatred sure didn't seem so prevalent (although I'm sure it was there). American Band is a good starting point, so go listen and listen with friends and family. Ask yourselves what it means. Now, let's see where we can go from here and let's be better.
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American Band is available today on all modes of ingesting music.
The Strange and Wonderful Handsome Family Keeps it Blissfully Weird with Unseen By Kevin Broughton
It’s fitting that the Handsome Family – husband and wife duo Brett and Rennie Sparks – used their trademark wry, ironic humor in naming their latest LP “Unseen.” Until a couple years ago they weren’t just largely unheard; they were barely on anyone’s radar at all. Oh, they had a cult following in the U.S. and as is often the case with offbeat American acts, a larger, more vigorous fan base in Europe and the U.K.
Then Matthew McConaughey plucked one of their tunes, “Far From Any Road” as the opening theme for season one of HBO’s True Detective. Never mind that it was released a dozen years earlier (and written, no kidding, about fire ants in the driveway of their Albuquerque home) millions of fans of the compelling mini series scanned the scrolling credits wondering, “Who is that band?” And around the globe the duo’s streaming and downloading exploded, just like that. Looking back, I’m shocked the Coen brothers haven’t made heavy use of them.
Unseen, the HandFam’s 11th studio album in a 23-year career stays true to their Western gothic, surrealistic roots. Quirky, seemingly random, and downright strange characters and stories blend with spacey, yet sparse instrumentation and Brett’s penetrating, rangy baritone. The finished product seems paradoxical: Dark and mournful; soothing and peaceful; sad and wryly funny; hypnotic and irresistible. I can’t quit listening to it.
“Gold,” the album’s opening cut, finds a gut-shot robber lying in a ditch, looking up at a spiral of $20 bills dancing on the air. Brett once stopped off at a convenience store and saw such a whirlwind of bills and thought, there’s no happy story behind this. And that was all lyricist Rennie needed to weave a graphic, tragic tale. Heck, forget a sound track; the Coens need to write a script around this song.
William Crookes
And who knew William Crookes – British chemist, discoverer of the element thallium and inventor of the vacuum tube – was deeply into spiritualism? Rennie Sparks, that’s who. “Gentlemen” is a fittingly haunting tribute to that portion of his life, perfectly pitched with Brett’s rumbling, low bass. “Gentlemen, I tell you now. I swear, the truth. I saw the table rise; the teacup flew.” The final stanza, with about three layers of Brett’s overdubbed harmonies with himself is testament to his beautiful, deep range. Other cuts find him singing falsetto high tenor harmony to his wife’s melody. Strange and beautiful.
“The Silver Light” should be depressing; there’s nothing happy about gambling addicts pissing their money away in a casino. But the beautifully blended vocals and instrumentation give it an “oh well, it’s still pretty” feel.
The songs are heavily laden with minor chords and make lots of use of the baritone guitar. There’s only one tune approaching upbeat (“The Sea Rose”), and while they’re lyrically downers, the magical, layered harmonies (Brett’s got more range than any baritone/bass on the planet) give all the songs a spacey, almost happy air. It’s all the more striking when you know he recorded the whole thing in his home studio.
It’s rare to find a band with a sound so distinct it’s truly theirs and no one else’s, sui generis in the literal sense. You’ve never heard anyone like The Handsome Family, and you never will. Comparisons to any other are futile. Grab this one up and you’ll wear it out.
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Unseen is out tomorrow, September 16, and is available on The Handsome Family website, Amazon, iTunes, and the usual outlets.
When Fifth on the Floor called it quits last year, it was a real kick in the gut. They were a southern rock band well-beloved around here, and with potential to grow beyond the dive bars and music rooms they were playing. Their songwriting was miles ahead of bands of their ilk, and they possessed a leader in Justin Wells with a powerful, unique and immediately recognizable voice. I felt certain we'd hear from an offshoot of the band, or Justin, eventually, but I didn't know how long it would be.
Thankfully, we didn't have to wait long. Justin is back as a solo act, and he's recently released the stellar Dawn in the Distance.
While there are still moments of almost understated southern rock in the mix, Dawn in the Distance is much closer to being a country album than anything Fifth on the Floor ever released. Justin was adept as the lead singer of a rock band, but he feels more at home here, and the slower tempos allow him to showcase his husky vocals more than ever.
His songwriting also takes a leap forward on Dawn in the Distance, as well. "Going Down Grinnin'" opens with a personal manifesto on moving on from youthful misadventures into adulthood. He's not worried about how past mistakes might affect the journey, though, singing "If a needle in a haystack is the only chance I have, you can burn it to the ground for all I care."
"The Dogs" is a standout. It's another unapologetic portrait of life on the edges. It embraces the underdog life of a touring musician trying to drink away a broken heart. He's trying his best, but the hurt bleeds through even on stage "It ain't easy acting like it ain't personal, and the band asked me not to curse no more."
"The Highway Less Taken" is one of those great southern rock moments, with even some gospel choir-like backing vocals. There's a Dire Straits cover in "So Far Away," where Justin slows the tempo and darkens the mood, giving it a much more haunting feel than the original.
Dawn in the Distance should satisfy every Fifth on the Floor fan, and hopefully find new ears for Justin's ample talents. If it's not an autobiographical journal, he's a damn good actor because you believe every word. There's so much real passion and projected emotion, you'd be a cold soul to come away from listening to this without being affected. Highly recommended to fans of Cody Jinks, Blackberry Smoke, Matt Woods, and the like.
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Dawn in the Distance is available on iTunes, Amazon, etc.
The Bouncing Souls are like visiting your favorite pizza joint, it’s reliable and the recipe doesn’t change. Working on their sing-along craft for over two decades, The Bouncing Souls are back with their new record, Simplicity, and let’s not kid ourselves: this is exactly the kind of record punk purists lose their shit over.
Why? Because absolutely nothing has changed. Don’t worry, there aren’t any Radiohead dabblings, or moments of slowed down, off tempo traipses into post-rock. No one is suddenly dropping country inspired chicken-picking or blues licks on Simplicity.
This is as meat and potatoes as it gets, folks. The Bouncing Souls play pop punk, and they write songs they can play live. They write songs that you’ll sing along to, and they have fun. That’s it. This record is no different. It’s like an AC/DC record, if you’re a fan, you’re gonna be into it. If you’re not a fan, and this comes on at a party, you’re not going to be pissed. It’s not gonna win any awards for originality, but it certainly doesn’t suck.
There's no need to give a track-by-track break down or explain a thought process of what kind of emotional depth Simplicity tries to capitalize on. *
Buy a record, drink a few beers and try on those old pants that no longer fit around the middle, dad.
*But, if you’re looking to hear the super big anthem, just skip to Writing on The Wall, it’s this record’s big one that they’ll be playing three records from now.
-------- Simplicity is available on iTunes, Amazon, etc.
C.W. Stoneking - Gon' Boogaloo A Review by Robert Dean
This record is amazing.
You know what’s awesome about the Internet? When you randomly stumble upon music, and it gives you pause, and you’re like, FUCK. HOW DID I MISS THIS?
This was me today, discovering C.W. Stoneking – randomly, I saw the cover of his 2014 record, Gon’ Boogaloo and was instantly intrigued given my natural adoration of all things Depression-era southern blues and or country.
What I was just privy to learning is the aforementioned Gon’ Boogaloo is just gathering steam on this side of the Pacific. C.W. Stoneking is an Australian and while his music is loved down under, he’s yet to find his audience here in America.
So, the record is just starting to get noticed in the States, almost two years from its release. I ain’t complaining... because what I stumbled on by way of an Instagram photo (totes follow me: @RobertDeanNola) I fell in love with Stoneking’s music instantly.
Gon’ Boogaloo is a hodgepodge of classic Americana that’s got the intensity of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins but mixed with notes of Son House, Elmore James, and Leadbelly. It’s jangly, poetic; it’s got some Tom Waits moments, and then, it can turn classic country on a dime.
The production is low and straight-ahead. It feels genuine in its adherence to being honest about what it is: it’s straight ahead creepy blues that sounds like it should be played at a Halloween party. Sure, the songs are rough and tumble, but they feel… haunted. If you’re a fan of JD McPherson, The Bellfuries, or Leon Bridges, C.W. Stoneking is in your wheelhouse.
There are some hand clappers, foot stompers and moments where you need to holler out to God, but all of the emotions we’ve so sorely needed are here and it feels good to hear someone ignore what’s cool and go for the heart, to play what’s honest.
The guitars are filthy, and the vocal harmonies sound pre-war. The music sounds used, worn – and that gives it soul – gives it light.
We’re just up to our ears in shit that is just so awful, that tries too hard to have a soul. So much bad fakery is abound with people who want to achieve C.W. Stoneking’s sound, but fall very, very flat. His persona and image reminds me of Pokey LaFarge, and I hope the two become pals and drink many weird beers together.
Word on the street is C.W. Stoneking is embarking on his first US tour – if it’s not, who cares, either way. This is one artist worth your ticket money, worth your body in the room, worth the bucks on a shirt. Having discovered him just today, I managed to order Gon’ Boogaloo on vinyl, purchase tickets for the show in Austin in a few weeks, and write a review to spread the word. That’s how much I believe in this music, this record, this artist.
Maybe it’s the cover art imagery that offers a sepia tonality to the whole record that you can’t escape, but whatever demons C.W. Stoneking summoned for Gon’ Boogaloo they came out with their best rock and roll dancing shoes on, cause brothers and sisters, this record is here to party.
Let’s cut the bullshit, 30/40-something-year-olds: Drunk Couples is the band we talk about wishing we could be in, but can’t because we’ve got jobs that don’t allow for touring, kids in diapers and yards to maintain.
*Three guys drinking beer at dive bar, listening to Dag Nasty or The Dead Boys* “Fuck, man. If I were in a band, it’d sound like THIS. Just plug in, no effects on my guitar, straight amp.” “Dude. For real. Just super fast and fun. No ballads or bummer songs. Everything is about rad times and drinking.”
The friends toast beers and daydream for a while, promise one another they’ll get together, but life happens. Welcome to middle age punk rocker hell.
Fortunately, Drunk Couples exists and woooooo are they the cat’s ass. This is precisely the band we need in this sad-ass world. On their debut record, Blasted! – we’re toasted with a gaggle of sounds giving the finger and without a single ounce of giving a shit about what anyone thinks. What more do you want?
This is as good time, classic fuck you punk rock as it gets. It’s brash, fun and fast. We’ve got enough bands wanting to tell stories of heartache or about political revolution (We get it, trust us). Imagine if Hot Water Music’s Chuck Ragan fronted a fun time party band that had more in common with Refused’s guitar playing, and Rancid’s rhythm section - that’s the cocktail Drunk Couples provides.
"Raising Hell in The Holy City" is a crusher that’s goddamned electric. It’s full throttle rock and roll, screaming: “I came here on acid and fucked up on pills.” No whiny anthems about missing home or getting the love back into your life. Just rowdy beer spillers.
My only complaint about Drunk Couples is they’re not on available on vinyl yet. Get it together, boys. I want to crank this shit in my house, not on my laptop.
But, as a means to convince you to go and support these dudes, I offer this list of things Drunk Couples sound like:
• Drunk Couples give off a vibe. A vibe that feels like an old army jacket that kinda smells like weed, orange juice, and spilled beer.
• Drunk Couples sounds like a band you put on at a party because only a jerk would complain about having fun.
• Drunk Couples sound like a band whose tape is stuck in your friends Camaro, but he's cool with it, so doesn’t bother to fish it out with a knife.
• Drunk Couples sound like their live shows would be fun as hell, people throwing tallboys into ceiling fans while some chick in coochie cutters and steel toe boots revenge kicks your dick friend Charlie in the teeth for talking shit when she rejected him.
• Drunk Couples sounds like what you imagine getting hit with a frying pan sounds like.
You get the point? Buy their record, go to their shows. Buy a shirt for your best friend. Don’t fight in the parking lot, because no one likes a dick.
