Oct 7, 2019
Jul 18, 2019
by Trailer - Originally posted on Country California, March 12, 2009
Martina McBride's new album Shine comes out March 24 and, for the most part, it sticks to the tried-and-true formula that has made the diminutive belter one of country music's most consistent female hitmakers. There are big ballads, sunny anthems and inspirational pieces all aimed at maintaining McBride's well-respected position in Nashville.
That's no surprise, but what is a surprise is her odd choice of cover song to include as an iTunes bonus track for the deluxe edition of the album. McBride will offer her version of rock band Danzig's "Dirty Black Summer," a grinding, soulful song that some have interpreted to be about crossing over into the path of evil. While much of the song gives McBride ample opportunity to soar vocally, one has to wonder what place this song has on a commercial country album, bonus track or not.
McBride's management would not comment on the song, but one of her friends told us: "Martina is experimenting a little; you can only sing so many Lifetime-friendly songs about kids dressed as bags of leaves before you feel the need to branch out."
No other explanation has been provided on the initial press releases about Shine, but "Dirty Black Summer" is listed prominently on much of the promo material. In possibly related gossip, Martina has recently been seen about Nashville wearing Doc Marten boots and dark clothing.
Jun 7, 2019
By Robert Dean
Chicago is a place with a lot of memories. It's the city where I was born, and where I'll always cite as home, no matter where I live. It's a complicated, working-class city that takes zero shit. Humble Midwestern town, Chicago ain't.
When the bat signal went into the sky that the Misfits were playing a show in Chicago, I went numb. They'd played two years prior at Riot Fest, but the impending birth of my second son, Luke prevented me from hopping on a plane to witness Glenn Danzig, Doyle and Jerry Only play together for the first time in forty years. Because our child was on his way, within a matter of days, I watched via live stream in Target. My fellow shoppers were not impressed with my shrieks of joy upon hearing "Skulls."
This time around, a Misfits ticket was my Christmas present.
Because I lucked out on a cheap flight home, I pulled a few freelance gigs out of the ether. Going up to Chicago from Austin, I took an extra day and booked a roomette on Amtrak. I'd fantasized about writing on a passenger train; I didn't know what to expect.
Amtrak is not what you think it is. It's ramshackle, a lot of weird, and the experience leaves you to think about the mortal coil. One thing I immediately learned: you're at the mercy of freight trains. I was five hours late getting to Chicago thanks to long haulers clogging up the tracks.
As the Texas Eagle pulled into the station, I was ushered into my room. While not the most up to date accommodations, the room was clean, and the porter was genuinely pleasant. Whatever millions Joe Biden secured for Amtrak, that cash hasn't funneled down to Texas.
Riding by train as you might expect is steeped in tradition rather than expectancy. It's not for anyone in a hurry, but instead, is meant to spend the time watching the American landscape whip by from a window while sipping coffee.
In the dining car I was seated with two older gals from somewhere up in the nether regions of Wisconsin. It’s a pleasant experience mixing it up with complete strangers, people you'd never met in any other circumstance. I had the burger and was surprised at the quality.
There's something romantic about a sweeping conversation with strangers about love, politics, and our future as collective when you've already forgotten the names of those you're riding with. It becomes less about the pretense of the subject matter and more about honesty. While a steady sound of Motown rocked the car back and forth, the meal was one of the most honest experiences I'd had recently.
Throughout the trip, I'd stumble my way to the observation car where people talked over hands of low stakes poker, old men chatted up anyone willing to sit down for a cup of joe, and I met an old trucker who told me I was 'cockblocking' him because I was reading and working, but the young stripper who'd just got out of jail wanted to talk to me about what I was reading. "I got my rubbers, and I'm gonna fuck, youngblood.”
I massaged his ego for serving in the infantry and finished my one beer. I gathered my books and laptop and split. Something about a guy who brings crackers and mini-bottles of gin for a train ride doesn't seem like the kind of dude you want to argue with over intention as you're inching somewhere in the middle of a murder dark Arkansas in the rain.
I met a lovely couple from Belgium, finishing their cross country odyssey through America, sampling our endless supply of meats covered in cheeses and salads topped with fried chicken.
The more meals I took in with the dining staff, I was entertained by their lack of fucks. As soon as we broke past St. Louis and picked up new passengers with every stop toward Chicago, they grew less and less patient. Requests for tape, (does this look like Home Depot? Why would I have duct tape in a dining car?) or something free to drink (there's a little store full of chips, sandwiches and plenty to drink. If you're not sitting down for a meal, you can shop there for ten Cokes.) As a whole, though, the Texas Eagle staff were wonderful and accommodating, at least to me.
Waking up in my roomette, my anxiety was in full bloom, I missed my family. Laying there, watching a fog hover over craggy hills of nowhere, Missouri, I battled with existentialist, "what does life mean" moments. Dogs roamed property unchained, staying far from the muscle of the roaring train. People sat behind the wheel of rusted out Toyotas, annoyed they caught the train, but thankful our small convoy wasn't hauling freight. Reaching Union Station in Chicago hours late, I was happy to see the skyline.
Chicago was a hurricane. I had one healthy meal while visiting. In preparation for the Misfits, Preston, my best friend and our friend Ben from New Orleans ate with little scruples in regard to our well-being. We had sloppy beef sandwiches at Al's, hot dogs at Superdawg, along with pizza standing with our friends celebrating the opening of Rocket Tattoo. I chowed down on breaded steak sandwiches with my great aunt at Ricobene's. And I successfully avoided Malort.
We hit Rainbo in Wicker Park, witnessed the awful yuppification of one of my oldest watering holes, Tuman's. We downed cold ones with my editor Jacob in Bob Inn, listened to the classics at The Exit, and paid homage at the wondrous Old Town Ale House. If there's anything you need to know about Chicago, we appreciate a good tavern.
Pre-gaming around Wicker Park, we took the EL train to the venue out in Rosemont, but two stops away somewhere near Harlem Avenue, those tall Old Style's needed an exit strategy. Racing off the EL through the one-day "only in Chicago snow-cum-sleet" we ran to a Wendy's bathroom for a three-man race to the finish line pee in two toilets.
Because my brothers, friends, and other randoms were all in the house, we didn't go in till just before Fear took the stage. While I love Fear, Lee Ving and Co. didn't translate well into the room full of onlookers dressed in black, ready for one thing: to hear Glenn Danzig belt out the hits.
When the Misfits came out at 900 MPH, complete with Jerry Only coming from a fucking coffin, it was one of those few times in life that when you want something so bad, to see it actually deliver. It's was a transcendental moment, the songs I'd loved since I was a boy, hearing them, "20 Eyes", "Who Killed Marilyn" or "She" – I've still got the setlist saved in my phone. I was so happy with the performance, the vibe in the room, that it wasn't a bunch of corporate dudes there to drink beer and sit in the suites, I cried. I was that happy.
Relentlessly, the Misfits delivered. Danzig sounded a little beat up when he spoke to the crowd, like the throat pipe might burst, but as soon they counted off in their signature “1-2-3-4,” Danzig didn't miss a beat. It actually looked like he was enjoying himself, like sure, I'm making a fuckload of cash happy, but a legitimate joy that I hadn't seen in any of my times catching him previous.
Spending the $150 for the tickets felt like a fair exchange to hear all of my favorite songs in a row as the encore, including my all-timer, "Hybrid Moments," followed by "Attitude" and finally, "We Are 138."
I accidentally punched the guy next to me in the face, and Preston's glasses were knocked off and we spilled a few beers. Anything is possible when you're high on seeing Jerry Only do a bunch of power slides across the stage. I mean, those shin guards have to serve some kind of purpose, right?
Despite my utter joy and later elated drinking with my friends at the Exit, the significant moment of the trip came from the bond between myself, my brothers, and Preston.
My brother Brandon was tight on cash since finding out he was becoming a dad, Preston stepped in and bought him one, which facilitated him and his girlfriend Katie attending. That was a class move so he could be there with me and my other brother Bryan.
Bryan, like me, is a huge Misfits fan, we both have crimson ghost tattoos. When I rolled into the show, I had my eye on one of the posters. At $30 a pop, it was a pricey piece of memorabilia. I ponied up the cash and bought one, but immediately following found out, they had signed ones for a cool $100. Being that I was already on vacation, spending that extra $60 seemed like a bad idea. I went without. My brother and his wife Samantha knew how much the show meant to me and bought me the signed poster. When they gave it to me, I was touched by their act of kindness. They didn't have to do that. So, by accepting the gift, I gave my $30 unsigned poster to Brandon.
And now, sitting in my office, I have that poster framed on my wall. It's a reminder that while yes, I had the best time at the show, the bonds with my brothers are unbreakable, despite living across the country. Getting to share that experience with them and Preston and Ben will be a highlight at the end of my movie. A guy can only be so lucky, devil lock or not.
“In hybrid moments, give me a moment.”
Apr 15, 2019
By Robert Dean
What’s good? I’m about to head up to Chicago to see The Misfits, and I’m peeing my pants with excitement. I’ve waited 28 years for this show, and you best believe that I’m going to howl my ass off when I hear some “Skulls” or “Hybrid Moments.” I wonder if Doyle will be there to bitch about having to meet people when he doesn’t get to play Rockstar for a night.
In other non-Danzig news:
Helms Alee is about to go on tour with Earth and are also dropping a new record, which is described by this wild shit, “Named for a bioluminescent marine algae that glows when excited, the Puget Sound trio’s forthcoming album Noctiluca bears a radiancy all its own.”
Watch the music video for “Spider Jar” here:
A few weeks ago, I talked about Vale, the black metal band from Oakland that sound pissed as fuck. They’re going on tour. If you feel like coming to Austin, come hang out. I’ll be at the show.
VALE - ON TOUR
June 21 Colorado Springs, CO @ Triple Nickel
June 22 Denver, CO @ Hi Dive
June 24 Minneapolis, MN @ Hexagon
June 25 Milwaukee, WI @ Walkers Point Music Hall
June 26 Chicago, IL @ Subterranean
June 27 Detroit, MI @ TBA
June 28 Toronto, ON @ Hard Luck
June 29 Ottawa, ON @ TBA
June 30 Montreal, QC @ Brasserie Beaubien
July 1 Quebec City, QC @ L’Anti
July 2 Manchester, NM @ Ohmen DIY
July 3 Portland, ME @ Gino’s
July 6 Brooklyn, NY @ Kingsland
July 7 Philadelphia, PA @ Kung Fu Necktie
July 8 Boston, MA @ O'Brien's
July 9 Baltimore, MD @ Sidebar
July 10 Richmond, VA @ Wonderland
July 11 Chapel Hill, SC @ Local 506
July 12 Atlanta, GA @ 529
July 13 Jacksonville, FL @ Nighthawks
July 14 Miami, FL @ Las Rosas
July 15 Orlando, FL @ Uncle Lou’s
July 16 New Orleans, LA @ Santos Bar
July 17 Austin, TX @ Lost Well
July 18 Dallas, TX @ Regal Room
July 19 Albuquerque, NM @ Sister Bar
July 20 Phoenix, AZ @ Yucca Tap Room
July 21 Los Angeles, CA @ Lexington
Sharkmuffin, has a new record, Gamma Gardening and it’s a fun cocktail of glam, punk, shoegaze, and indie rock. If you’re looking for some old school Riot Grrrl stuff to get powerful to, check these ladies out. I love them, this is fun rock and roll in at a time when people are being way too serious.
Don’t forget to check out Karly Driftwood’s banger, Too Mean To Die – I wrote about it and it’s still awesome.
Billy Ray Cyrus is on some Soundcloud rapper’s song, fuck that noise.
Willie’s annual 4th of July show has been announced. If you’re anywhere near Austin, this is a yearly thing and has been going on for 50 years. Check out who’s playing along with our living legend:
• Nathaniel Hawthorne & The Night Sweats
• Alison Krauss
• Jamey Johnson
• Luke Combs
• Ray Wylie Hubbard
• Johnny Bush
• Billy Joe Shaver
• Colter Wall
• The Casey Kristofferson Band
• Gene Watson
Apr 5, 2019
By Robert Dean
Like a gasoline-flavored Sour Patch Kid, Karly Driftwood is your new favorite country singing antihero, you just don’t know it yet. On her debut record, Too Mean To Die, Driftwood is everything you don’t want her to be: a reckless savage with long red hair and a pretty face that will cut you with a broken bottle and leave your sorry ass to die in the gutter. But, while you're bleeding to death, she might leave you a smoke for one last moment of joy - she's sweet like that.
Too Mean to Die is laced with elements of horror, allusions to hard drug use, long nights out, and sin – all of the things Driftwoods male counterparts are allowed to build careers off of. Without sacrificing integrity for a cheap thrill, Too Mean To Die is relentless in that Driftwood took plenty of lumps, slumming it in the Nashville dives to get the tone, the feel, and the vibe right for the record; it’s got equal parts Kacey Musgraves, Stevie Nicks, Lana Del Rey, and Elvira all wrapped up in a tight blunt with weed powerful enough to kick the ever-loving fuck out of you.
The songs aren’t dreary, in fact, they’re bright and sunny, the subtle nuance lives in the DNA of how razor sharp the lyrics are. Driftwood, aptly named after Rob Zombie’s murderous Devil’s Reject’s clan doesn’t hold back on her faults, failures and never wanting to be a Stepford Wife.
The only thing is while Nashville would just love to gobble a talent like this up and grind in the wheels of their studded denim flesh machine, Driftwood isn’t interested. She's got Danzig in her soul and despite those luscious harmonies ringing loud, there's blood and violence in them hymns.
“Baked You a Cake” is almost gleeful with its promises of gore and violence all wrapped up with a cherry red kiss. “Settle for Being Used” is an honest look at Driftwood’s personal life which again, thanks to the devastating lyrics that harken back to the era of early 2000’s emo with bands like Death Cab for Cutie baring the soul to the point of tearing the paper-thin heart. You end up almost feeling sorry for Driftwood, despite the obvious prize of what the listener gets in return.
The vibe of the record drifts between old school honky tonk and traditionalist country but never loses the rhythmic chops, it’s all killer, no filler without any tired country clichés. There are these moments, though, I don’t know if it’s the old guy in me, or that Driftwood’s dad is a rock and roller, that you can hear the influence of 1990’s alternative in the hooks, the phrasing. It took us a while for the cultural hammer to swing in this direction, but the flavor has the spice that feels like there are some Letters to Cleo, Liz Phair, and even Sixpence None the Richer in that twisted psyche.
“Stripped My Way to Nashville” is a perfect example, while it has some country overtones, but it’s a straight up rock and roll tune that radio in the 1990s would have gobbled up instantly. For all of the societal love for Cardi B making it through the clubs, Driftwood deserves the same treatment.
It’ll be interesting to see how the music translates live considering if people, women especially, get their hands on the music, there are plenty of anthemic moments that ladies with a few long nights can share as something that’s undeniably theirs.
In the past, we’ve been good at calling winners. We called Sturgill, Tyler Childers, and Colter Wall. We’re calling it next for Karly Driftwood. She’s going to be everyone’s favorite Halloween witch, and we say bring on the razor blade candy bars.
Feb 19, 2019
by Robert Dean
When you’re an artist that people are willing to support, it’s a blessing. There are millions of musicians in the world, and a minimal number of them make an impact that spans generations, let alone a few fleeting moments. When people are lined up to snap a photo with you, to get a moment to shake your hand and tell you what your music means to them, you should only be so lucky. While all things are finite, few things are everlasting and in the case of Doyle Wolfgang Von Frankenstein, otherwise known as Doyle who plays in the Misfits, he’s missed that memo.
Over the weekend The Liquid Conversations podcast dropped a new episode featuring Doyle and it was one cringe after another, showcasing just how out of touch the Herculean monster is with today’s music culture.
When asked about how people consume music in today’s market, it was clear that Doyle isn’t getting a significant slice of the Misfits pie because of his view of how music is consumed with streaming services taking up the lion's share of how someone wants to hear a track or album, “The thing that sucks the most about it is that everybody steals music,” he continued, “You spend thousands and thousands of dollars to make a record and all of these scumbags are just stealing it.”
I don’t know if Doyle understands much beyond punching at his guitar and doing crunches, because these days people want everything in one place, along with having music everywhere 24/7 is just now a part of the culture in comparison to downloading from a sketchy service like Limewire back in the early ’00s. Still, Doyle can’t exactly place his finger on how all of it works, saying, “You make nothing, it’s $9 a month [for a subscription], and you can listen to a song 10,000 times if you want.”
Again, I’m not sure if he’s making any pennies off of when “Skulls” gets a few spins considering Danzig wrote it.
Further not understanding how streaming platforms or really, the Internet as a whole work, adding, "They should really fucking police that shit. Shut the Internet down for a fucking day and fix it."
My guy, this is not a good look. I get that artists are scammed when it comes to making money via streaming services and there should be some kind of collective bargaining agreement. According to Blabbermouth’s numbers, “Songs streamed on the company's ad-supported tier last year earned $0.00014123 in mechanicals per play. This means that an artist would earn $100 in mechanical royalties after 703,581 streams. This number actually decreased from $0.00022288 in December 2016. For the premium tier, Spotify paid $0.00066481 per stream. An artist would, therefore, earn just $100 after 150,419 streams.”
That ratio isn’t fair and is a poor reflection of an artist’s worth and value. Doyle also went on to defend Metallica after going after Napster back in the day, "Lars Ulrich was right when he sued fucking Napster," he said. "And everybody thought he was a dick. He didn't do it for him. He's got the fucking money. He did it for fucking jerkoffs like me."
We’ve established the music streaming world isn’t the fairest, so because of this model, artists have had to find new ways to make money. Some offer VIP experiences, signed and exclusive merch, specialized content available only through their webstores, etc. This is just the new reality. The only platform making money right now is vinyl, which only true music lovers buy.
One thing Doyle doesn’t like is meeting his fans. It’s also clear that Doyle isn’t getting a significant payday from these multi-million dollar-earning Misfits gigs. If he’s crying about spending time with the very people who have given him a life so many musicians dream about, “And then they want more, and then you’re a dick because you’re doing a meet-and-greet for 50 fucking bucks to make up for it, which you don’t want to do. You think I want to meet all these fucking people? I don’t. When I’m done, I just want to take a shower and go to bed.”
And if a fan thinks paying $50 to meet the adult who paints his face and plays two-chord songs is a little steep, “They can kiss my ass. You want to steal shit? If I was making motorcycles and they came and took one, would that be a crime? Why can’t we punish people for stealing songs? There should be a $10,000 fine for that.”
Apparently, this music on the Internet thing really chaps his well-toned ass.
It’s sad someone of his caliber and level of industry respect has to punch down to the people that worship him. The only people attending a Doyle gig are Misfits die-hards who want the chance to meet a punk icon. Do you think people are dropping the coin to meet Johnny Rotten or anyone in Danzig’s band?
The majority of that room wants a photo with Doyle, and he’s robbing them of that experience thanks to his ego. Look, man you might be tired, but all of those people who’s gotten the Crimson Ghost tattooed on their bodies, or got the shit kicked out of them by jocks in middle school but kept the faith alive are now “some asshole” thanks to your inability to stand and smile while someone shells out $50 of their hard-earned cash for 10 minutes of your time.
You’re lucky that people care and want to see you. You’re lucky you get to live amongst the lore of the Misfits and it should be celebrated, but unfortunately, you’re too busy being mad about riding in a van when your band is on the road. That’s no offense to your legacy, but by no means should the fans who come to your gigs have to suffer a subpar experience because you couldn’t manage whatever money you’ve earned while probably signing away some kind of rights over the years.
Maybe the reason you’re not packing stadiums with your solo act is that it sucks and we’re humoring you. Does that sting? It should. You owe everything to those people sweating alongside you, and by vocalizing your dislike of the culture that effectively propped you up to this “rockstar” level, it’s bullshit.
Whatever the case may be, I’ll be at the April Misfits show in Chicago, singing along. I know Danzig and Jerry are far from perfect, but you know what? They at least understand their legacy and the role they play among the people willing to spend their monthly car payment to share their music.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 20, 2017
by Robert Dean
In the spirit of Halloween, every music site ever has to do a top 10 Misfits songs list, and honestly, we’re no better than your average pack of dorks with too much time on their hands. Anyhow, The Misfits are the quintessential Halloween band. They’re the godfathers of all things creepy intertwining within punk and metal. From songs about killing babies (not very PC, Glenn) to space monsters, the band laid a blueprint that’s pretty much one step below Black Sabbath in the lore of underground music.
Because it’s the season of the witch, it’s only right to let nerds duke it out in the comments section over my top 10 Misfits tunes. This list isn’t scientific, it’s the best I could muster up because I’m a fan boy who likes the band just a little too much and picking only ten is like picking which tooth I want pulled.
Disclaimer: There are no Michael Graves tunes listed. Why? Because while Michael Graves-era Misfits is pretty good, it’s not the same sport, it’s not even close. Yes, I will ackowledge Dig Up Her Bones is a catchy song, but it ain’t So I Turned Into A Martian. You wanna rate his songs? Go get your own overtly dork blog.
Anyhow, in the spirit of Halloween here are my Top 10 Misfits tunes:
1. Hybrid Moments
I look forward to the comments telling me I missed Last Caress or Green Hell. I left those off on purpose. Argue away, nerds.
Jan 31, 2017
By Robert Dean
Karly Driftwood is onto something interesting. The singer-songwriter from Middle of Nowhere, Virginia up and moved to Nashville and is making a serious play for figuring herself out and being weird as fuck in the process.
While sure, moving to Nashville to pursue a career in country music isn’t anything new - it’s the layered persona that Karly offers that sets her apart. Think mortuary school meets working in a strip club meets competent musician who’s obsessed with craft over façade. That’s a different mix than the usual fare creeping out of Nashville these days.
She’s released a few songs via Soundcloud (I have no idea why she keeps deleting them) and they offer a swath of identity signifiers rather than just some lame songs.
The two tracks currently up are the Mazzy Star-esque Ain’t it Sad How Things Can Change and the more Unknown Hinson meets Minnie Pearl The Dead Guy Song.
Both are equally impressive as they show off the 22-year old’s abilities as a budding writer. Hopefully, we get more peeks into the mind of the funeral home – the darkness is welcomed in a world as bleak as this one.
What works about Karly is she’s after a darker game and persona that plays to her strengths. There isn’t enough country that’s got a little Danzig feel these days, and seeing a woman grab that swagger and vibrato and turn the inherent darkness into some bleeding heart songs could cause some serious damage.
Oct 29, 2016
Sep 12, 2016
Forgotten Gems: Misfits - Legacy of Brutality
by Robert Dean
With their first show together in over 30 years, The Misfits are finally back together - for at least two shows. To put it lightly for many of us, this is a monumental, huge fucking deal. From metalheads to punks, to goths, to weirdos and everyone in between, there are generations of outsiders with a soft spot for those original Glenn Danzig-fronted records.
For some, seeing Guns n' Roses was a big deal. For many punk rockers like me, this is the reunion we’ve waited our whole lives for. I won’t pretend to be an impartial journalist in this piece – I can’t. I have the Crimson Ghost tattooed on the back of my leg. My son has little Misfits shirts; I have a custom Chrome bag with the Crimson Ghost on it that is my security blanket, its been all over the world with me. I am most definitely a die-hard. They are without a doubt one of my favorite bands, ever.
So, that leads us to the point of this article: around here in FTMLand; we’ve been kicking around some new article ideas. This is the first in a series I plan on penning that revisits classic records, classic bands, some obscure records that are flawless, but the group disappeared, or just bands that are fantastic that you’re not thinking about.
The Misfits are very much on everyone’s cultural radar. But, to kick off the series, I wanted to do a retrospective review of what I feel is the unquestionable best Misfits record: Legacy of Brutality.
While yes, the catalog is small, and they’ll likely play everything during their sets, it’s Legacy that shows so much of what the band could have been, and what a lot of Samhain and Danzig did go on to become.
Legacy of Brutality is a steamroller of a record with zero weak spots, hell on Theme of a Jackal: they manage to get your violent sleaze going with a piano driven riff that more swagger in two notes than most virtuosos can muster flying down the ivories. But, that’s the classic concoction of the Misfits, the songs are laughably easy to play, but in their simplicity lies the real genius: they’re catchy and so raw they seemingly get better with age. They never feel dated, the Misfits have the quality of many of the great classic rock bands, that despite audibly signaling a different era, the concoction was perfect.
Given its basement budget, Legacy of Brutality is still clear despite having any technical bells and whistles. The pace and tonality is frantic. It works because it’s a real DIY recording and without pretense.
These guys were hitting record and nailing everything just as they would live. When punk bands layer guitars and try to be like The Who, it just sucks. On Legacy, the guitars and bass are a murky buzz saw that melds together into one moving wave of crust. No one was doing Misfits stuff, before the Misfits – the spooky tinges of rockabilly on American Nightmare so what Danzig’s mind was on, while Angelfuck is a scream your heart out thrill ride. Come Back is almost a violent country tune, while Some of Kind of Hate has a feverish groove that is a slow burn, but a song that’s considered one of the All Time Classics.
Legacy of Brutality has She, Halloween, Who Killed Marilyn and what’s widely considered the greatest Misfits song ever: Hybrid Moments. But, what makes the record work like a ticking time bomb are all of the musical flavors present, the weird samples in TV Casualty, the sheer blackness of just - everything.
Danzig has had a long, colorful career and has some amazing things in his life, but this is a homecoming, a moment his fans have been clamoring for. Why sure, you can love his vocal range on the later stuff like, How The Gods Kill, but it’ll never have the bite of him screaming, “I ain’t no goddamned son of a bitch, you’d better think about it, baby.”
So many riffs, fashion trends, iconography has been drawn from this little punk band in black from Lodi, New Jersey that was around for six years. But, three decades after they broke up, all of the old guys, the new kids and everyone who got turned on to the Misfits with those ambitious “collection” records is finally witnessing the reunion we swore Jerry and Glenn would never allow. Halloween is upon us.
Legacy of Brutality is available on iTunes, Amazon, etc.
*review mostly unedited*