|
"Are you ready for SONIC RIOT?"
 Another labour of love mission accomplished by the Dead Beat label to
bring us this salubriously sinicious set o' singles and rarities from
Swedish rockers, rollers and no doubt subterranean strollers Sons of
Cyrus. If, like me, this is your first encounter with them, then take it
from me (words rather than the record, mind) that a first encounter
couldn't be better if it was with a Thai whore in Honolulu. Perhaps. Maybe
the hyperbole's ran away with me into that dirty great dustbowl of dreams
but anyway it's fucking good, right? Right On. Yup, marvel that they get
down in a daft get up a la fellow nut job
Scandinavians Turbonegro on the cover. But marvel moreso that you slip it
into your CD player and every time after that you'll be pressing the open
and close button, hands fumbling for the volume control to keep this baby
playing like a stumbling spotty first timer
desperately trying to unclasp bras and seeing stars in seconds.
Opener 'Tired Of This Time' galvanises whole garrisons
of rock fuel such that in a game of virtual search and
destroy it would out-Stooge that classic track with a
suckerpunch in an instant. Pointed toed guitars wail
like a weird mating ritual betwixt a mastodon and
walrus, if like that was a cool porno idea. Howling
like David Jo being mercilessly flogged for his Buster
Poindexter persona and rejoicing as his sin is lifted
and he becomes a rocka again...This band click
effortlessly into THAT Rock'n' Holy Rollin' Babylon
groove the way only a few cherished souls can and do.
Kind of like a Rock'n'Roll mormonism I guess, but not
as seedy and fucked up. Keith Moon-struck Jerry Nolan
drumming, the gritty arid soil soul of Radio
Birdman...indeed I can imagine Birdman Deniz Tek
pulling a few stunt moves in his jet fighters,
rolling and looping that loop to 'Monkey Business'
cat-calling strut. Oh man, don't ya just love it when
stuff's recorded right in the red and everything is
just all a-fizz like summer cola? Righteously real,
piledivingly primitive, with guitars just so clunky
yet sounding awesome in that funky-ass way that Keef
can now only dream about, with more nods to Sylvain
than Thunders by way of Fast Eddie been raced into the
devil dirt. Self-titled 'Sons of Cyrus', incomprehensible gibberish voodoo vocals and all is a
mind-melting gangbang of classic 60's pop, in a way
no-one did, or anyone thought could do except for
those New York Dolls. Frantic and fervent, anybody
else would make a complete wreck of it, that anybody
could capture it all down on tape is enough to get
wrecked about! Every pause, breakdown, aberrant fret
buzz and cymbal crash seemingly a work of art. But
such reverence might be redundant for something that
rocks this sweet. Practically everything on this is
essential, which is a rarity in itself sho' 'nuff. But some of it is more
than that. 'Going Down', 'Didn't Know', 'The Warriors' will be hailed in
years to come like The Dolls, Stooges, MC5 are now, and these other bands'll be as forgotten as the Sons seem destined to be right about now.
Hark ye! If you like Rawk'n'Roll in any way you'll get this. You might
even have it a'ready, in which case we salute you. Let's all salute these
chaps. Or buy it for your cousin or niece, fucking someone! Dig these
groovies and all that flames inside them. Hats raised, glasses tipped!
________________________________________________________ |