|
 Proving that Pariah
doesn't mean pussy, these Toronto-an terrors unzip a slithery fingered
fizzy lager chemical buzz and speed teeth rattlers and once out in the
open they sure intend to stay there, obstinate oysters with similarly
solid shells. Perhaps, in my personal and never honestly humble opinion, exceptin' 'Nighttime Of Knives' which plods way too much in portentous
porridge quick sand slop for my low-grade 80's MTV shite sensitive hearing
ensemble, in spite of it sounding kinda like The Cult Of Power, maybe
because it sounds like something that fell off the back of Billy Duffy's
Harley on the way to the studio recording 'Sonic Temple', to be scavenged
by a beast more mythical (hysterical?) than the yeti or bigfoot, yuss, Def
Leppard.*
Now, if you think, 'Hell, Stu you miserable old sod', grooving on the
gripin' straight away, I do it to valiantly pave the way for the the
resulting words of praise that replace the pillorying. For from 'She's A
Rocker' revving around 'In The City' reckless and wrecked with the Wildhearts in their song wanderlust 'Earth Vs...' days but stripped of all
excess modifications, declining the optional extras so they can flog 'em
on e-bay for some fuck-up fertilizer fire startin' fuel to run, to the
Rose Tattoo-ed torso twistin' tummy tucker '(Me, I'm) Wild Heat' being
rolled over roundabouts by monster truck roaring road hoggers like
standouts but not standalones 'Down Again', 'Yellow Alert' and 'Joan Jett' (I mean, they wrote a song called 'Joan Jett' fer cryin' out loud,
that's GOTTA qualify them for inclusion on your next compilation for chums
CD!), which being fleet fretted like a spasmic sperm dance to the egg
really hit home, flexing frivolous muscles and dropping tuneful thunder
onto your toes to cause those hard-worn heels to hover like a human Huey
hitting hanoi rocks...tho overall The Pariahs don't quite split the arrow
at fifty paces
Robin Hood style they sho' bring a dirty diesel gut-shakin' quiver to the
most lacquered quiff or coiff and, just to be gratuitously lascivious, the
laciest crotch perhaps into the bargain. Which, y'know, isn't to be
sniffed at.
These Pariahs should be proud, and this be no perfidious pusillanimity.
* I'll probably like it next week.
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