Judging by the state of these beer-soaked boys and their seemingly wilful bozo doofus loser, almost Beavis and Butthead image, it's a nice, pleasant surprise, something akin to a sharp cocktail twisty tang that when you put this through your speakers you're repeatedly hit about the head with a high-velocity barrage of tuneful, toothless backwoods uberboogerboogie. Baby. Trashy as the trailer from hell, high-speed hooching hillbilly punkdrunkbilly rawk. Rock'n'Roll may not of necessity be urbane, but this is so deviant it ain't even urban, for fucks sake. Needless to say this ROLLS like a runaway juggernaut / 18 wheeler down, y'know, a very steep incline. And these guys are probably surfing on the top on low-grade trailer tripping acid. As they say themselves, in the pretty fucking superb put-down riposte to Surly Sally from the saloon 'Baggage Handler', 'I'm just a drunk a stupid bum.....what makes you think I'd wanna go and change the rules.' Hell, don't we all feel like that sometimes. I raise one to that. What you get from this is that these guys accept what shit gets thrown at em, and spit it all back out in bitter beer tainted torrents, mixed with sweat and bile for good measure. Cool? Sod that. Cool for these guys is how long their Colts have been in the fridge. 10 minutes? Too fucking long, duuude. Hugely derivative at times but they'd just shrug n' deny it, play dumb, and I can't remember all the little bits that fleetingly fly through my mind, but on corkers like 'Tri-Cities Death Pact', there's shit-stains from the Streetwalkin' Cheetahs, say, and they manage to combine at different times and also simultaneously Roky Erickson, Jim Morrison, B-52's and The Barracudas on 'Revenge of the Surf Zombies', which is some feat, as I'm sure you'll agree. And the hook of the short sharp (and standout along with 'Baggage Handler') ultra frazzled fest of 'Hot Mama' is lifted from some old Blondie song or other. After they've been on a liaison of sorts with the Murder City Devils.

Overall, a hard-edged, hard-bit romp, not a million miles removed from the Action Swingers. Like some records are said to have a 'stoned aura', or cocaine falseness, or whatever, this just has an undercurrent of lunatic violence, speed frazzled, teeth chomping in the early hours, like the guy who you had a few beers in the bar with earlier on and had a pleasant chat with about music, the world, turds, whatever way you went, is now a bug-eyed, grimacing, gurning, grinning maniac. With a shotgun. A general air of malevolence then, m'lud? Maybe, but then they'd turn round and buy you a beer, or something.