It’s tough to babble about
this rekkid without mentioning fellow Swede volume dealers The Hellacopters, because the
Sons really do sound like a mid ‘60’s version of
‘em. Not surprisingly, this little beast was actually produced by the
Hellacopters/Sahara Hotnights knob-turner, so it’s got that same big,
booming, arena-cracking supersleaze sound, the kinda incessant adolescent
throb that makes the walls sweat and denim-clad crotches tingle. The big
difference is that the Sons of Cyrus are more inclined towards the Wooly
Bully than the stackheel strut. Certified party-starters like “Straight to
Hell”, “Switzerland” and “One of a Kind” are all loud, sexy, and dumb –
you know, the way we like them - they just owe a lot more to long-gone
garage rockers from grandpa’s daze like the Blues Magoos and The Monks
than any sort of contemporary ass-blasters. But that’s cool with me, baby.
I mean, I can dig it. Much like fellow Scandinavian medallion rockers The
Flaming Sideburns, Sweatmaster, or Baby Woodrose, the Sons slather on the
retro-fuzz and white man’s soul-power like 1975 never happened, and we are all
the better for it, even probably Henry Kissinger. In dark days like these,
when just getting through the day without somebody blowing you up is enough reason
to celebrate, you need bands like the Sons of Cyrus, bands whose only
purpose is to rock your ass until you’re a quivering puddle of sweat and goo. On Rock N’Rollercoaster – their sophomore release, by the way – the
Sons fit the bill nicely. Somebody get a mop.
It’s tough to babble about
this rekkid without mentioning fellow Swede volume dealers The Hellacopters, because the
Sons really do sound like a mid ‘60’s version of
‘em. Not surprisingly, this little beast was actually produced by the
Hellacopters/Sahara Hotnights knob-turner, so it’s got that same big,
booming, arena-cracking supersleaze sound, the kinda incessant adolescent
throb that makes the walls sweat and denim-clad crotches tingle. The big
difference is that the Sons of Cyrus are more inclined towards the Wooly
Bully than the stackheel strut. Certified party-starters like “Straight to
Hell”, “Switzerland” and “One of a Kind” are all loud, sexy, and dumb –
you know, the way we like them - they just owe a lot more to long-gone
garage rockers from grandpa’s daze like the Blues Magoos and The Monks
than any sort of contemporary ass-blasters. But that’s cool with me, baby.
I mean, I can dig it. Much like fellow Scandinavian medallion rockers The
Flaming Sideburns, Sweatmaster, or Baby Woodrose, the Sons slather on the
retro-fuzz and white man’s soul-power like 1975 never happened, and we are all
the better for it, even probably Henry Kissinger. In dark days like these,
when just getting through the day without somebody blowing you up is enough reason
to celebrate, you need bands like the Sons of Cyrus, bands whose only
purpose is to rock your ass until you’re a quivering puddle of sweat and goo. On Rock N’Rollercoaster – their sophomore release, by the way – the
Sons fit the bill nicely. Somebody get a mop.