Muleface,
as you have surely already guessed, are a bunch of Tennessee beard-o's in
trucker hats and dirty denim who play sweaty balls rock in the fine
Southern-fried tradition of COC, Alabama Thunderpussy and
Halfway to Gone. You know, heavy shit. Phillip Burns' guitar
sound is the star of this show, a deliciously thick and fuzzy rattlesnake
buzz that sounds as much like Roadsaw/Quitter/Antler's
legendary axe-man Ian Ross as it does a big bad-ass bull with
bullets in it's belly charging through a shopping mall. He wraps this
slithery beast around the mountain man bellow of Mark McClanahan
and the virgin-tight rhythm section like a strangler's black glove,
resulting in a five-song fist of skull-cracking dope n' roll. Dunno what
the highlights are, really, since it's mostly one long cluster-fuck of
pick-up trucks and freshly-killed carcasses, but listen, you either dig
Sabbath or you don't, right?
Muleface,
as you have surely already guessed, are a bunch of Tennessee beard-o's in
trucker hats and dirty denim who play sweaty balls rock in the fine
Southern-fried tradition of COC, Alabama Thunderpussy and
Halfway to Gone. You know, heavy shit. Phillip Burns' guitar
sound is the star of this show, a deliciously thick and fuzzy rattlesnake
buzz that sounds as much like Roadsaw/Quitter/Antler's
legendary axe-man Ian Ross as it does a big bad-ass bull with
bullets in it's belly charging through a shopping mall. He wraps this
slithery beast around the mountain man bellow of Mark McClanahan
and the virgin-tight rhythm section like a strangler's black glove,
resulting in a five-song fist of skull-cracking dope n' roll. Dunno what
the highlights are, really, since it's mostly one long cluster-fuck of
pick-up trucks and freshly-killed carcasses, but listen, you either dig
Sabbath or you don't, right?