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ALL THE OLD
DUDES...
 I think it was sometime in the long, cold winter of 1990 when the Sonny
Barger of the blue lipstick set (SLEAZEGRINDER) first darkened the
door of my Central Square basement bunker, which in those years, was the
candle lit after hours puslsebeat of our nascent flash metal scene. He was
an intimidating presence back then. All brooding, Hells Angel countenance
with his barbed wire crown and fiery poetic intensity. A sneering, cloven
hoofed, debauched satyr with cold-out menthol breath, silver skull rings
on both fists, fingerless leather gloves and leather trench coat, and
shamanic whack and tangle voodoo jive galore, he only said that he'd been
sent. Apparently, on some feverish and holy mission to hand deliver yours
cruelly my first ever copy of the BEASTS OF BOURBON masterpiece, "The
Low Road". Something about teaching the kids about Bon Scott and
spearheading the Super Rock Revolution. The genie was outta the bottle and
none of us had anyway of knowing all the bad magic and madness that would
ensue...15 or 16 unspeakably hellacious and far stranger than fiction, odd
years later, and just when I'd demoed a new song called "Nothing Rocks",
our last standing Australian blues punk brethren, the once and future
kings of flash metal real rock'n'roll, the BEASTS are back!
Yep, just in time for yelling at the Christmas tree, my absolute
favorite
band in the fuckin' world release this live'r than you'll ever be,
moonshine
crazy scorcher on Spencer's label, Spooky Records. How would one describe
the beasts to the uninitiated? Kris Kristofferson at his drunkest fronting
the Stooges? Hank Williams fronts the Birthday Party? What If Jim Morrison
sang for the Gun Club? Tex Perkins is one of the greatest rock frontmen
who ever lived. Still no sign of original Beast guitar gawd, Kim Salmon,
but when you got raunchy super heroes the likes of Spencer P. Jones and
Charlie
Owen amidst your unsavoury pirate ranks, you don't miss the surrealistic
old Scientist all that much. Bassist Brian Hooper's apparently made a full
recovery from his tragic fall off some dizzy balcony a few years back, and
planet Earth's premier drunk rock bruisers blast out twelve of their
meanest classics for their core constituency. Myself, I often prefer summa their more reflective, torch and twang,
post-apocalyptic, hungover ballads, but that ain't the bloody knuckled
shit
that goes over live. Our little cadre of desperados are all figuring it's
about time for a new double studio elpee of Beasts originals. Psychotic
reactions and Everly Brothers on crack songs of love gone bad and Bob
Dylan's dreams in the shitter. The Beasts Of Bourbon outrock all the
tattooed cock rockers, outswoon Chris Isaak, and play heartfelt country
and western that's way more authentic than anything you'll ever read about
in the pages of any of them alt-country mags. Tex Perkins and company are
the business, kids. If you're one of the unwashed sleaze legionaires
who've just gotten hip to the Cult and Zodiac Mindwarp and Circus Of Power
in recent years, do yourself a favor, and take the next step-by wising up
to the immortal Beasts of Bourbon. America's sadly got no one left who's
even like, remotely, in league with these guys, except maybe the Lazy
Cowgirls on a bad night. God Bless the mighty Beasts of Bourbon-the Last
Real Rock'n'roll band left alive (of course, I still ain't heard that
third Buck Cherry Record, but my instincts tell me it can't hold a candle)
Get this and anything affiliated with the Beasts, or else yer probably
just some misguided, cultural tourist just sorta surfin' through the Flash
Metal Underground, and we all wish you woulda taken notice of that "Posers
Get Lost" sign at the door.
If you can't get Tex
Perkins, get Texacala Jones- nothing else will ever do.
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