Hispaniola
Hellbilly from Blood On The Saddle main rein-wrangler Hermann
Senac, this is in a fine filly bursting out of a suitable stable being
on the Voodoo Rhythm label. Far more full on and, just to descend into the
cliché canyon for a tic, far more muthafuckin' than BOTS splintered crazy
horse charging cowpunk. Delicious spit-roasting guitars churn relentlessly
like a chapter of razorbacks rampaging around like four legged locusts
with the faces of The Ramones racing to the same trucker feast that John
Schooley hangs out at with The Makers ('Satisfied', 'Turn
It Off'). With the sonic boom bass that really will kill ya
mister, it has the comet surfing crush-cruise stoner blues stew of Zen
Guerilla wired to the driller killers, erm, drill, coupled with the louche
enigmatic-ness, other-worldly urgency of the Gun Club (whos 'Cape Fear'
creepy crawl 'Jack On Fire' they serve up as a sacrificial
offering) and pure eyed belief in Rock'n'Roll's pimple popping, pineal
pulsing, primal pant shredding, but more importantly portentous, POWER.
A super saturated sound, sulkilysucking aaaalllll the sweet scum from the
sidewalk, living on insects swatted off striplights, singing through the
downtown sweltering smog stain, this is
one of THE top releases of the year, if not recent years, and I
hereby award it 7 out of all the 7 slitherin' and salivatin' slezzzieSt*
sins.
*In a stereotype Italian waiters
accent. ________________________________________________________
Hispaniola
Hellbilly from Blood On The Saddle main rein-wrangler Hermann
Senac, this is in a fine filly bursting out of a suitable stable being
on the Voodoo Rhythm label. Far more full on and, just to descend into the
cliché canyon for a tic, far more muthafuckin' than BOTS splintered crazy
horse charging cowpunk. Delicious spit-roasting guitars churn relentlessly
like a chapter of razorbacks rampaging around like four legged locusts
with the faces of The Ramones racing to the same trucker feast that John
Schooley hangs out at with The Makers ('Satisfied', 'Turn
It Off'). With the sonic boom bass that really will kill ya
mister, it has the comet surfing crush-cruise stoner blues stew of Zen
Guerilla wired to the driller killers, erm, drill, coupled with the louche
enigmatic-ness, other-worldly urgency of the Gun Club (whos 'Cape Fear'
creepy crawl 'Jack On Fire' they serve up as a sacrificial
offering) and pure eyed belief in Rock'n'Roll's pimple popping, pineal
pulsing, primal pant shredding, but more importantly portentous, POWER.
A super saturated sound, sulkilysucking aaaalllll the sweet scum from the
sidewalk, living on insects swatted off striplights, singing through the
downtown sweltering smog stain, this is
one of THE top releases of the year, if not recent years, and I
hereby award it 7 out of all the 7 slitherin' and salivatin' slezzzieSt*
sins.