The
Chilliounds are a buncha 70’s obsessed children of the revolution from
Sweden. They’ve been around for a couple years now, quietly carving out
their sleepy retro-grooves and possibly festooning their guitar straps
with vintage Blue Oyster Cult and Thin Lizzy badges. “No Fashion,
Just Rock N’ Roll” is their latest gift to you, a four-song EP
full of chiming superboogie. The rubbery riffs and sergeant Gonzo vox on
tracks like the crunchy “1975” and the propulsive “Love
Sweet Love” almost make 'em sound like Clutch, minus the homicidal
impulses. No elephant riding or bellowing Yetis for these fellas, baby,
for they are Swedish and slinky. Imagine the whole mid 70’s, too-tight
denim arena rawk vibe, complete with the dirty white sneakers and studio
time booked in Monaco. Now just imagine those fuzzy freaks swilling brandy
instead of whiskey, and you got it. This shit is refined, like Queen
teaching Status Quo some manners. As the title explains, there’s no frills
and no filler, so don’t expect a fuckin’ rock opera, but if you’re in the
mood for a trip in the wayback machine, open your shirt to the navel,
adjust your ‘fro, and dive right in.
________________________________________________________
The
Chilliounds are a buncha 70’s obsessed children of the revolution from
Sweden. They’ve been around for a couple years now, quietly carving out
their sleepy retro-grooves and possibly festooning their guitar straps
with vintage Blue Oyster Cult and Thin Lizzy badges. “No Fashion,
Just Rock N’ Roll” is their latest gift to you, a four-song EP
full of chiming superboogie. The rubbery riffs and sergeant Gonzo vox on
tracks like the crunchy “1975” and the propulsive “Love
Sweet Love” almost make 'em sound like Clutch, minus the homicidal
impulses. No elephant riding or bellowing Yetis for these fellas, baby,
for they are Swedish and slinky. Imagine the whole mid 70’s, too-tight
denim arena rawk vibe, complete with the dirty white sneakers and studio
time booked in Monaco. Now just imagine those fuzzy freaks swilling brandy
instead of whiskey, and you got it. This shit is refined, like Queen
teaching Status Quo some manners. As the title explains, there’s no frills
and no filler, so don’t expect a fuckin’ rock opera, but if you’re in the
mood for a trip in the wayback machine, open your shirt to the navel,
adjust your ‘fro, and dive right in.