New
Yorkers The Little Killers prove that it’s still possible to
capture the essence of ethanol eyed Rock’n’Roll and all it’s desperate,
disaffected delirium and crazed hyena-kicking carousel crushes. There once
was a scummy basement rehearsal space in Manchester where, upon walking
in, you felt your lungs wither with instant emphysema. I’m sure New York
also has plenty of those. This sounds like it was recorded in such a
place, instruments rumble like a phalanx of Panzer tanks trundling
overhead, causing soot and plaster to pour down and embalm you in a
sticky, disgusting, but beautiful ooze of oil slick gutter punk poetry and
heartache angst. Iridescently loose and sloppy, singer Andy Maltz has a
winning way with an affecting, endearing whine a la Mr Johnny Thunders,
perfect for the more sensitive Stooges, Saint In The City So Alone slum
desolation of ‘She Don’t Love Me’ and Dead Boy drama ‘Don’t
Leave Me’ (‘Baby when you leave me this morning / Please leave me
for dead’). Real, rank yet regal, unfortunately this little gem will
probably languish in the sewage with that long lost perfect pressing of
‘L.A.M.F’ but is more than its equal in sludgy genius. _______________________________________________________
New
Yorkers The Little Killers prove that it’s still possible to
capture the essence of ethanol eyed Rock’n’Roll and all it’s desperate,
disaffected delirium and crazed hyena-kicking carousel crushes. There once
was a scummy basement rehearsal space in Manchester where, upon walking
in, you felt your lungs wither with instant emphysema. I’m sure New York
also has plenty of those. This sounds like it was recorded in such a
place, instruments rumble like a phalanx of Panzer tanks trundling
overhead, causing soot and plaster to pour down and embalm you in a
sticky, disgusting, but beautiful ooze of oil slick gutter punk poetry and
heartache angst. Iridescently loose and sloppy, singer Andy Maltz has a
winning way with an affecting, endearing whine a la Mr Johnny Thunders,
perfect for the more sensitive Stooges, Saint In The City So Alone slum
desolation of ‘She Don’t Love Me’ and Dead Boy drama ‘Don’t
Leave Me’ (‘Baby when you leave me this morning / Please leave me
for dead’). Real, rank yet regal, unfortunately this little gem will
probably languish in the sewage with that long lost perfect pressing of
‘L.A.M.F’ but is more than its equal in sludgy genius.