The
trash sure hits the twang on this hot and sweaty surfabilly sizzling
platter yessirree! Like they literally skidded into a truck stop car park
in downtown, anywhere, Tennessee and started playing in the back of their
pick-ups. Gas, and I guess liquor, guzzling, chicken chomping V8 Chevy BBQ
boogie, sexy as Kate Pierson’s post-gig sweaty go-go boots and as flamed
and flambéed as her red hair. They sharing a cutesy kitsch camparaderie
with The B-52’s but would probably feel just as at home shooting squirrels
and belching bourbon with Jerry Lee in a Louisiana death-dive. As live
comps go this captures perfectly a band bristling in full flight, playing
lascivious to the point of ludicrous ‘billy licks with the finesse and
dexterity of James Brown’s twisted ankle dancing (‘Come And Get It’),
and also goofy gurning barn dance shack shakers like the good old Georgia
Satellites used ta do (‘Whole Lotta Things’). Amidst the
charcoal n’ chowder smile-cracking, gravy-dribblin’ whiskey wit n’ wisdom
like ‘Liquored Up’ and ‘Cheap Motels’ (‘The
towels are clean but they still smell sour’) there’s the languid,
lonesomely lovely ‘Just How Lonely’ which is like a
beautiful girl crying in the sidewalk shade of a blistering sunshine that
swells a young chaps heart to breaking point, before ending with ‘Ditch
Diggin’’ and ‘Meximelt’, showcasing Rick Miller’s
noxious exhaust fume choking Gretsch glamour distillation of Link Wray,
Chuck Berry and Dick Dale in such a way that one drop could make Brian
Setzer’s hair fall out. Glorious. _______________________________________________________
The
trash sure hits the twang on this hot and sweaty surfabilly sizzling
platter yessirree! Like they literally skidded into a truck stop car park
in downtown, anywhere, Tennessee and started playing in the back of their
pick-ups. Gas, and I guess liquor, guzzling, chicken chomping V8 Chevy BBQ
boogie, sexy as Kate Pierson’s post-gig sweaty go-go boots and as flamed
and flambéed as her red hair. They sharing a cutesy kitsch camparaderie
with The B-52’s but would probably feel just as at home shooting squirrels
and belching bourbon with Jerry Lee in a Louisiana death-dive. As live
comps go this captures perfectly a band bristling in full flight, playing
lascivious to the point of ludicrous ‘billy licks with the finesse and
dexterity of James Brown’s twisted ankle dancing (‘Come And Get It’),
and also goofy gurning barn dance shack shakers like the good old Georgia
Satellites used ta do (‘Whole Lotta Things’). Amidst the
charcoal n’ chowder smile-cracking, gravy-dribblin’ whiskey wit n’ wisdom
like ‘Liquored Up’ and ‘Cheap Motels’ (‘The
towels are clean but they still smell sour’) there’s the languid,
lonesomely lovely ‘Just How Lonely’ which is like a
beautiful girl crying in the sidewalk shade of a blistering sunshine that
swells a young chaps heart to breaking point, before ending with ‘Ditch
Diggin’’ and ‘Meximelt’, showcasing Rick Miller’s
noxious exhaust fume choking Gretsch glamour distillation of Link Wray,
Chuck Berry and Dick Dale in such a way that one drop could make Brian
Setzer’s hair fall out. Glorious.