90% of the time, I believe that you can, in fact, judge a book by it’s cover. Most people that look like total dicks, for example, are, in fact, total dicks. But once in awhile, you gotta look past the surface scuzz to find the beauty beneath, and such is the case with my new favorite band from Kentucky, the improbably named Yellow Belts. I mean, just look at the serial killer scrawl on the cover (lovingly rendered by Yell-Belt frontman, Lawrence Tarpey), and tell me if you think a swaggering monolith of chugging sleaze rock awaits you here. Are there no half-naked biker chicks holding half-empty bottles of JD left in Lexington? Or like, bloody Mack truck grills?

But I digress. Fuck it, the dude wants to showcase his cartoons, let ‘em. The stuff on the inside is what counts, and in the case of the Yella Belts, it’s throbbing, hammer-down rock n’ roll with big ol’ pop hooks and a surprisingly subtle roots-rock core. Kinda like a juiced-up Supersuckers laying down their fave Replacements songs, while choking on sawdust and burning up in the sunshine at a county fair. Lawrence’s vox are top notch, with that commanding, cool under fire, ex-punk-gone- rawk roar that you usually find in cowboy hat ego stars like…well, Blaine from Nashville Pussy;  and when you consider that there’s also a couple of Nine Pound Hammer cats in the ranks of the Belts, it’s no wonder they rock so fuckin’ hard. It appears to be in the blood ‘round those parts.

Only half a dozen tracks on this EP, but everyone of ‘em either rocks or rolls with style and manic energy. Opener “Crash Landers” is the kind of rollicking, chest-thumping, trailer park cock rock that gets underage girls pregnant and turns friendly disagreements into bloody parking lot brawls. It sounds like the fuckin’ Fluid, for chrissakes!