LAMONT Muscle Guts and Luck Underdogma ________________________________________________________
Boston thunderboogie kings
Lamont
broke up for awhile back there. It was kinda crazy. One minute there’s the
Chocolate Thunder Express (or whatever is was they called their solid
brown conversion van) rocketing around town, blasting AC/DC and trailing
empty Black Label cans and flyers for the next weekend-long white-trash
devil rock show/hoe-down, and the next thing you know, it’s sitting up on
blocks in Lamont frontman Pete Knipfing’s weed-choked front yard in Lower
Allston, and he’s sitting their in his underwear, cleaning his shotgun, at
two o’clock in the afternoon. So this went on for awhile, until somebody
finally put the hose on him. And then the fellas came back around because,
let’s face it, the bass fishing in Boston SUCKS, and they figured another
go ‘round would at least get ‘em some good lake fishing and possible some
road pussy. And then Underdogma gave Lamont some money, and so they made
this, and it fuckin’ rocks, in exactly the way guys that eat catfish and
ride around in brown vans do. Like a sack of wild cats thrown off a
bridge. They actually sent a cheat-sheet that mighta suggested some kind
of maturity in the Lamont sound, but fuck all that. It’s the same dirty,
fuzzy, ZZ Top-fried greasy biker dope n’ roll you have come to expect from
these headchoppers, only louder and shorter (it’s an ep). Welcome back, ya
drunkards. The Hooters waitresses and shifty garage mechanics missed you.
I did, too.
Boston thunderboogie kings
Lamont
broke up for awhile back there. It was kinda crazy. One minute there’s the
Chocolate Thunder Express (or whatever is was they called their solid
brown conversion van) rocketing around town, blasting AC/DC and trailing
empty Black Label cans and flyers for the next weekend-long white-trash
devil rock show/hoe-down, and the next thing you know, it’s sitting up on
blocks in Lamont frontman Pete Knipfing’s weed-choked front yard in Lower
Allston, and he’s sitting their in his underwear, cleaning his shotgun, at
two o’clock in the afternoon. So this went on for awhile, until somebody
finally put the hose on him. And then the fellas came back around because,
let’s face it, the bass fishing in Boston SUCKS, and they figured another
go ‘round would at least get ‘em some good lake fishing and possible some
road pussy. And then Underdogma gave Lamont some money, and so they made
this, and it fuckin’ rocks, in exactly the way guys that eat catfish and
ride around in brown vans do. Like a sack of wild cats thrown off a
bridge. They actually sent a cheat-sheet that mighta suggested some kind
of maturity in the Lamont sound, but fuck all that. It’s the same dirty,
fuzzy, ZZ Top-fried greasy biker dope n’ roll you have come to expect from
these headchoppers, only louder and shorter (it’s an ep). Welcome back, ya
drunkards. The Hooters waitresses and shifty garage mechanics missed you.
I did, too.