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All hail the Kings! A sharp dressed crew of eight (rooted and a tooted like some mafia hit squad, 'cept for their cool Kings bomber jackets) who set out their stall, lay their cards on the table quick as a flash and no messin' - opener "New Thing" is Nuthin's caustic dismissal, and say it all - and crank out a whole slew of straight up ramrod classic at such a frantic pace they barely stop to let up slugging you in the face. And when they do take a little breather, oh boy, they just happen to offhandedly dish out two of the best swamp fused grooves ever, especially "Callin' To let You Know", a double shot of genius if ever there was one. A total N'awlins Bourbon Street voodoo vibe, lining em up and knocking em back with Dr. John and uncle Tom Waits. So much so that at times singer Torr sounds uncannily like old Tom. And the rest - a grin-inducing foot-stomping rocketride full of football terrace sing-along choruses, furiously banging bass, and a brass section coming on like a demonic Asbury Dukes. But that shouldn't mask the good things these geezers come out with, f'rinstance the stoical, resigned melancholy of "Another Year", and the sitting on your ass baiting "Iron Out The Irony" (choice line "No-one hands out medals for keeping it real..."). There's a real ethos running throughout of look this is this & how it is, without being smug and preachy. So shrug, aww, fuck it- listen up and have some fun too, fuckers. Dig. The big tunes are so full of life it all seems to be turned around into grim optimism, too. Like the eternal restless yearning of "Waitin' To Leave's" paean to getting to where you wanted to be all along then the goalposts have moved and now you wanna leave. Banging your head against a wall that wouldn't break, until it's much too layayaaate. Looking at the live shots these guys could be some new fangled Nutty Boys... Hallefuckinlujah. Long liveth the Kings. - Stu Gibson