Aces & Eights
Aces & Eights
'I'm a son of a bitch but she don't care
I fell in love with her cold black stare' - Gypsy Rose Lee
Well, there be some kinda chaos ‘cross them thar hills. Leeds racket-eering ruckus-rousers Aces & Eights took some time out from barking absolutely at stars as yet undiscovered by the strongest telescopes and ever so discreetly managed to knock off not only the song of last year but many a year in the affecting cruel moon cry of You, Me & The Black Cloud (Honey) and along the way have finally brought something different in their seismic swag-bags of swill to the pyschobilly sewer in the shapes of garage grooves hollowed out of padded cells by the inmates, stir-crazy skiffle and frantic chain-gang decimations like Sermon of Reverend Black and Babydoll that owes more to the lusciously ludicrous, diabolically divine cerebellum-harvesting hooch hollerings of Th’ Legendary Shack*Shakers than the skag-happy stains of psychobilly stalwarts such as Demented Are Go or Chuck Harvey’s various incarnations. Teetering on several precipices of pleasure and ecstatic descents into bedevilment, which is exactly as it should and must be and all too scarcely is, you, me and the whole damn calamity can rest assured that they’ll sure as a scalpel slicing skin take you and your house with them and your hollow heart too. Stop, look and listen for this seven-track stampede is a real monster session (and not just for having a brake-failure-on-a-downhill-slope Bo Diddley stomp called The Creature That Ate Sheboygan) may well be where the legend really begins. All you armchair urchins out there get out from under yer seat and buy this, instantly.