Aces and Eights
If I just go ahead and call Zeke a bunch of wormy fuckin' punks who are riding the dive-bombing tail of the redneck metal fad into the ground, than I'll be besieged with angry letters and threatening phone calls from their bizarre legion of half backpacker-half headbanger retard fans who soak up every 2 minute spiral of pointlessness they crank out like they were shiny new gifts from Santa Claus. They'd hate to hear that Zeke are nothing but a scrawny imitation of Speedealer, without even that foolish band's psychotic trailer park, petty criminal authenticity. They certainly wouldn't dig me calling their heroes the indie-rock loser's Motorhead, or that this whole silly genre is a ruse propagated by ex-hardcore punks that finally figured out that all the pussy and the cash is in rock and roll. No favor will be curried my way by the whiskey and 'Planet of the Apes' club if I say that this sorry assed bag of jerks are faking the funk, and that the only time they ever sound passably good is when they slow down enough to rip off AC/DC for 10 seconds. So I won't. I don't need the hassle. And when I pass this record off to the tweaker at the record store, bringing me two bucks closer to that 'Spiceworld' dvd, I'll just shrug, smile, and say, as Eddie Spaghetti once did, "Let the punks be punks, so we can play that rock and roll." He'll probably take it home and rock out to it, but, you know. That guy's got problems.