The Meteors - Hell Train Rollin
People Like You
'I stay buried in the dark- cos I fuckin scare myself...' - Never Stop The Hate Train
'Satan calls me bastard - Sometimes He calls me Paul...
He never calls me bitch - Sometimes he don't talk to me at all' - Devilbone Fugue
It may be said P Paul Fenech’s psycho stalwarts churn out album after album not on a treadmill as such but a sausage grinder, ankles first, please. But if so, they’re intermittently assaulted with some extra spice that their gruppenfuhrer grasps from some backstreet midnight plunders, as here we see in visceral, signpost-wilting gristly grisly detail this self-mytholigising and gleefully egregious ubermunster excel himself in the viciousness stakes from the clanking chaingang into a death-pit opener of Never Stop The Hate Train (including mandatory snipe at label'mates' Demented Are Go) to cry for the badman vampire-surf of Another Day On Fire, the Ace of Spades pummelling of Down and Dirty and the old school psycho stomp of Devilbone fugue and that’s just the first four rounds, stop crying it ain’t over yet. Elsewhere in these chambers' twists and turns, skewered on the stepladders he cleans the gutters with of a weekend, the abysmally inspired b-movie title of Surfin’ Home On A Dead Girl (rivalling The Cramps Naked Girl Falling Down The Stairs in those stakes) the sort of mariachi instrumental that'd give Chris Isaac dire scrumpy cider shits fior several weeks and awe-gore-westerns often found on Fenech's solo work like the wondrous sun-down sombrero massacre Slice By Slice. Forget the psycho-scene’s comedy backbiting and slice a needle through this and compare it to many, many lesser lights that can often barely muster up a faint flicker and whimper behind doors where this stomps intent on crushing down the walls of the corridor with every deathknell, kneecapping beat. That these songs seemingly drop like pills, or raindrops, or bloodspatters, is some feat. That this album cuts 'em up sweet n' neat and corrals em into one corner is all the better, despite the odd one slipping by like Pure Evil in the frenzy that falls prey to bloodlust away from the cold killer eyes. For all the self-aggrandising chest-beating (Psychobilly Number 1, a joke continued over many albums - though you can bet yer ass he believes it) there’s always humour (the intro exchange to (They Call Me) Creepy), bad taste and yup bad taste humour, a truck load o’ twang and barrel loadsa rumble if you wanna roll. And blood. And you know what they say about that don’t you, kids? And you want walk it like you talk it? Walk right back down here, spring chicken.