The Pussywarmers - My Pussy Belongs To Daddy
More, yes yet more, gloriously delirious delicious and scurrilous backwoods bonkersness and head-bonkery from the outer limits of your musical language to shatter the still of what you thought strange, eerie and provocative unearthed by the daddy of all this lo-fi fuckscuppered garagebluescountrytrashcowpokin'punk countylinerepaintingchurchdeacon'sdaughtertainting maestro Lightning Beatman, who really does deserve his Reverend title. This bunch crawl out of and around the other side of Swiss town to Beatman himself, crooning and creaking out scratchy crab-crawling, scab-scratching off-kilter tilting towers of pissed twenties jazz and Jelly Roll buggering ragtime on a seasick swirl of accordions, tubas, saw, piano and cornets with wheezy, almost tearful vocals like the Genevanly unconventional version of The Crybaby's Darrell Bath. It came as nay surprise to find that the trumpet troodles that puncture the scenery throughout are by one time Dead Brother* Christoph Gantert. Like with that duo there's an everpresent sense on each listen that the songs will go any whichaway at anytime such is their wildly unpredictable nature. As they say they could be the dance orchestra on the sinking Titanic, they could likewise be the arkestral houseband at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining.
Back for good we hope after Voodoo Rhythm's troubles in the land of the taxman wank. Calamitous, curious but never spurious. More yet more hurrah hurrah.