Raygun Cowboys - Raygun Cowboys
Frantically frazzled rockin' swinging from the get go from these Canadian crazies like fresh air crushed outta you with the weight of a grizzly landing atop your lung enclavatures. Tis no mean feet to stomp your own flavour into the tightly strictured sounds of rockabilly that too frequently seems as though some dude with a clipboard comes around to check the instruments, attire and body art are all sufficiently identikit. This is pure party time on the breadline, broncos and babearoooos, cartoon capers from the the opening double shot salvo of Asbestos Rock and Devil On My Mind right through to the doo wop stomp of closer One Life Left and unhidden bonus tracks recalling an Ant Hill Mob or soundtrack to a crime caper racing downhill with heads up high all the way. Fuelled equally on the spirit of The Ramones (above and beyond the song Joey Ramone Street) and The Pogues (ditto closing time lament For The Whisky) as much as any right on rockabilly, though some loosely juicalicious twang is right in there, twinklin' and tickling between the slap, the inclusion of brass in the shape of trumpet and trombone only increases and accentuates the swing and the haystack-toppling hooks they reel and rush through your hair and hinds like hounds with hooch-lust. But dismissing such antics as a novelty would be to turn an inbredly mutated ear to the gristle on these bones. Nor should such lead some to dismiss them as like the grungier Rocket From The Crypt, there's more country hick on these winds (Come Back To Me) than them or the more hard-edged though equally glory-deserving Kings Of Nuthin'. And the ska-punk shouldn't really even deserve a mention. The closest they come to that is the gypsy-infused fun, appropriately, of Curse Of The Django. For that and so much more, like the sheer scale of their song-scribing chops shown on straight ahead Billy bash by numbers Dead King's Rise and Sideburns & Switchblades which cruise past numerous paltry purveyors of supposed petrol-head psychotic rockin that all too often has a high filler factor and oil spill problems, or the sly steal of Radiohead's Creep on the desultorily comical waltz Since You've Been Gone this is a rare treat. A fuckin' exultantly excilliant one at that, I do exhort, exhaustlessly.