The Mojo Gurus - Let's Get Lit With...
Well, fuckaluckadingdong and hick the hell up to haywire on high people for here we be having us a right old time with this gut-bucket, bar-braising, blow-snorkelling glam-bang trough of toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, thirst-slaking hip-shakin' shack-disintegratin'. Wooah yeah n' a why aye. Forget any falsely-lauded retro rectal redolences that the music business bluster passes onto those forlornly cringing beings that convention says must be called citizens, that should be rictussed not rectified for this is the stuff that should always be resurrected, nay whiffs of Zeppelin or late sixties soggy spliff ploddy, stodgy guff-rock with all the gumption of a Great White in captivity, or maybe just the eponymous band captivated by a rack-mounted plectrum holder, here. Nawp, here's the whiskey-sodden shoes shuffling round the dancefloors of booze-bruised bedevilment with the well-revered ghosts of Skynyrd jousting with Hank Jr, slipping Berry of the Chuck variety on the decks n' of the Cran variety in drinks, right on up to puttin' on a ritzy smile on ol' Dan Baird's face considerably larger than Rod n' the two Ronnies ever did, with the tooth-licking, enamel-eliminating glint n' glimmer of Spike sniggering at some urchin's jest from Darrel Bath. Sway while slayed, ya'll stay all night stay a little longer. P'raps aside from You Didn't Have To Do Me (Like That) sounding too close for comfort to Achy Breaky Heart (tho then again more like The Faces vs Quireboys Havin' Me A Real Good Time / Misled - yee haww line dance to this, fuckers) this could make a Quireboy out of any cat, a Crybaby outta any car-jack. They go further into country on Better Of The Bottle and Nuthin' But A Thang than Jagger's commercial considerations would ever allow Keith to venture, almost as equal as his business acumen may be undercover of it all, and thusly they encroach more onto the orchard where The Crybaby's conjure up some compass-point crashing cider under the protectorate of Country Bob & The Blood Farmers with hungover echoes of what Springsteen coulda washed up as had he been stranded on Southern shores in '79 or so and served in The Scorchers' swamp-squadron. And lest it be insinuated these guys are a descent into some skittish pastiche then let it be known they ascend from Florida just like Van Zant and the Skynyrd boys, though my journalistic nostrils haven't discerned yet if that's as perfectly as to have gone to Robert E Lee high school but what the fuck, put some Jack in yer cold tea and celebrate for, as this could saunter sorta somewhere abouts the shoulder height through Salvation and seven seas of sin with The Georgee Satellites, it's thuus just about what a stupendously shit Saturrrghday in the slumberburbs is for. Goin' to hell on a haybale, if you should need to ask.