The Golden Boys - Electric Wolfman
Austin Texas low-fi high-heart, bar-bait groove-rockers pour steaming party jams and kooky kicks with righteous not right-on inventive intentions like Exile on grain street with sweet rye smiles encompassing velvets spunaround mantras like Lou Reed slipped down streets with Sly & got soul but more than that it slips galaxie drifts of the erratic, ecstatic spirited shambolic majesty of Alex Chilton's LIKE FLIES ON SHERBERT sozzled styles, none moreso than kontroll girls, the aura of ramshackle paralytic Keatsy-cute bum-rushers The Black Lips (see, especially plainsman's lament) & the ramblin', perfectly legitimate child of Roky Erickson (the whole truth & nuthin' ever whatso but, hombre's & compadr-esses) that is the stone circle spinning skyclad swirl of goddamn i live the ocean. Texas, as I've ruminated on at least twice before, rarely lets ya down. 'This is how we play' & 'This is where we play' they sing on a message from ross johnson. Burn the map. Just lead me to the water.