The Jim Jones Revue - Here To Save Your Soul: Singles Volume One
Glory be!! With the opening, nay, instigatory five second piano-prangling riff that serves to usher this incendiary display with full compliments from these sonic cut-throat balls of flame along their own halls of fame and out through tumultuous ethers into your musical uterus, this almighty calamity goes some stretch to fulfilling the title proclamation alone. Then, as Rupert Orton's fellow cyclone-shakers descend onto and collide into the ensuing fracas that is the seismic shuffle and riff-fulcrumpler of Rock'n'Roll Psychosis they nail cease and desist orders on the designer-decrepit door-jambs of non-descript, distinctly no-kick, garage gap-year bleat generation scene-ants offloading media degree delusions into mediocre attempts at the frontman/preacher concept. People, herald the riot act to such affected pretence as siniciously skewered songs like Elemental and Cement Mixer are rather more stamped into every pore than read. When the master with half a litre at easy disposal such as Mr Jones dispenses such a diaspora of screaming & preaching shamanic charisma from a sandblasting larynx fermented all the more furiously for his flamenco-like apprenticeship on the peripheries with Thee Hypnotics and Black Moses then this lastest is for sure and seventh heaven the last in line. Much has been stated of the Little Richard on a Sonics' boom-trip ripped and regally randy on Raw Power room service and that ain't no lame-ass idle blasts of blase PR, though the VU-dissolving, Sunday service-frazzling frequencies, pan-scouring guitar and particle-accelerating production such that it could cause cardiac confusion in the chambers of that Hadron Collider enough to suck us through our black hole for a post-universal trip-toke (bets on those Hadron scientists wish they had one of these) would be irrelevant novelties if they weren't delivered with such righteous urgency as though recorded on unravelling rope-bridges - and wouldst that have been there'd still be no trite invocations to testify. Even if they're not the greatest songs ever ever ever it's such a scintillating, skin-stinging incandescent delight that'll give the most nefarious new year blues the bends. It's scarce indeed that any sinner, even ol' Devil-Lee Jerry himself, can rival the original Mr Richard's Good Golly Miss Molly let alone dredge whole new diabolisms from the depths, and many hats must be raised and glasses tipped to that man Orton for his pole position on piano in this, as with the early rock'n'roll clarion-rallyers. Every second really is a pylon-vaulting dynamic crescendo dispelling shards into every synapse and cell like a ravenous intravenous tyrannosaurus with extra hunger for the hex. So come all ye wastrels, slip the catch on a whole colossal epidemic of chaos and delicious fuckscuppery as they grace your towns with the only Jones to be joyful for, as Chuck Berry supports and SXSW assaults in Spring should suggest. Suckerpunch my old shoes, what you reading this for? New boots in town get out there and rattle cages and singe foundations and shake metallic kiss off to the whole fuckin' century already. Now can I hear a hallehfugginlujaaah!