Mama Rosin - Brule Lentement
Second album in for Genevans Mama Rosin and sure as Bobby Gillespie sings 'I'm yours / Your Mine / Gimme more of that German wine' on Jailbird, it largely depends on how much creaking cajun you can shuck in your stinky socks till they split like guts on invasion sand or eggs n' grease at all day breakfasts from Bakersfield to Batley and broken bones in bars you don't wanna move bowels in never mind brawl in as to how you'll fare with this great big platter of love's consumptive and discordant clatter. Fate be with you, for this should be summoned by every country cat, blues bombardiers and punk pickets or picnickers of all drainpipes and pinstripes. Yiss. Cajun, right? The bonkers, broken shoulder-bladed hollerings of seismically sluiced French-descended degenrates bouncing like ball-bearings down back-porches on pre-industrial bath-tub somethin-a-mines lamenting lost to mental and as-yet-fermented turmoils dogs of all descriptions, right? To the caterwauling crescent-moon colliding accordion crunch and keeling-over keen of a guy lost in midnight delirium on alcohol, crying on the ceiling or combine harvester amidst the cerebellum? Yeah, only this is more so, just doubly, trebly till yer tiltn' n' trembly all-sore-over whatsoever all abouts thy torso churning new contortions outta what passes for internal organs with the added griddlings of rickety-raggedy rock and European folk flare.
This exceptional trio may hark back to the source and whilst initially playing with what you can take for a modern, punk-bristle, it's still the same energy, they're true to the roots of this music, there ain't any suspicions of 'Hey, I've got an idea, you know what everyone and his dying rodent are doing with da blues, let's do that wiiith (flip through thesaurus of musical genres)...cajun. Corner the market in that'. Not at all. This rings so true it deserves to be played to all and sundry till they capitulate. Take it to the desert, man, stakeout the streets.
Maybe the cover signals a love of Velvet Underground, maybe they're just fucking with the arty douche-dribblers who'll mistake it for a Velvets bootleg and suffer their aching hip to be dislocated at the high altar of fuckscuppery as their insides wither under the cajones-chomping cajun-jalopy chilli cascade within. Whichever way will went, no way could Lou Reed in all his louche idylls alight on anything so scrumptiously scrambled, judiciously and juicily jamble-eyed so waylaid you'll be crawling, daddy, and...anyhip, enough bad-good but not nearly evil enough press for old Louie screw-you-ey-aye-o this is an inspiring incant to descant at once, invigorating jig, jugged and juiced-up or not, be damned. Fun intermingles with elemental sentiment in ze sediments throughout, though especially on J'Vas Mon Chemin and You Stole My Motorcycle - all Hang On Sloopy slipping away down carnival sidestreets and they cover equally wondrously unstable labelmates Movie Star Junkies' Dead Love Rag. As with labelhead Lightning Beatman's garage gut-gashing solo gospel and band The Monsters, bluegrass honky-tonkers Zeno Tornado and the Boney Google Brothers plus spacehawks Roy and the Devils Motorcycle, Swiss waters sure run deep and the good times will roll on regardless. So sublime as to make you almost human again, I surmise. Sod it, I'm done, stunned, surplus to your purchase. So beat me big mama, at the end of the bar.