Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Naughty Boys - Destiny Calls

After the diabolique bollock majestdickum that is/was the the tiswas pisspot-less episode of Spank I resolutely avowed that my mission of completely impartial, non-judgemental, cack-eyed, cloth-eared music-hack of indiscreet vitriol was to cleverly assert acerbically that no you're not the Electric Boys, not even the Bulletboys. Not just cos I'm sick of mentioning the bloody boys what deserve chav bulldogs be set upon them, but I mused on imploring for the love of John Sykes to save some money and barter for Tattooed Love Boys, or even Pretenders 2 with that track on, or hum a few bars of The Boys Are Back In Town or...you get the drift. Well, that's what I was gonna do, pondering my mirthless massacre at my workbench but well, oh I just did. The opening brace almost brought about slight return of rejoices that if you need proof in the pudding (or stew) plump your trust in a Swede, indeeds, though this is yet another notch on charisma-free cavern walls where soooo many of this current crop of classic rock crud scrape themselves off to go recording in their self-sanctifying air-conditioned conservative trattorias. I mean it's such that snide indie snifflers seem overly and esoterically sparkly - enuff to stretch seven secret Colombian airfields worth of incredulity about. Amazing. John Cusack got aboard the world is nigh conspiracy ship when there's such matters to contend with. By track three we're in (I would say sadly but...) such simpering slumber-sludge they fall into the slop marked 'deserving of a sledgehammering from Zeke' as it's simply manufactured, telegraphed tell-tale soporific plod with all the excitement and passion of a lobotomised sloth and thus at best it might resemble the Survivor of a Bonfire not Backyard Babies itching Alleycat Scratches with Faster Pussycat, or even having a bevvy over Bminors with Richie Sambora that can never lift the lingering odour of workmanlike showcase sores.
Stu Gibson
Spank - Get Bent
Spank Independent

Not sure by the name whether it's some band of half bank-clerk / half chartered accountant cabriolet queer-core but it's not even Pablo Cruise never mind Gay For Johnny Depp. I mean, whaddya expect? Anything but (ahaaa!) a bad joke of mindless boardroom genetically-mummified mitherings. Really, why bother? Maybe they thought it'd get them attention and if it's just to sell at local gigs at the village fete then fuck me with Gordon Ramsay's prize pea-masher they'll be the toast of the town in no time. Mark my words in Egyptian bas relief for eternity. One or two of 'em may even get to fondle a farmers daughter after her shift in the pub and have something to brag about at the rugby club for a weekend. Unbelievable how lifelessly bland the backing is what with the soul-leeching, creativity-crushing vacuum they flaccidly work on right up to the chest-thrusting throaty vocals that smack of Coverdale pumping iron and stifling a wank while weighing-up his guns. Awful. The high-water mark from the bottomless barrel of baleful butterscotch in the barn suckery. Have fun guys. Better start smacking each other guys. Get bent? You got it gang. Get buggered.
Stu Gibson
Hellbilly Club - Zombie Faces

Stripped near as dammit to the speed-gnawed jaw-burn dose of old-skull psychobilly dug outta evil Espagna. Sure, it's not an unholy hellouch slap of surprise - singer / guitar-stinger Santi is nay hoodwinking slouch either such that the ultra spartan mix could really use a replenishing twist of guitar silver-heartchoke. If you're burdened with too much beast beat-broth with titles like Psychobilly Psychokiller then this is more of an incidental off-camera hammer-bang to an extras head than a party slaked on Demented Are Go's PVC Chair. However, hellhoppers, they do manage to still add a shades of their own batty atmosphere to the soup, with vocals recalling Peter Murphy more than the halibut-slapped Soft Cell that the sleeve resembles, and could be just what the Hangmen ordered if you're ever-drawn to that quarter.
Stu Gibson
The Lucky Strikes - The Chronicles Of Solomon Quick

Forget the Medway Delta and hick the fuck up as these young four-ply posse-whippers filter out the Essex estuary, scarcely sniffing Thee Vicars' wine and having scant necessity to recognise Childish of Chatham. They may well be from the spiritual home of the blues in these bisles but this more than strides purposefully out of those harbours and along highways of their own hewing. In turning over their western-garage-country-blues to an epic soundtrack of southern harmony and rich, ribald and evocative tales they till a rich pile of soil indeeds and dust, and retire to multi-storey garages on vast estates in a country barely contained by their infectious confidence.
These chronicles comprise a concept loosely based on the fictional account of Robert Johnson's murder(er). Tis a sprawling but eloquently concise cut-up collection of luckless lustfilled fools and bullet-laden betrayals that conjure the civil war epoch's crossed swords of Jayhawkers, the James Gang, Josey Wales and juke-joints as much as crossroads and poison whiskey. It's not the turn thy aching hip to the southern sun you could charge 'em with either as it tallies up true. So, syllable-slurrer Jesse Vance (yass, ok, forgive 'em - Lefty, Reuben and, um, Jeffrey 'Buck' too - though if that be their given names then all the more reason for 'em claiming their birthright with this) may sound on the youthful side for such material, though, hey, pardner JUST BECAUSE YOU ADOPT A TOM WAITS GROWL INSTEAD OF YOUR WEEDY CHARACTERLESS WHINE DOES NOT CONVEY SAGACITY FROM A LIFETIME HOPPING RAILS so top hats off to Mr Vance and give him his own radio show.
So what's in this store? Well, a big store it be, too. No bullshit, boards of wood awaiting being made into coffins at Clint's instruction for your band. Startling Western adventures from the Mississippi burning dry Dixie-deluges such as the swirling Second Act (Funeral) to ecstatic Standells stomps on Eyes On You (which, incidentally, has tucked away down the inside pocket of it's longcoat just before the chorus, one of the best notes in recorded history, rated in my almanac of stuperfluous info alongside John Lee Hookers Dimples or the slide diinnng in The Stones' Jigsaw Puzzle) that they outweigh with the following epochalyptical caterwaul One Eyed Sam as it combines their eerie Gun Club cordite and charred calico bonnets as The Band rummage through crippled carriages. There's the frequent stench of the cinematic suicide raid from The Long Riders on Main Street as they lurch in outta the dust cloud storm leaving your soul at the door whence scenes stop as 45's ricochet round your freshly-lubricated neck as pounding garage glides to rustic Byrds beauty on last clinch crescendo One Way Down (this is particularly transcendently sublime) and Sweet December, and the Sweet Virginia-esque rival to Dead Flowers sunset waltz that is the reflective Going Out West which transcends it's creaky cliche with bleakly beautiful peaks and pitfalls. Quite ambitious, but ambidextrously so and almost chillingly preternatural in it's nigh-insouciantly authentic cataclysm - hell, they even manage to pull of the easily cringeworthy spoken word passages that intersect about every quarter of the appropriate thirteen track spread.
The Black Crowes were ladled with plaudits for The Southern Harmony & Musical Companion (deservedly, if my 16 year old dead cells recall adequately), a band from the almost geographically alike straits of these borders should be glorified. Oh, they just have been. This is stupendous such that I might go and shelter in my boots. Really great, came out last summer, sorry, you shoulda had it for Christmas, it's okay, you've got till Easter to avoid seven casks of fuckscuppery to descend in a smoky blast. Please allow The Lucky Strikes to shine a light your way.
Stu Gibson
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