Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Left Lane Cruiser - All You Can Eat

So ya heard all the all punked up and out your blouse country blues fronted by soused, scorched vocal chorded carousers, cool cats? Well, chuck the shite wipes off Choctaw, or actually any, bridge & stop preening 'cos this is the stuff to spin you sinning through fields while yer baby buffs halos to drag Black Keys and such like onto meathooks. They even tie Bob Log to his own Bobloggian necktie as a novelty. For these guys avail songs amidst the slavver-burstin' avalanches. Sure, two-piece blues duos aren't so much de jour as dour so give blessings n' thanks, p'raps from a safe distance, to LLR & to the mothersmokin' BDH. Where the Black Diamond Heavies shoot dirty gospel into suburbia's pools, Freddy J IV and Brenn "Sausage Paw" Beck's scurvy-sassed cask-mangling cataclysm of apocalyptic backporch push n' pull meets n' mauls the street corner traditions of ancient dusty blues with hip-hop delivery. So what if a lot of it's indecipherable - aside from pleasingly frequent declarations to be, in fact, this very Left Lane Cruiser, Rock'n'Roll & yours Stuly be pretty damn sure that there's a line in there about Keith too - like swimming through Satan's own spittoon of souls and swollen limbs or asking for a drink by smashing the bar with a caber - or this fucker. While line-dancing on a landslide of log-spill somewhere in the middle of Montana. It's as intense & congregationally defying as any posse of Norwegian church burning black metal band-member-eating try-hards. And i'll stand on the devil's own god-damned (well, you'd hope twould be, wouldn't you?) hard shoulder - though, maybe with this pair on retainer - in my hairspray and howl such. The first song's called Crackalacka, the second Hillgrass Bluebilly, the penultimate Poopdeflex, the last an ode to their hometown - Waynedale. You call 'em goofy. They sure as shit ain't. Through the brutal brawn and bull-headed howlings scuttling the scabby so-called demons through turnstiles on the Styx built from their shudderfuck riff-rubble, there's gentility among the gruntabilly. Ol' Fashioned has the surly gentility of Guy Clark's Texas Cookin' only rawer and hanging skins to dry in a redoubt somewhere on sniper duty with Mississippi John Hurt.
Give it the hell up for hill grass & hick the fuck up. That'll be all. Read it from the end first.
Stu Gibson

Right down to the Parental Advisory labels, which, like, matter shit, and antiseptic Helga-from Allo Allo with-the hump cover, it's a case of old hands having a crack in sturdy amateurish manner. No doubt it's a dream come true. It's a fair crack at that in a Lita (By)Ford way (well, Sharyn Peach - well...they are from Florida, sort of near Georgia - is blond and it mentions Ford in the typically lame example of biographical prattle that should get ditched at summer school. Example, they aren't 'insanely cool guitar licks' but 1987 by numbers that the most tech-twat guitar mag woulda garotted at a hundredth of a harmonic and one's sardonic doppelganger suspects that their claim that younger bands seem to make up many of their fans suggests that it may be to secure equipment loans at future shows) but it still smacks of them sat around having watched American Idol with their kids and thought hey we could do that but let's do it our way. Because we are rock'n'roll rebels. Forever. Makes up in heart what it lacks in inspiration but it's still insipid and lifeless club-cringe fodder that Peach's platinum-piercing rawk-squawk - Kelly Clarkson could quite possibly stop the ensuing tsunami from whatever erupts outta Yellowstone or somewhere but has it ever crossed your mind to care? - can't lift out of the shiftless embers of stodge.
Stu Gibson
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