Sometimes, you need to get the squirrels out…
I can’t tell if this band is a joke or if they are three riffs from kicking the shit out of me. I hear tell that they’re weirdos which makes sense since the one dude is all heavy-hung chug thunder and the other is riding somewhere between Lee Ving and that one dude at the karaoke bar in Matamoras who INSISTED on performing a vein-popping rendition of “Born to Run” with me and Danny. Also, a drum machine.
One of the best things about Big Black is that they (he) sounded like men (a man) from word “fucked” and one of the principle reasons a skinny collegiate from the Midwest could come off like a cracked-handed killer was his good friend Roland…and, of course, his radically angular six-string, steel-scraped Americana topical hell which is kinda sorta like something the Austerity Program has been espousing for two decades or so which I should’ve been goddamn black-lung lovin’ since they first popped up at Coney Island but for some reason I thought they were Rush stoner regulators. I was wrong. They rule.
Sometimes heavy crests hard and the only thing left to do with your time and axe is to go deep into the teenage wasteland and remember the inchoate merits of dead rose ownership which is pretty much where we meet Fotocrime and their smoky silhouette swagger. Somber settlements and blue-lace fists. Willful excommunication coupled with shaded exaltation, the band plays drab as morning on record but lurches into a wondrous elegy for 80s arena ennui when wrested onto a stage and I hope its not insulting to call their shadowy missives delightful but goddamn if their bygone aesthetic didn’t tickle me every shade from ink to ash.
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