Every so often, I hear something so viciously compelling, that I can't help but shove it into the throats and ears of my pals, and their pals, and their pals' moms and dads pals,etc.So I would like to apologize ahead of time, for the seemingly endless, nonsensical ocean of hype I am about to poor into your sleepy eyes.Feel free to quit while you're ahead.Or not.
A friend of mine,who's opinion i generally trust as far as new sounds go, dropped this giant pile of bricks known as Brisbane's SLUG GUTS onto my head a few months back, and not a day has gone by without at least a single track from this record being played somewhere that i am.At first glance of the cover, I see a group of skinny, semi-handsome introverts all posing in matching white dress shirts and black pants.Trivial, in today's climate.I wasn't too sure what I was getting into, but being a fan of most anything containing the word "guts", I popped it on in strict confidence that someone had given me something I'd like.What happened for the next 30+ minutes, was by far the most exhilarating and refreshing listens I'd had in quite some time.I was simply awestruck by this group from the first few notes.
This beast of a record kicks off right with the title track "Down on the Meat", a woozy, whiskey drenched romp that was almost immediately showing signs of some serious Birthday Party worship, among other fellow Aussie creeps, like the awesome Bird Blobs.Thick, swanked-out guitar twang is soaked in so much reverb, it overflows from the speakers and quickly fills even the room you are in.Loose, eight-legged bass lines crawl up your back and steadily spin a sticky black web of low end rumble.A thin, unpredictable looking man is making you kind of uncomfortable, lurking off in the distance.He's ranting on about something questionable, in a voice that assures you he's been smoking five packs a day, for at least a hundred years now.There's a sturdy drum pounding away in hypnotic syncopation, and it's somehow tying all of these bizarre elements together, in the form of a song.
Brash spaghetti-western soundtrack music gone south, way south.Post-punk has taken a dive into a prohibition-era back alley whiskey bust, and it's making a run for it.The vocals lie somewhere in between a trashier-yet-literate alter-Lemmy, after a long week of straight bourbon and non-filtered cigarette abuse, and a gruffer Nick Cave with a bit (more) of the strep throat.I heard a chomp or two of Old Time Relijun's wild front man in there,too.A total dry-throat, dead bullfrog-blues attack on the senses.The superbly dripping twang, supplied by their heavily treated guitar gallop will bring some pretty vivid images of tightly coiled rattlesnakes, cracked cow skulls, and swingin' saloon doors to mind, that is until they throw such a hard and unexpected sucker punch to your skull, that you will forget how you got here.Everything is cranked high, and right where it shouldn't be, ultimately making for a near perfect moonshine concoction.Slug Guts is like some kind of tragic accident gone horribly right.It's terribly inventive and strangely accessible.And the best part is, they actually kind of stole it.Fuck it.This can only get better.Watch for a new LP via Sacred Bones later on.
Check out the new songs on their Myspace page, they are pretty bonkers.