Punchy, post-punk heavy on the distortion. The Sons of Hercules sound like the Stooges, but with better production. It’s fast and in-yer-face, yet bouncy.
If I hear one more born-again poser trying to tell me about how cool Christian Industrial Death Metal is, I’m going to nail somebody’s living carcass to a tree.
Whether Penn’s character is guilty or not, it passes no judgment, offers no remorse, and reminds us that we are all victims, and that we are all murderers.
A deformed whipping-boy is left alone in the cellar of an Italian castle after his captor dies. A married couple and their blind daughter inherit the castle.
Part MC5, part Iggy & the Stooges, part Hawkwind; The Sleepers didn’t have the three chord buzzsaw guitar of Ramones, but they were punks per Lester Bangs.
Thirteen years ago, The Pastels ambled out of Glasgow with a charmingly awkward pop shimmy and some of the most out-of-tune vox to grace vinyl. They’re back.
An almost unbearably tense black comedy of eerily quiet streets, bad decisions, and chance encounters that turn out to be connected in bizarre, unexpected ways.