by Martin Popoff
There’s a lot of grumbling about the kids taking metal back and basically short-circuiting the whole scene, just ignoring it. I saw Wolfmother the other day, and the place was just set off. A packed, stacked house of well-dressed girls and boys was going insane to dyed in the wool stoner rock, and you’ll never see 95% of those youngsters at a metal show. It was a revelation. The Sword and even to some extent The Illuminati are getting the same goods, and so are these Atlanta beard-pullers.
Man, does this album roar. Think of Speedealer or Nashville Pussy or COC crossed with Entombed or Cathedral (work with me), and you’re on your way to deaf. And if the wall of bass, guitar, and drums juiced to the nines doesn’t kill you, the haranguing Brian Johnson/Neil Fallon roar of Dave Slocum will finish off the fry job. In fact, he gets a little much as the album wears on, so what do his buddies do? They turn it up and try to drown him out. The moonshine flows, the cymbals swing and reflect and refract, and the bass careens around the room while Slocum’s mouth gets a mile wide. It’s all pretty funny and fun, but it’s also totally about the best bulldozing qualities of metal, this ability to sound like electricity getting a beating.