Licker’s Last Leg (Ipecac)
By Craig Regala
A shoat is a young pig just after weaning. Any, and I mean ANY, shoat worth his/her potential salt would jump right the fuck up and hollar “thank god!” upon hearing this la-la-lyrical druggy sway fest rolling down a highway blazed by T-Rex, Earth 18, Bowie when-he-wore-a-dress, Grant Lee Buffalo, “Brit-pop when it was trying to be Revolver-era Beatles” and a buncha stuff that hits the “ecstacy come down – freek pop -freedom-hip-swivel folk” blat, as well as anyone selling records today. Membership links to Queens of the Stone Age, Masters of Reality, and the Desert Sessions makes sense, and the Marilyn Manson one does too, if you’re paying attention (The Move, Gary Glitter, & Roxy Music all gobbled up and spit out of a Blur groupies pursed lips).
When the psychedelics hit, I hope I’m listening to Cream doing “Badge” or “White Room,” Radiohead broadcasting eye-flickering dusk-dreams and the lightly-held Gothic “Wisconsin Death Trip” beauty of the White Stripes are sticking to the back of my eyelids, ’cause it’s all congruent to Licker’s Last Leg. I’m tellin’ ya: Ipecac understand quality. Buy into it and your soul can retire on the spiritual interest. Like my deceased Mom used to say, “Don’t be a fuck! Jump right up!” Bumpin’ uglies with the Velvet Goldmine soundtrack, Iggy Pop’s The Idiot, Deadboy and the Elephantman, Walter Sickert and the Army of Broken Toys, Firewater, and those first couple Brain Eno recs.