Widely considered one of the finest rock guitarists of his time, the opportunity to see him play makes this an ideal gift for the guitar nerd in your life.
Dreamy, dirt-gaze doom with female vocals, ethereal flute, and spooky organ. Blood Ceremony owe a dept to black & white horror movies from the pre-rock era.
Tense, wound-up, rocked-up gunk to draw in anyone with the a taste for the Who/Yardbirds ’60s Mod nerve through the MC5/Stooges/Simply Saucer/Devo ’70s.
Lots to like from Chicago’s own fireplugs of post-NWOBHM retro-luv, but then again, there’s lots to live up to, given the last couple of the band’s four albums.
Not anthemic enough to be Rammstein, not sick enough to be Skinny Puppy, not throbbing enough to be one of the bands I can never specifically remember.
I still place these guys as gobbling Pere Ubu’s pre-LP stuff, as well as other crude-aggo-outsider shit from the fair city of Cleveland when Carter was President.