Whitey puts on his Al Jolson act and kicks it, but substitutes the funk for Biohazardcore and Beastie-thrash and the raps go on about lawn-jobs and drugs.
This comp has no theme, it’s not a tribute/benefit. It’s just flat-out unadorned rock ‘n’ roll music, loud ‘n’ coarse ‘n’ white trash, like it’s supposed to be.
With very few exceptions, the bands here don’t even perform their cover with competence, and most are not even close. Most just play the song a bit faster.
22 examples of inspired nonsense that only overprivileged kids with Vox organs, wah-wah pedals, and a complete collection of Seeds records can spit out.
As always, the thrill is in the very act of playing, not in the little details like “tuning” or “technique.” Roots-rock/country with a careless attitude.
Nothing terribly holly or jolly here, which is good ’cause misery, depression and weirdness are the kinda things that should be spread out throughout the year.
There’s a place where the generations still come together on July fourth just to see who can decorate the best goddamned bicycle and teach the most about sin.