Staggering, plodding, delicate, discreet, ass-kicking. I like bands named after assassinated homosexual politicians that sound like Brian Eno meets Melvins.
In-your-face aggressive. He plays the guitar fast and furious. If he were electric, he’d be lethal. He makes me wonder how many strings he goes through.
Monk ran home with his new punk rock CD. He ripped the cellophane off with his teeth. He threw it in and immediately began jumping around the room like a fool.
Making comparisons between Fu Manchu and ’70s acid-rock kings is slippery business, because, while the influence is undeniable, there’s no nostalgic vibe.