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.
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.
Chrome combined the motion of the rock backbeat with an otherworldly array of treatments and effects to make a noise that bridged psychedelia and industrial.
A little bit of everything from horn-driven espresso-bongo-distorto schmutz to sampled-samba clean-and-jerk to a diatribe against Simins as a role model.
A few beats too many, making them stagger like a guy wearing two different shoes, and the guitars play notes that sound uncomfortable next to each other.