London swings, and boy, was that pendulum swingin’ in the late ’50s. This was the time to be a young cat or kitten, prowling the dives, lookin’ for fresh kicks.
Another tribute album in a long line of tribute albums. The music of Jeff Beck is performed by a handful of the prominent fret-shredders of the last 10 years.
Despising over half these “tributes” inspired me to pull out the originals, and reminded me many bands aren’t good at being themselves, much less Celtic Frost.
GHC Vol. 2 has an exceptionally liquid mix by NY’s cult superstar DJ Frankie Bones and a crystal clear sound. A must for anyone interested in rave culture.
Intended to be the kinda album a swingin’ bachelor (with a good education, a solid day job and well-polished shoes) would throw on the hi-fi on Friday nights.
Amy Arena doesn’t craft interesting phrases or emotional wordplay. She just rambles and bitches about how much men suck and how strong she is for saying so.
Remember “Don’t Forget Me When I’m Gone?” Veldt seem dead set on recreating the same kind of wonderbread euro-alterna-soul that made my dentist a rich man.