A big, stoned, Sunday afternoon of an album which inserts an eggbeater into the brains of the blues, cranks the handle, and serves it with a side of ‘shrooms.
An orgy of perversion, luxuriating in decadence, wine spilled on stained silk bedsheets, camping it up, turning every tear into a tsunami of overblown emotion.
I know a lotta these garage bands pride themselves on their lo/no-fi “wyld and primitive” recording, and I can dig that, but this one just sounds like garbage.
Nothing like coming across as a purple-haired, snot-nosed, bratty punk at the tender age of thirty. What do you like, ya big sourpuss? And that’s the thing…
It feels as if the universe took a deep, final breath, shuddered, and collapsed, leaving nothing but an infinite black hole in the center of your being.