When it comes to caveman rock-n-roll there aren't many bands that give a shot of glamor like the Tunnel Of Love. Jeanie Shrimpton on a meth binge hair-do's, striped leotards with gym shorts pulled over top of 'em, plastic tiara's and purchased from the clearance bin at a Halloween store Dracula capes It's a glamor that's vexatious to tough guys and the humorless but it's there in their thud none the less.
It's all about finding the most scuzzy of cruds then doll it up with broken, busted & bastard brain damage, soiled souls. Tunnel of Love almost take the sound of music and reduce it back to the days of cromagnum man when they just had rocks and sticks to bang against the ground and cave walls. Almost because they stop short of that because, well this ain't no hippie earth/world music jam band stuff. It's rock-n-roll. Beats of a primordial fashion on the floor tom & cymbal bashing rewire the connections of the brain which sets everything into an ooze position. A guitar that is held together but duct tape & sheer luck which may stay in tune for a minute or two blaaaangs from mostly downstroked chordal abuse through an amp that begs for mercy from eardrum fizzing feedback that happens every second when no one is beating the strings while howls of lust push it even father. All of the sounds are in competition to stomp all over each other and the assault turns into a one big nasty audio melee. It's almost like hearing a field recording of the 30's then going back to rediscover the people that recorded it are still alive and playing but despite them getting a big wad of electricity and hearing select songs from the Gories and Captain Beefheart's Original Magic Band they're still isolated from the world and regressing back to a stone age state is what you're suppose to do.