Though he's only assisted by a drummer, it often sounds like a group of cavemen here, hell-bent on bloodshed and constantly thirsty for the taste of gasoline. Beats hammer the deep into the cranium with stealthy psychic pneumatics while guitar strings turn to razorwire, flaying flesh and tangling up intestines.
The very fine line between the differences of the bad spirits that infest the souls of frazzled blues-punk devils and those of highly satanic metalists becomes even more blurred. This record is like a clock sticking midnight and then the two signed a most malevolent of pacts. Many gawked it from a distance. They did not live to see the morning.
Get cursed at Blak Skul