Showing posts with label King Pizza. Show all posts
Showing posts with label King Pizza. Show all posts

Feb 17, 2016

¡Vamanos! "Presents​.​.​.​A Ten Inch at 45 Rpms" 10inch

Photo via Connor Lawson
     Duo's playing blues'd out, fuzzed up, bashed around punk rock-n-roll ain't nothing new. And these two long haired, New York City reprobates know they're not playing the kind of music that's done at a "performance space" or some art installation in front of metrosexual lumberjacks sipping hibiscus bourbon cocktails. There's no trumpets or tape loops. No banjos. No ballads. If you were to tell them there's some space out back to set up after sweetening the deal with a suitcase of Shaefer tough, they'd rock all the garage can diving alley cats til the cops show up.
     The guitar strings sound deep fried and the drums crack like they're shooting the curl with a bolt action rifle after doing some bong hits while listening to Davie Allan on the instrumentals "Mersch Bag" and "Chicken and Waffles." Meanwhile "Beat", with its let's do a blues shuffle in a chicken coop that's knee deep in mud 'tude, and "Dreamin'", which sounds like Blue Cheer and the Immortal Lee County Killers starting a fist fight over by the fryers, the yelps plead in sloshed desperation. Get in the car and turn up "Jackie O"  and drive fast. When I say turn it up, I mean loud enough to drown out the police sirens that are chasing your car once you put the hammer down caused from cranking the song up.
      ¡Vamanos! know they aren't reinventing the wheel. They don't care either. They just wanna stomp and holler and whoop and shout. That and, well, who's got the to figure out what cheap pizza toppings go well with a hibiscus bourbon cocktail anyway  when there's rockin' to be done? 

Dec 3, 2014

MAD DOCTORS "Snake Oil Superscience" LP

     Mashing the sounds of the post Brit Invasion/pre-hippie 60's with more than a passing fancy for the Z-grade horror and sci-fi flicks that lowest budget of UHF channels used to run on Saturday afternoons, these practitioners of trash are well prepared to crash any basement party that has revelers craving for ladles of a slimy stew of garage gruel to be flung at them.
     With the voice of guitarist Dr. Seth Applebaum, sounding something like cross between a local circuit pro-wrestling announcer and a leisure suited lounge lizard after a 4 day bender, pontificating and bellowing over top a brawling & blusey core of garage fuzz, blurred escapades are spun.
     They shoot the curl across an echo lavished Milky Way and use comets like pinball table bumpers on the album's opener "Space Woman" and wiggly "Surfboard From Hell." They spike rhythm-n-blues whiskey gets with something freaky, making the stomp and wiggle on tracks such as "Transmission Impossible" take a kaleidoscopic detour and treat the boogie on a tune like "Braindead Boogie" like IT IS a bunch of brains, which they then run lawnmower over, splattering bits all over the yard and the side of house. 
     Wrecked and wooly like a coyote fur coat dragged behind a car down a couple of alleys where the back entrances of burger joints and dive bars stand is something that New York City's Mad Doctors would proudly wear it in all it's moth eaten and weird smelling glory.