Tag: Imperial Wax

Do not be intimidated by their size, or their nudity — Naked Giants are just here to have a rocking good time.

The end of the year slide has commenced, and things feel somewhat lackadaisical, but there’s still a huge backlog of new music to get through. Among the highlights is a new album from Amyl and the Sniffers, which contains lots of great stuff the FCC would frown on, but I was able to find one track that required minimal editing for compatibility.

You will swoon as Geordie Greep croons sweetly to his army of scissor-limbed killbots.

Once upon a time, the Jesus Lizard was about as subtle as a candy-coated cinderblock. These days, well, they’re about the same. Tonight, they introduce things with a speculative reminiscence that is measured, philosophical, and yet somewhat menacing.

These lads supported Mark E. Smith for a while, and that speaks loads about their ability to hit his notoriously high and fickle bar, and (unrelated) their ability to put up with random nonstop antics. Straightahead driving music for eating up miles.

Billy Martin’s drumming makes me think of oxymorons like “precisely sloppy” and “intensely casual” and “red hot chill out”.

The Woolly Bushmen may look young, but they sound like a rusted IROC Camaro with a busted manifold roaring out of the 7-11 parking lot.

There wasn’t enough room on the narrow boat for the botanist to take out a handkerchief and wipe their brow. The square head vessel, slicing through the water on its way to the Phong Dien Floating Market, looked to be laden with mangos, but that was a ruse. The pyramids that piled the boat only a had a skin a single mango deep. Underneath were piles of something with about the same density as mangos, but much much more valuable. The captain twisted the knob on the cabin radio on hearing some narcopolka, the device’s limited capacity making the sound increase not in volume, only in distortion. The sun sparkled off the water, a thousand heat lasers evading the shade thrown by the wide straw hats they wore.

The archivist’s breath misted in the freezing vault as gloved hands lifted the metal canister off the shelf. Getting to Greenland had not been trivial, driving the snowcats to Nuuk undetected had been a challenge, and breaking into the Katuaq Cultural Centre’s secret collection room, dug out of the permafrost, could be described as difficult. Now, locating the footage was close to impossible, given the hundreds of linear meters of shelving that were visible. The producer unspooled the first few feet off the reel, peering up through the film to the overhead light. The muffled sound of Persian hip-hop could be heard from the theater above. Maybe it was not so impossible.

After serving 11 years backing Mark E. Smith, this bands breaks out into a dark rock sound, thrilling with its edgy energy and monster riffing.