I returned home this summer for the first time time in 16 years. The experience so far has been somewhat bizarre to say the least. It feels like I went away for a month, drove back, and then everything suddenly aged at an insane acceleration. I’ve been aging at an insane acceleration, much faster than the people and places that surround me.
The once close memories of big bright cities and combustible friendships are now just a sporadic blur of stretched sound and light, fleeting in shape and substance. Crumbs of burnt adrenaline floating down an unsteady stream of obnoxious romantic relationships. I feel like the anxious bugs I see crawling through the cracks in my house, trying to scurry away from the oncoming freeze.
What can I say, I’m always changing my mind. I remember how music always propelled me to go after my crazy pipe dreams . When I heard the new reunion EP by the Slack Bastards, it brought back those intense feelings of naive invincibility and self assured hostility.
Glam damaged garage meets primitive beach punk in this seedy ruckus of sugary swill from Tucson, Arizona. This quick blast of six trashy tunes blends the coarse musical sleaze of the Joneses with the brattiness of classic Metal Mike. Crackling reverbed guitar and forceful boom pop rhythms fuel the Beach Boulevard inspired bashing. Sordid contemplations and a fun fuck-off attitude create the shady playground these seasoned punks call home. This trashed out letter bomb is out now on Doug Moody’s infamous Mystic Records. Get a clue and snatch this one up.
– Kevin McGovern