Barn Burner
Bangers II: Scum of the Earth
Metal Blade

Montreal’s booze-filled, flannel warriors return with their highly anticipated sequel (highly anticipated by me, anyway), Bangers II: Scum of the Earth, and it’s every bit the stoner metal riff-fest its predecessor was. What’s more is, Barn Burner seem to have upped the aggressive ante this time around without sacrificing their sense of party-hard humor, meaning you still get songs with titles like “Dark Side of the Barn,” “Keg Stand and Deliver,” and “Skid Marks the Spot,” but they’re thrown at you heavier and faster than ever before (no doubt due to better production this time around). I ate Bangers up like a plate of of rock n’ roll stew, traces of its slick licks dribbling down my bearded chin, thanks to its deliciously fraternizing nature; an album for bros by bros. Bangers II does not fail in drawing the denim-head scum together again, but the frothy, cursed, thunder-chuck that is now their glorious glue is more raging battle than raging kegger, is more broad sword than clenched fist, and will surely separate allies from enemies. And that’s the beauty of the Barn Burner way — whether killer or thriller, you’re always left bloody and smiling with your friends at the end.

Listen to “Keg Stand and Deliver” from Bangers II: Scum of the Earth!

The Best Canadian Albums of the Year

Canada is home to some of the best fucking bands in the world. Sorry, that outburst wasn’t very politely Canadian of me, but it’s fucking true. I’ve got the proof right here, ten times over. I’d crank any one of these albums while I’m watching the hockey game. I can’t bring myself to rank ‘em because, well, I’m just so goddamn proud of all of ‘em, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take the time get to know ‘em right now. Here then, in alphabetical order, is this year’s cream of the Canadian crop. Oh, and that crop also includes a case of Pil and some weed.

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Barn Burner
Bangers
Metal Blade

Barn Burner, you raggedy sons-of-bitches! Are you fucking kidding me? Just when I thought Montreal’s world-eating rock n’ roll machine couldn’t possibly get any meaner, you come bustin’ out of a mile-high pile of crushed PBR cans in some wood-paneled den in your flannel and denim like you’re the goddamn Kings of the Rotten, set my beard on fire, and then piss on the flames. Now the smoke is burnin’ my eyes and I smell like a wino in a litter box, but I’ll be damned if I’m not the happiest rat crawlin’ in the rock n’ roll gutter. I mean, this album right here is the reason I do what I do, that’s for damn sure. It breaks my beard, boy-o.

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