No doubt garbed in the finest trucker hats and oil-stained denim, King Giant are a gang of handlebar ‘staches that play a Hills Have Eyes kind of hard rock, and the Devil help ya if you happen to stumble upon their Northern Virginia property by accident because I have a feeling you’d be staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun wonderin’ when backwoods hospitality lost all its charm. While Dismal Hollow spews much of the same hog exhaust as 2009′s Southern Darkness, it’s also a much broodier ride, and all them wrecking ball riffs come wrapped in a down home doom that makes the album’s eight songs sound like a moonshine’d Danzig dragging a bloated corpse through the dirt and dry leaves. You might even say it’s dismal. And hollow. Oh, and if you guessed King Giant would be the kind of band to write songs called “Appomattox,” “Pistols and Penance,” “6 O’Clock Swill,” and “O’Drifter,” you’d be right, so welcome to the root cellar, victim.
Check out the video for “Appomattox” from Dismal Hollow!
Buy the Ticket is a four song EP from She Rides, Providence, Rhode Island’s drunk tornado of junkyard rock and biker metal, whose label, Rusty Knuckles Records, is home to such hideous outlaws as ANTiSEEN and Crank County Daredevils, so you know the kind of cocaine and gasoline fun you’re gonna get here. It’s been about three years since their self-titled debut, so the fact that there’s only four songs means they had to stuff an awful lot of sleaze into each one of ‘em for maximum effect, and I’ll be damned if the whole thing isn’t as bloated as a dead possum who overdosed on a lethal mix of Ironboss, The Misfits, Peter Pan Speedrock, and Damn 13. Take one Hunter S. Thompson reference, a bunch of nasty riffs, and the words party, piss, and dude, and you’ve got an EP aimed to tickle saggy-titted trailer trash in that special spot usually reserved for their cousin’s greasy shotgun.
Sons of Tonatiuh Sons of Tonatiuh
Hydro Phonic Records
Real nasty spawn, these Sons of Tonatiuh, born under a bridge in the worst part of Atlanta, left to muckrake a miserable existence from wee hellions with pockets full of coal to teenage pariahs with duffel bags full of stolen goods, now barely alive, toothless and hungry, channeling their anti-social behaviour into a rent-by-the-hour racket. This here self-titled full-length debut is what happens when street urchins demand to be heard; ugly, crusty, disease-ridden doom that’s lost all sense of control and shoved a twisted scrap of sheet metal into your leg just to get at that moldy, half-eaten sandwich in your pocket. Socially morbid, squeegee-bleed, spastic death metal with the rank odor of sewer water, fetching flies and whores, holding dominion over the unseen, chemically ruined, appalling and bloated rot, lecherous companion to all kinds of Black Cobras, Weedeaters, and Scum. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
King Giant
She Rides
Sons of Tonatiuh