A disc emanating that
rusty screech full of beer and bourbon, in the best tradition of the Pub-Rock
played behind a chicken-wire to protect the musicians from the launch of empty
bottles. As the disc turns, seem to see them there, caught between an amplifier
and a stack of empty Budwieser, to shake the guitar, bass, and beating on a
drum that sounds like an old broken-down bowl. These Mojo Monkeys, three old
rogue of California studios, conducted by an enormous blond punk drummer, are
stepchildren of a white version of Lil 'Ed & The Blues Imperials and an expanded
isotope of the Black Keys (Beating Dead Horses): Hammond, steel
guitar, dobro: the entire back of a pawn shop for flipping an entire alphabet, blues
into the verse and very indie in the solo; a group not bad also as backing band
for an old movie cowboy like Bad Blake (Californialabama).
In the best tradition
of The Nighthawks, until the fat roughness of the rhythm section of Hound Dog
Taylor’s House Rockers (Enough), they rattle off 13 songs (a
little too much..) of syncopated shuffle that regularly resulting in layers of electric
rock, so original as a Guinness in an Irish Pub (Bodacious). Yet, just
like beer, they do not tire too much, even if already heard, already played
years ago by George Thorogood, Fabulous Thunderbird, but also Cinderella (those
of Heartbreak Station), R.L. Burnside, Lester Butler, his 13 and many many
others.
What really stand,
after so funny “slyness”, is some domestic animalism à la Jon Spencer, a couple
of twists of very voodoo guitar in the extreme swamp Monkeythumb, but
especially the small acoustic gem of Baton Rouge, monologue for harsh
guitar and white noise, the only piece that manages to dredge up with precision
and originality the dry primitiveness of Junor Kimbourgh. It closes with some
late night cut (Can not Say No), where those who stay are sleeping on the
tables while the owner sweeps the shards on the floor (Our Curse). And shame for
the unnecessary lil’-soft-west-coast-classic-rock-ballad that is She'll
Be Alright: stuff that could be even in the Grey’s Anatomy soundtrack,
God forbid!
Un disco che emana quel rugginoso stridore intriso di birra e bourbon
come nella migliore tradizione del Pub-Rock suonato al riparo di reti da
pollaio per proteggere i musicisti dal lancio di bottiglie vuote. Mentre il
disco gira sembra di vederli lì stretti tra un amplificatore e una pila di
fusti vuoti di Budwieser, ad agitare la chitarra, un basso saturo come un
“Washtub bass” e picchiare su una batteria che suona come una vecchia catinella
scassata. Questi Mojo Monkeys, tre vecchi marpioni degli studi californiani,
condotti da un enorme batterista punk biondo, sono figliastri di una versione
bianca di Lil' Ed And The Blues Imperials e di un isotopo espanso dei Black
Keys (Beating Dead Horses): hammond, steel guitar, dobro: l’intero
retrobottega di un robivecchi per scartabellare tutto un alfabeto, blues nella
strofa e molto indie nell’assolo; un gruppo di spalla non male anche per il
vecchio cowboy cinematografico Bad Blake (Californialabama).
