The Goddamn Gentlemen have created a monster of an album. A big, heaving booze-soaked monster that likes hot rods, rock and roll and smokin’ hot licks. This rock monster of an album is big enough to knock you on your arse, but smart and charming enough to pick you back up with a lil’ Farfisa. Most “hot-rod rawk” bands fall into a very predictable stereotype, but not these boys. The album has a definite style, but its not held back by contrived parameters.
The first song on the album made me feel like I should grease back my hair and roll a cigarette. Ten minutes into the album, (so my roommate tells me) I stripped down to my “Alf” undies, was doing the twist wildly, and broke a lamp. By the last song on the album, I was in a gutter outside my covered in whisky, had some sort of skull/snake/knife combo tattoo and wearing a wedding ring.
So after you go out and get this album, be freakin’ careful. Have someone there who knows what they’re doing for God’s sake. These guys hail from Portland, so anytime you see a flier or listing with their name on it, lock up your daughters (if you are a daughter, break out) and go see these guys live. I’ll be there, with clean underwear on this time, ready for a night of jet-fueled debauchery dancin’ and a-prancin’, and hopefully avoiding another shotgun weddin’.