With song titles like "Big Clitty City" and "Tramp Stamp," you can't lose (or absolutely will, depending on who you are). You keep waiting for Rat King's slow-churn blooz stomp to explode into punk firecrackers, but they just keep lurching along through the used condoms and empty bottles littering yr room after a night spent blitzed on Ecstasy and red wine with your boy-and-or-girlfriend. The singer just barely pulls off the chest thumping machismo required of this sorta rock 'n' roll, sorta the way that drunk at the bar in Hollywood managed to convince you he slept with a member of the Go-Gos back in '79, but only 'cause he's got a Germs burn and you've been cadging drinks off him all night. Whole thing reminds me of the much-missed, much-hated Kickboy Face.
Oh, yeah, the moosick. The bass sound is fucking huge and all over the place, closer to the sorta dub I blast when I'm baking my brain into a cake than minimal, retarded Dee Dee Ramone licks. The guitarist shoots off staccato riffs that twinkle as broken glass in the gutter, and the drums pound away like your hangover tomorrow morning.
Tired of all the metaphors and analogies? Ok, lemme tell ya a story, kiddies, that this album brings to mind. Well, no, it's too shameful to relate in all its detail. Suffice to say it involves this Drug Punk, too much booze, and his significant other in a hostel bathroom in Europe. 'Nuff said, Rat King is just that grimy.
Keep leering at that cutie at the other end of the bar, then go buy this LP at Rat King's bandcamp page. Hurry up, they only pressed 100 of these fuckers so I'm guessing it comes with sexual tips straight from the band isself. Rock out, fuck out, pass out, folks.
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