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Hookers
Satan's Highway
Scooch Pooch
EMERGING FROM THE trailer parks of Kentucky, the Hookers steal
a swig or two from the liquor jugs of Zeke, Nashville Pussy, REO
Speedealer and the Dwarves. They swill this lethal concoction
in the nearest still, add rocket fuel and then vomit skyward into
their own nasty brand of barnstorming Southern-fried metal punk.
Imagine a crank-addicted AC/DC gone down a path to hillbilly death-metal
hell--sort of what Slayer would sound like if they grew up watching
Hee-Haw and listening to Black Oak Arkansas.
The Hookers--unlike the mighty Nashville Pussy, who worship at
the altars of Ted Nugent, Kiss and Motorhead--pray to the same
warped demons that inspired Black Sabbath, Venom and Mercyful
Fate. Former 'Pussy/Nine Pound Hammer stickman Adam Neal steps
out from behind his drum kit to uncork his best Blag Jesus-meets-King
Diamond vocal impersonation, shredding most of the redneck speed-punk
competition in the process. When guitarist Noel Reucroft throttles
such wicked Angus Young-saturated riffs on "Hometown Slut"
and "Back Alley Trash," you'd swear you were reliving
an arena-sized "Let There Be Rock" wet dream circa 1977.
On "We Don't Fuck Around," the Hookers mean every word:
a meth-fueled, runaway freight train wrecking everything that
dares cross its path. Hey, Maw! Hide them young 'uns. The Hookers
are comin'!
--Ron Bally
ETHER
Hush
Pinworm
A TRIBAL/INDUSTRIAL collective, Salt Lake City-based Ether's overloaded
performances (films, freakish lighting gimmicks and lit fires)
have earned comparisons to early Butthole Surfers--and more recently,
Crash Worship. The group's second CD is eclectic, sending mixed
(but not unpleasant) signals as to its intentions. While the mid-disc
explosion of furious drumming and percussion clatter may send
you darting across the room to prevent the abrupt demise of kitchen
china and crystal, prior to that you'll have been awash in a dizzying
array of psychedelic motifs (elongated guitar chimes and billowy
clouds of droning bass, plus massed drum mantras and gamelan bells).
And the set's closing moments--minimalist guitar, whispered vocals
and distant flute trills--additionally suggest the presence of
ambient/neoclassical students in the lineup.
--Fred Mills
VINCE GILL
The Key
MCA Nashville
A FUNNY THING happens on country music star Vince Gill's latest
release: country music. See, Gill says he's found himself "just
missing real, true country music" lately. Thus, we have a
situation in which the problem is trying to reinvent itself as
the solution. And while the results are hardly memorable, they're
not as vapid as one might expect.
Several years ago, Gill's silken tenor joined the chorus of Stetson-cloaked
jackhammers pounding the foundations of traditional country music--one
more saccharine ambassador for the "crossover" effect
that now has Nashville more aligned with Celine Dion than George
Jones. Today, going back to your roots in Nashville doesn't mean
taking a cue from Patsy Cline or Merle Haggard, but rather simply
trying not to sound as goofy as Joe Diffie.
And so now Gill is doing penance with an assortment of fiddles,
steel guitars and traditional arrangements that will no doubt
earn him accolades for honoring "true country." Gill's
undeniable and ample songwriting talents are particularly evident
on the loping ballad "Live To Tell It All," and the
catchy romp "I Never Really Knew You." And his flawless
voice, though a little too crystalline for this reviewer's ears,
continues to ooze the familiar appeal that's earned him legions
of fans.
Ultimately, however, The Key can't evade the arthritis
of unintended irony, a condition Gill only exacerbates by singing
lines such as, "If you're gonna play the jukebox/Would you
kindly keep it country...."
--Christopher Weir
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