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22 December 2023
If I could take what I love about the Rolling Stones, and mix it with what I love about the Ramones, I'd probably get a Frankenstein monster that sounded like The Mooney Suzuki. Mixing that stripped-down '60s rock sound with the speed and intensity of what makes punk good, the New York-rooted fantastic foursome just plain fucking rock. 'Nuff said.
So what up with Electric Sweat, their ass-spanking new album on Gammon Records? Lots.
The title is right on. If you close your eyes real tight, you can see yourself dressed in some rip-kneed blue jeans, your rattiest B-movie t-shirt, and some tired and torn Chuck Taylor’s. It's 100+ degrees on the dance floor, but you don't give a fuck. You're still flailing about, half-drunk, Lucky Strike wedged between your teeth. You can see the band bouncing about, peering out through their tangled, sweaty mops, shouting in some vintage background harmonies.
So why, if this seems so disgustingly retro, do I like it? Because it's not. I mean, it is, but in a good way. It has what was great about the way-back-when: the soul, the spirit, the "we're-gonna-sing-about-chicks-and-other-such-badass-subject-matter" songs. And it injects it with a municipal water tower's worth of nitroglycerine. It's not whiny and pretentious. It's not "let's get high and aim for world peace." It's hot, sweaty, and ready for sex. The band breaks into "It's Not Easy", and that's when you spot that equally-sweaty vixen flailing about on the other side of the dance floor. She's giving you the "get-your-ass-over-here" eyes. Best get to stepping, and channel some of that dance floor energy into making that late-night electric sweat we all curl our toes for every once in awhile. She's gonna make you her bitch, and you're gonna like it.
Get the album, hear the songs, and visit them here.
So what up with Electric Sweat, their ass-spanking new album on Gammon Records? Lots.
The title is right on. If you close your eyes real tight, you can see yourself dressed in some rip-kneed blue jeans, your rattiest B-movie t-shirt, and some tired and torn Chuck Taylor’s. It's 100+ degrees on the dance floor, but you don't give a fuck. You're still flailing about, half-drunk, Lucky Strike wedged between your teeth. You can see the band bouncing about, peering out through their tangled, sweaty mops, shouting in some vintage background harmonies.
So why, if this seems so disgustingly retro, do I like it? Because it's not. I mean, it is, but in a good way. It has what was great about the way-back-when: the soul, the spirit, the "we're-gonna-sing-about-chicks-and-other-such-badass-subject-matter" songs. And it injects it with a municipal water tower's worth of nitroglycerine. It's not whiny and pretentious. It's not "let's get high and aim for world peace." It's hot, sweaty, and ready for sex. The band breaks into "It's Not Easy", and that's when you spot that equally-sweaty vixen flailing about on the other side of the dance floor. She's giving you the "get-your-ass-over-here" eyes. Best get to stepping, and channel some of that dance floor energy into making that late-night electric sweat we all curl our toes for every once in awhile. She's gonna make you her bitch, and you're gonna like it.
Get the album, hear the songs, and visit them here.
artid
764
Old Image
4_10_mooney.swf
issue
vol 4 - issue 10 (jun 2002)
section
entertainmental