Like, when all’s said and done, music is about mood. Setting a mood. Capturing a mood. Elevating a mood.
Now, that mood might merely be mellow.
Sometimes, gasp, even a little frisky.
And, just occasionally, the mood calls for nothing less than a misshapen crew of husky lads in a stinking basement beating the absolute fucking shit out of their instruments.
Have a gander at this and see what I mean:
Jesus fucking Christ, don’t you want to be there, in that crowd?
Suffocating in heat and half-delirious from the ear-splitting din, wringing-wet from other punters' ponytail sweat and smuggled-in vodka.
The lad behind shoves a fingernail bump of greasy Slavic speed up your hooter and you’re off. Bish, bash, bosh.
Three minutes flat of furious, unadulterated punk energy, no idea what they’re on about, who gives a shit.
Bread and butter backbeat, colossal palm muting and fuck-you-mom haircuts.
