Bass Drum of Death

While Britain is getting all gooey eyed over Britpop V.2, the US
continues to manufacture its garage rock revolution.

With bands like Fidlar, Parquet Courts and a returning Wavves all making…
erm… waves across the pond it seems only natural that others
would follow suit.

Mississippi’s Nuggets loving princes Bass Drum of Death are the latest group to try and cure us of that B-Town curse.

‘Bass Drum of Death’, the group’s second album, isn’t going to get you
stroking your chin and thinking about chord sequences; it’s going to
force you to get on your feet and drink far too many beers.

It’s a fuzzy, scuzzy summer delight for people who just want to have a
good time, because when it’s sunny, intellectualism just doesn’t matter.

It’ll never be a classic, but this album proves one thing – nostalgia
induced rock can work.

Britpoppers take note. It just has to be fun.

The band’s performance is a perpetual balance between vicious, irony-drenched humour and sobering, intestine-twisting snarl.

A few songs in comes the screams of “more vocals, more vocals” – “oh yes, because I control the level of the vocals from up here on this magic machine.

Beep, beep, beep,” Kosloff deadpans, playing with
an amp.

The material from this year’s ‘Honeys’ is resolutely corporeal; from ‘Bathroom Laughter’ to ‘Male Gaze’,

the success of the album has injected a ferocity and intensity to their renditions that perhaps supersedes their already riotous existence on record.

They drape themselves in Hookworms’ USA flag, “This one
is for the troops,” Kosloff declares as he delves into an acid-tongued assault on the earnest sentimentality of the US, mimicking all the trite,
stereotypical phrasing no doubt circulating around dinner tables and news stations back home.

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