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Black Space Riders: Black Space Riders

The only problem I ever had with Zodiac Mindwarp And The Love Reaction and their duct tape-barbiturates-and-zero-moral-code approach to greaserdelic barbarian fuck-rock was that they weren’t from outer space. Well, Germany’s own Black Space Riders have ably sutured that gaping plot hole with this remarkable debut. There’s a “Total vision” at work here – it’s a concept album, with suites and trilogies, instrumentals and spoken word passages, and all of it, every last second, is about…riding through black space. Musically, BSR zoom deftly between Hawkwind-y space-prog and Zod-like used-leather thunder with the odd dash of down-tuned grunge and dollops of thick, greasy acid-funk. The band’s Teutonic stoicism – even when belting out cartoonish hellraiser anthems like Stoned Bikers In Space and Ride On, Black Space Rider only compounds the delightful absurdity/awesomeness of it all. A full-tilt gonzo piece of work, Black Space Rider is easily my favourite record of the year – the year being 2069, of course. (⁸⁄₁₀)

Snew: We Do What We Want

Second assault from these third-wave Hollywood scuzz merchants. Taking their cues from the more aggressive/psychotic 80’s sleaze-metal culprits – Dangerous Toys, Jackyl, Love/Hate – Snew bash out two-ton southern-fried rawk with prison-riot abandon, while frontman Curtis Don Vito barks out orders-to-rock in a larynx-shredding growl-howl somewhere between Jesse James Dupree and a torture victim getting his molars yanked out with a pliers. Dumb, loud fun.

Infernal Overdrive: Infernal Overdrive

Marc Schleicher was the unsung hero of Boston rawk in the past decade. His band, Cracktorch, combined a terrifying lack of concern for their own safety with a devastating two-guitar Thin Lizzy attack. When the band imploded, Schleicher just moved his circus act to New Jersey, got a fancy new name, and started it all over again. Acrobatic 70s pound ’n’ pummel. (⁷⁄₁₀)

Sasquatch: III

The problem with all this “stoner rock” jazz is that most of it is a plodding mudride played by sedated fatsos in corduroys. LA mind-messers Sasquatch take a more razzle-dazzle approach to the genre, constructing monolithic slabs of acid-guzzling power-rock and then turning them into actual songs, with hooks and choruses and all that good shit. Bad-ass. (⁸⁄₁₀)

Dragontears: Tune In, Turn On, Fuck Off

It’s the end of the road for Dragontears, the aggressively psychedelic Danish drugrock outfit formed in the mid 2000’s by Baby Woodrose frontman Lorenzo Woodrose and a revolving cast of his funky friends. They bow out, suitably, with a mindblower. With several tracks sung in their mother-tongue, Tune In is 40-ish minutes of pure purple-powered dirtball delirium. A spectacular headphone ride. RIP, weirdos. (⁷⁄₁₀)

Came from the sky like a 747. Classic Rock’s least-reputable byline-grabber since 2003. Several decades deep into the music industry. Got fired from an early incarnation of Anal C**t after one show. 30 years later, got fired from the New York Times after one week. Likes rock and hates everything else. Still believes in Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, against all better judgment.