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Blue Snaggletooth: Dimension Thule

I can see how, on first glance, Blue Snaggletooth might throw you into a fit of cold, wet nerd-panic. I mean, they have songs about Atlantis, after all, and Time Lords, and whatever the fuck a Thule is. But here’s the thing: back in, say, 1972, shirtless, acid-gobbling riff tyrants like Power Of Zeus, Iron Claw, or Blues Creation wrote songs with titles like Swords Of Atlantis all the time, and it was no big deal. It was cool once, man. Believe it. Anyway, the proof’s in the puddin’, and Dimension Thule delivers eight great and greasy globs of molten ass lava steaming down the skull-shaped crevices of He-Dog Mountain, swallowing villages whole and spitting out the splintered bones in its wake. If Manowar were actually an aggregation of evil geniuses just pretending to be a bunch of goons, they’d probably sound just like Blue Snaggletooth. Pure, merciless, macho, proto-metal thud. But be sure to gird your loins before you strap Dimension Thule on, because this record will make you pregnant. Even if you’re a dude. (⁷⁄₁₀)

Isabelle’s Gift: Possession With Intent

I saw these guys fight with cops in the mud once. It takes a certain type of individual to put themselves in that sort of situation, and Isabelle’s Gift are exactly those sort of people: decidedly southern, angry, drunk – and loud. They throw a little melody into the COC-meets-Deliverance stew this time out, but the redneck fest rages on. (⁶⁄₁₀)

Black Knots: Guitarmageddon

Gear-grinding loons from Ohio. Granted, the album’s title is ridiculous, but beyond the goofy rawk-dude trappings, you get piles of ferocious, slashing guitars and propulsive, nose-cracking punk’n’roll deathjams about whores, cobras and evil conspiracies. If you want to know what it sounds like to get murdered for about 37 minutes, this is the record for you. (⁶⁄₁₀)

The Monsters: Pop Up Yours

The eighth album from these tireless Swiss dead-enders. Featuring two drummers and one apartment-wrestling Reverend (who also owns the record label), The Monsters play brain-mashing, blown-out gutterbilly that occasionally sloshes its way into an Elvis-esque croon. Mostly though, it’s the sound of four aging nutcases tossing their gear down a flight of stairs. Quite monstrous, really. (⁷⁄₁₀)

Destroy She Said: Music for Muscle Cars

I’m not too lazy to search for potential hard rock inspirations for this Melbourne-dwelling mob, I just don’t think you need to go any deeper than AC/DC to get to the essence of the DSS experience. It’s balls-deep, Saturday night beer-brawl rock that sounds like Bon Scott leading a biker gang into the mouth of hell. Sorted. (⁶⁄₁₀)

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.