Post by Kevin on Dec 19, 2002 12:49:37 GMT -5
Band: Ironboss
Album: Hung Like Horses
Format: CD
Label: Underdogma
Time: 46 minutes
Year: 2002
Track List:
WFKD
Jig is Up
Chrome and Gold
Hi-Ridin’Babe
Z-50 Horizon
Prelude
Hung Like Horses
Back When I was a Miner
Fuck It
Hot Smoke and Sassafrass
Pussy on the Corner
Low Man on the Totem Pole
Band site and cover photo: www.ironboss.com/IronbossMain/ibmain.html
After driving lost in the hills for 2 hours, you stop off in a cheap roadhouse in the Maryland panhandle. You’ve just spilled your PBR all over the table, which you’ve discovered has one short leg as it tilts under the weight of your sodden elbows and beer spills into your lap. The “woman” you tried to pick up an hour ago is really pissed off at your realistic impersonation of a drunken lout, but what you didn’t know is that “she” is a freshly paroled child molester who acquired a taste for the “Madonna ca. 1986” look at the state pen. “Her” daddy, an unemployed 6’4” former longshoreman, is now streaking across the room like a filthy cannonball, ready to let his Glock do the talking at close range.
An unbelievably loud power chord from the makeshift stage in the corner strikes everyone dumb and motionless. You’ve never heard of Ironboss, but you’re hearing them now. A bunch of grinning dudes, cheeks bulging from the tongues firmly implanted therein. They break into their first song, and right away you’re into their no frills, full-throttle, cock-in-you-pocket sound. This is full-on southern rawk, with a dash of blues and punk thrown in. The basics. Its hard to hear over the thunderous volume, but it sounds like they’re bellerin’ about pussy on the corner, being hung like horses, and hold on…is that a cover of ‘Hot Smoke and Sassafrass’ by 60s Texas psychesters Bubble Puppy? Your geek-o-meter says “yeah.” Pretty soon the whole smoke-filled, booze-soaked room is doing the whiplash dance in unison. Its hard to believe, but dammit, that 80-year-old guy in the corner is throwing the horns, and his 30-year-old girlfriend is flashing the crowd!
You and the big guy exchange grins, animosity forgotten. It must be the healing power of basic southern heavy tuneage, a medicine for all occasions. Leave the philosophizing for all the arty assholes; its time for final call and a laborious hunt for the car keys. A drunken Shane, you roar off into the night, neck aching, secure in the knowledge that not even a highway checkpoint can ruin the evening.
Kevin McHugh
Album: Hung Like Horses
Format: CD
Label: Underdogma
Time: 46 minutes
Year: 2002
Track List:
WFKD
Jig is Up
Chrome and Gold
Hi-Ridin’Babe
Z-50 Horizon
Prelude
Hung Like Horses
Back When I was a Miner
Fuck It
Hot Smoke and Sassafrass
Pussy on the Corner
Low Man on the Totem Pole
Band site and cover photo: www.ironboss.com/IronbossMain/ibmain.html
After driving lost in the hills for 2 hours, you stop off in a cheap roadhouse in the Maryland panhandle. You’ve just spilled your PBR all over the table, which you’ve discovered has one short leg as it tilts under the weight of your sodden elbows and beer spills into your lap. The “woman” you tried to pick up an hour ago is really pissed off at your realistic impersonation of a drunken lout, but what you didn’t know is that “she” is a freshly paroled child molester who acquired a taste for the “Madonna ca. 1986” look at the state pen. “Her” daddy, an unemployed 6’4” former longshoreman, is now streaking across the room like a filthy cannonball, ready to let his Glock do the talking at close range.
An unbelievably loud power chord from the makeshift stage in the corner strikes everyone dumb and motionless. You’ve never heard of Ironboss, but you’re hearing them now. A bunch of grinning dudes, cheeks bulging from the tongues firmly implanted therein. They break into their first song, and right away you’re into their no frills, full-throttle, cock-in-you-pocket sound. This is full-on southern rawk, with a dash of blues and punk thrown in. The basics. Its hard to hear over the thunderous volume, but it sounds like they’re bellerin’ about pussy on the corner, being hung like horses, and hold on…is that a cover of ‘Hot Smoke and Sassafrass’ by 60s Texas psychesters Bubble Puppy? Your geek-o-meter says “yeah.” Pretty soon the whole smoke-filled, booze-soaked room is doing the whiplash dance in unison. Its hard to believe, but dammit, that 80-year-old guy in the corner is throwing the horns, and his 30-year-old girlfriend is flashing the crowd!
You and the big guy exchange grins, animosity forgotten. It must be the healing power of basic southern heavy tuneage, a medicine for all occasions. Leave the philosophizing for all the arty assholes; its time for final call and a laborious hunt for the car keys. A drunken Shane, you roar off into the night, neck aching, secure in the knowledge that not even a highway checkpoint can ruin the evening.
Kevin McHugh
