If we told you that Atlanta, Georgia’s Black Lips play guitars with their penises, enact on-stage fellatio on each other, have a song on this sixth album about eating trash (Dumpster Dive) and almost killed producer Mark Ronson by making him eat raw liver while recording Arabia Mountain, you’ll have some idea of their sound.
Cock-propelled deep south kickassisms.
It’s filthy, rattle-punk garage rock rooted in The Monks, The Who, The Animals and the first primitive bone-beatings of rock’n’roll, occasionally augmented with Rocket From The Crypt dancehall greaser horns, flower-power balladry (Spidey’s Sense takes the concept of spidery guitars to such extremes it’s literally about Spider-Man) and the primal screams of men with their privates caught in a pick-up.
It’s a sound many have attempted to recreate but few have truly captured, but the likes of Bicentennial Man, the modern Merseybeat tribute Time and the Ramones-with-botulism Raw Meat bristle with the thrill and energy of rock’n’roll’s rudest youth.
Just don’t accept their offer of a dinner date if you value your stomach lining.