supersuckers: abc: glasgow

ah the redemptive power of rock and roll and good ol’ boy country drinking music….

after a weekend light on entertainment but heavy on cheap vin rouge, champagne and a horrific concotion snappily titled ‘assisted suicide’ (one part rum, one part jagermeister, cheeky dash of coke, speedy loss of faculties) and sweatbox four hour car journey home next morning this was so fucking necessary.

hats, denim, leather, hair, tattoos, wallet chains, sleazy looking women and sideburned men.  it was all there on show, representing some kind of greasy country / garage rock fashion timeline through the ages.

some gnarled dude asked ‘would i shave my balls for this?

the answer would be a resounding yes.

the supersuckers are simply one of the great rock and roll bands (to almost quote their own chewy hyperbole).  like the best goddam bar band you’ll ever see.  though i say the same thing about the detroit cobras.  but it’s true. all of it.  if you’ve never heard them before imagine some grotesque bastard child of reverend horton heat, steve earle and lynyrd skynyrd. 

kind of.  but not really.

it’s just rock and roll stupid.  but not stupid rock and roll.

well kind of.  not really.

like mudhoney but with willie nelson and not the stooges smeared all over them.

i could listen to the sacrilicious (ah the wordsmith in me digs this…) sounds of the supersuckers any time of the day, any day of the week, any week of the month, any month of the year ad infinitum.  frankly they were sub pops last great signing.

supersuckers: born with a tail

anyway live they do an acousticky country thang mid-set, sandwiched deliciously between stomping fuzzy fingers in the air strammash.  we get a smattering from most of the records and it’s all good, grand, testicularly entertaining.

was going to use the phrase rootin’ tootin’ but i’ve chickened out.  but fuck me (please don’t) if it wasn’t the perfect four tuborg cure for an excessive headache that is the weekend.   i like it all, man.

if i have one complaint (and i rarely do) it’s about the a-b-fucking-c. perennially murky sound at the start of every gig and whoever does the lights needs paddled, brained, unpleasantly buggered with whatever’s to hand. s’like some kind of seizure inducing japanorama videogame hell-version of close encounters of the third kind directed by peyote addled blindmen with nothing better to do than mash buttons. every fucking time with the perma- retina burn. least the band had the sense to kill the sonsofbitches.

oh and it was over way too bloody quick…

oh yeah and a bunch of sweet sounds from s-s records appearing here this week.  woo…