This Dutch duo have made the sort of CD you take to right from the opening bell, like they're beating you with a stick. A pounding, sinful beat, dirty screaming guitars, filthy bass, just-right distorted vocals, and a bunch of mean-dog riffs add up the true spirit of rock 'n' roll. Too much stomping jump blues and old rock 'n' roll to be "punk," but as flaming-embers smoky in sound, this is the wild bastard son of every Bo Diddley record you've ever spun. The floor tom booms mercilessly, the guitar licks kick in that diseased Cramps way, the bass starts swinging, and the production hits you in the face with a blast of mud-pie. It keeps on going all 11 songs, the heavy heat of this Euro band meeting the swamps of Louisiana and the most out-of-the-way club on Chicago's south side, with a modern blast of a sound that just makes your ears stand up like a doberman's. This stuff is so churning, roaring, fuzzy, and trashy, you want to mix up spells and potions with Screaming Jay Hawkins and make a date with David Seville's "Witch Doctor." This is such a wonderful perversion of Big Joe Turner and Howling Wolf, 2002 style, that you'd swear the FBI would want to ban it. "Scream the blues!" said Hawkins, and these guys made it zap to life like the first punk rock band. When they say "Let's rock the house," you say, "Right!"
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AllMusic Review by Jack Rabid