Baby Woodrose
Money for Soul

The first image that comes to mind when I listen to this album is Terry the Tramp wandering around Haight Asbury looking for some young American hippie to offer LSD in exchange for obvious sexual favors.

You may ask: “But who the hell is Terry the Tramp?”
Dear Terry was one of the first Hell’s Angels (the quintessential biker group, sadly known after the killing of Meredith Hunter at the Altamont rock festival in 1969), famous for his look that mixed the raw biker always ready for a brawl, with the dirty, long-haired freak, constantly stuffed with the most varied drugs (especially the aforementioned LSD).
And Haight Asbury? Some nobleman’s summer residence overseas? Absolutely not, it was the San Francisco area, a gathering place and crucial creative center of the American psychedelic scene, becoming a symbol of the American counterculture of the late '60s. And, not a secondary detail, it was the place where the Hell’s Angels supplied LSD to the local hipsters, including the Grateful Dead.
Mix these images with the current North European garage scene, add a pinch of the Freak Brothers (who remembers them?), and the result won’t be far from Baby Woodrose.

From the initial Honeydripper, heavily stuffed with fuzz/stoner guitars and sixties-style organ, these three long-haired Danes (for the record Lorenzo, Rocco, and Ricky) attack us with a rocky garage sound, more freak than punk, sometimes even danceable. Even the heaviest butts will shake to the title track (the guitar riff is really catchy!) or Rollercoaster (characterized by a nice vocoder and a fantastic siren in the background... a tribute to the 13th Floor Elevators?).

Some influences from the past are sometimes easily recognizable, as in Disconnected (early Who), or in You Own It (West Coast atmosphere à la Jefferson Airplane), but overall the album never, in my opinion, falls into blatant plagiarism. After listening to the final track Volcano (all reverbs and samples of women panting), you'll feel an irresistible urge to crank up the stereo, take your chopper (actually dear uncle's Benelli), put on the leather vest with a conspicuously smelly armpit, and pick up the first blonde passing by.
But beware that old Terry doesn't swipe her before you!