Gallon Drunk
Tonite... the Singles Bar

THE REVIEW

" Morricone is like God, I could sacrifice the most precious thing I own to him: my unemployment card" James Johnston, 1991.

This album is a rock anthology and the ten tracks pressed on the vinyl collect the respective five singles (with their improbable covers) released in three years of activity. If at the end of every performance you wrung out the shirt with an elephant ear collar from James, I believe you could distill a gut-wrenching hangover. In a Memphis dive they would have wreaked havoc: imagine the smoke sliced by the large ceiling fans, the sordid atmosphere ideal for a track like the traditional "Miserlou" with its lurching guitar rhythm that sticks the notes onto you like heavy drops of sweat. Forget the Tarantino-style stereotypes of "After Dark" with the poor Tito Larriva (please, rediscover "Electrify Me" by the Plugz!) made to play the clown to make Salma Hayek dance: Gallon Drunk are the perfect soundtrack for the contortions of Satanico Pandemonium!

Incredible how these four Londoners from Camden Town managed to dive into the psychedelic miasmas of the muddy swamp where Norman Bates drowned the corpse of Hank Williams and where the decomposing banana tuft of Elvis emerges from the stagnant water. It’s a sinisterly anthropized biotope: from the trees, instead of lianas, hang the guitar strings of Link Wray and Bo Diddley. Visceral, emotional, dark, tribal, exasperated, they push the accelerator pedal until the instruments derail: the exhausting sweeps of Johnston's guitar and the beastly screams that season "Ruby"; the elementary bass line of Mike Delanian and the maracas of the choreographic Joe Byfield in the suffocating "Dragging Along"; that rag of a song that is "The Last Gasp" lurching along the white and black keys of the Hammond, opening its way in the hypnotic rhythm of the drums; amateur Dave Brubeck borrowed when he already planned to compose "Take Five" and set to construct the framework of "Rolling Home"; the animalistic psycho-blues delusion of "Snake Pit" that leads nowhere and remains trapped in that claustrophobic interaction between smoke, heat, sweat, and whores; a minor rockabilly classic like "Please Give Me Something" just the same the Cramps would have redone if Lux Interior decided to hire a decent bassist.

Some have compared Gallon Drunk's dissonant music to the drunken delusions of the tormented Nick Cave, but when they start a boozy ballad like "May the Heart Open Here" existential torment no longer lives here. One can only think of another bunch of nasty Australian characters that just by their name seem to be their ideal drinking companions: Beasts Of Bourbon.

May the god of rock keep the alcohol level in their blood high.