Guinea Pig
s/t

And finally someone has fished them out of the cursed, anonymous shadow of Jesi (which has already gobbled up the Vel...) to give them the light they rightfully deserve, so a thousand thanks to the Tarantine Psychotica of the Logans.
A total of 25 minutes divided into seven razor-sharp shards of adrenaline and pure neurosis, a surgical autopsy of the deconstructed blues to the limit, yes, I know, it's predictable, but that trout face of Beefheart and his Magic Band set the standard, and still rock, Rrrock, the most sinister and understated there is, noise, a lot, a lot of noise, phrases on jagged butter crutches like the coasts of Norway, but Chance & company they do... A little bit indeed; lysergic and whiskey-infused solos that aren't solos, almost mathematical flashes like Shellac's, promptly covered by tons of mud layers as soon as there are the first signs of cold, and while we're at it, let's throw in our One Dimensional Man and the Blues Explosion, say what you will, but our little piggies know them well in the end.

Hey, let's be clear, it's all about echoes and comparisons, we're not talking photocopies, molds, or whatever, there's no need, are you kidding? there's heaps of talent here, of imagination, and of that genuine insanity not just for its own sake, let's not even mention it...
In short, I already fell in love with Drugstore Cowboy a while ago (love at first ear), and now accompanying them, to the delight of my hungry auditory system, here come Die!, Mud, Grog, and the other sisters... what a lovely little family... and what else can I say?!
High class from the Guinea Pig.