Royal Trux
Accelerator

There used to be a certain justice in rock'n'roll.
Before the wave of pseudo garage rock arrived, wonderfully prepackaged by the record industry, a "rebellious and young" product to make today's teenagers feel non-conformist and "dirty" enough, even with their slew of labels dangling from their "fake-poor" jeans costing several hundred dollars, euros, florins, whatever you like.

Once there were Royal Trux, born, along with Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, from the ashes of Pussy Galore.
Jennifer Herrema and Neil "IG" Hagerty represent what garage could have been if there hadn't been bands like White Stripes and The Kills with their backup of corporate shit to dirty it and make it useless, or rather fashionable.

The legends of their drug addiction have often overshadowed their music and the fact that their roots were deeply embedded in '70s blues and rock, with a profound reverential nod to the Stones and Sonic Youth, creating a mix of chaotic, avant-noise sounds that leaves no room for half measures: you either love them or hate them. But it's precisely here that the magic of Royal Trux lies: they were/are real, they don't care what the masses might like, and they go their own way, experimenting with rock, blues, and honky tonk, overdosing while doing it and miraculously getting back on their feet to continue the party.

"Accelerator" is perhaps the after-party, the songs often reek of "amarone" (Liar), dusty roads (Juicy Juicy Juice), and wine or other stained mattresses (Follow The Winner). I'm Ready, the opening track, has a garage punch that hits you like a slap, but a boisterous slap that invites you to party and not care. In the album, which is as usual a mix of artfully shaken sounds and genres, there's also an acid atmosphere; JH's out-of-tune and slurred voice in New Bones scratches and caresses, telling you "you can take care of yourself" without leaving you hope, she takes care of herself and the others can die. In Yellow Kid, which strongly recalls Sweet Virginia by the Stones, the colors are faded and delicate, they smell of whiskey and mashed kisses, and now I see I'm not giving any "technical" details, but who cares, technicality is not part of this band's language. Their way of making music is quite the opposite of making money, and their imperfections make me love them even more.

I'm on the last track, Stevie, which always puts me in incredible melancholy, but the kind of melancholy I like, with the sun behind me and the Glastonbury field the morning after the night before, wrapped in my sleeping bag, muddy, Fil dozing on the grass, and I think Meg White should take a hike once and for all, and my namesake by chance (I want to emphasize it), will still be able to fund many tours of the Kills with her credit card, but she'll never be worth a nail of Herrema (for debasers interested in this kind of info: a real hottie), and Hotel and Jack should, in my opinion, kneel down and offer oral sex and a share of royalties to Neil Hagerty for the rest of their lives.
But this won't happen, as I was saying at the beginning, justice in rock'n'roll is currently on the run.

Well, I'm done.
Happy New Year to all.