The Black-Eyed Snakes
Rise Up!

I was looking at the cover of this CD. How strange, I thought. I felt as if the skeleton on horseback was scrutinizing me.
Then - I swear - I hear it speak to me: "What a crappy day, huh, brother? Open this CD, I'll take care of it".
I hesitate. A handful of loyal followers behind it laugh at me. One of them says to me, "Listen to it, fool".
I don't listen to them, I don't trust it. Then it's the horse's turn: "You're making a big mistake, friend".
Uhm... no, you don't convince me, horse.
Before I can move on, two bones that once must have resembled arms hook me. "Damn, this guy pisses me off," I hear from the horse above. I scream, I struggle. It pulls me in, into the cover, I mean. Inside, surrounded by skeletons making fun of me. I expect great revelations; they must have a good reason for bringing me here. But no one says a word.
"Rise up!!!" they all shout together.
"Holy crap, what a fright!!!" I scream, terrified.

And the title track starts. Wild, dirty, vulgar, boisterous, filthy. On drums, I catch a glimpse of Justin Sparhawk, faithful and already in the ranks of the "Low", but forget them, please. Here, they shove the silence into your mouth, and if you keep it shut, they'll find another hole, for sure.
Garage-rock and punk-blues mixed like chemical substances about to explode ("Foresight"), Black Flag assaults ("Cornbread"), sixties proto-punk regurgitations (the MC5 fury of "Good Woman Blues", the rabid Blue Cheer frenzy of "Hillside Stomp").
Michael Gira lends his talent for 50 seconds or a little more in "Red Sheet", Tim Rutili (from Califone) has a blast on the guitar in "No Good Daddy", 8 minutes and over of sonic explosions at the end of which you can't help but feel exhausted. But you don't stop, you dance, you stir, you can't stop, old inhuman dances take hold of you.
And you dance, and you imagine.
You imagine a mouth-to-mouth kiss between Old time relijun and the oRSo with tongue ("In A"), you imagine Calexico at a punk party ("Mexican Half-Stick"), you imagine the Sonic Youth warped and fun ("Shine-Ola").
There's also time for a mocking tribute to Bo Diddley, and time runs out while sweat still drips off my skin. I get a kick in the butt and fly out the back of the cover. I turn around quickly, I find you, scoundrel. There are four of them left, the rest are celebrating drunk somewhere in the world.
"Told you, fool, you’d have fun. Now go wash up, you stink like a living man".

Man... what a hit. I need to remember to cut back on the alcohol or I'll end up badly sooner or later.