Wo Fat
Psychedelonaut

Texas.

In the desert, a dive bar on the roadside, lit from the inside.

Inside, smoke, sweat stench, a broken pinball machine in the corner and, at the bar as at the tables, bearded fat guys in leather, with beer and sunglasses even at night.

Outside, a herd of Harleys.

One might say that Wo Fat were born to play in places like the aforementioned, that the highest ambition of this Texan trio now on their second full-length, is to be able to carry some cases of beer offered by the venue in their van at the end of the concert, before hitting the road to reach the next place to play (drunk of course); in short, one might say that we're looking at a band that aims for a good time first and success second.

A "sonic brawl"; Heavy/Southern/Stoner/Blues to listen to from the bottom of a glass, smoking exhaust pipes to better grasp its hallucinatory vein. An album that, among humid wa-wa, sticky fuzz, and scorching riffs, amid seventies memories, and Sabbathian appreciations, drags us into a triumph of alcohol, ganja, and sweat. An album that invents nothing but is able to perfectly blend Fu Manchu, Kyuss, Black Sabbath, and Sleep.

Gasoline, double malt, and marijuana.