A bassist who pummels, pounds and slaps the fretboard like it had just
jumped ahead of him at the taxi-rank, a bare-topped drummer solemnly
thumping his skins like he was beating time on a Turkish slave-galley,
the freeform guitar lines of an inept crack-addled Robert Fripp dragged
mercilessly through a wasp farm and a vocalist whose squawks and screeches smack of the sugar-fix tantrums of a retarded 6-year old. All this combines to produce the effect of being yelled at by an alcoholic in a
disco.
Hunting Lodge make music at the point where the boredom has long since
abated, the point where a kind of manic joy sets in, the dull chorus of 700
computer fans and phone operatives becomes giddily thrilling, and your
every gesture becomes exaggerated and hilarious. In their ecstatic
celebration of Nothing, Hunting Lodge salvage the pawnshop gold of
Teenage Jesus and the Jerks, Boredoms, and King Crimson, infuse it in
vats of piss and come away with base metal. Repetitive churning dirges
framed by drunken skiffle, giddy house rhythms and inept free-form
freakouts are clamped around lyrics about Whitby, a wizard and seagulls
trapped in bins.
ENERGY CZAR ALBUM buy it noweeee!
