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The Reviews:
"Surf licks with a bluesy edge, dipped in sticky red reverb. Alex Machine oozes out worthy Cramps-worship psychobilly..."
-Rue Morgue Magazine
"If a really cool werewolf had his own band, this is what it would sound like."
-SleazeGrinder
"You'll also find a gritty, distorted Rockabilly tune called "Blood On the Grill" from Alex Machine. On this track, I'm hung up between early Cramps and Deadbolt and that's always a good feeling - specifically, when the tune is about a murder junkie, who happens to be a car!"
-Black Angel Promotions, from the "Yells From The Crypt" compilation available from Gravewax Records.
The Rest (In Pieces):
Creeping and stomping forward like some kind of undead, fossilized and totally warped frankensteinian creation armed with his own patented XXX brand of garage poison, Alex Machine delivers dangerously unhealthy doses of irradiated rock & roll to psychotic mutants anywhere who may have an ear for the strange, cold, and lonely:::::::
It's been rumored that he was originally born in a basement on Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania's gloomy alcohol-drenched South Side (though he currently lives and records somewhere in the vast wastelands of California's Mojave desert). The story goes that after his first band Dead Ringers plain rolled over and died, the glowing, atomically charged tentacles that remained began to grow and thrive from that carcass into an oily black mass which some mortals have labeled, "the soundtrack to a B-horror bomb played at warp speed to a drive-in full of necking zombies" and "carnivorous, catchy, totally over the edge and gone, yet incredibly cool".
Yeah, you say, but just who or what is this thing... this Alex Machine? He's a wacked out and pretty much undead singer, songwriter and all-around shitkicker: yeah, a real cowboy son of a bastard that brings it all together and hammers the final nail of your coffin in tight. Just listen to him banging the hell out of that raggedy-ass guitar jacked into some old stompboxes freshly exhumed from the grave; festering beats out of a low grade drumkit most people wouldn't touch for the second skin of cobwebs over it; or plucking notes from a greasy violin bass's dirty throat... and adding enough weird-0 moog and theremin to the mix to choke a wild stampede of wanna-be's dead in their tracks... recording his favorite nightmares and out-of-control emotions in some unearthly studio in that big desert he so wildly howls about.
You might ask, what does all this add up to? Alex Machine has secured his space outside the musical trend bubble, easily removed himself from the average 'band' and exhibits the kind of sincerity and do-it-yourself ethics that deserves praise but is seldom received. That's okay with him, though. He'll be rottin' and rollin' long after whatever is hip now is dead then and gone round again.
Ka-chunka chunk.
