Heavy and dirty, but like a wet and sticky Jolly Ranger taken from the ground and put in your mouth, there’s some odd sweetness coming through the crunch. The singer’s voice is the clutch and transmission: it predicts the pace, the shifting speeds, and makes the listen mid-tempo and gutsy. All I can think of for a comparison would be Space Cookie re-doing AC/DC, fronted by a crooner instead of a punker, and that helps, oh, about twenty people out, so I’ll say straight ahead rock’n’roll with plenty of pleasing snarl. Thankfully, Carbonas leave out the parts where hair is shooken, feet are put on amps, and stands clear of noodling solos. Not bad.
–todd (Die Slaughterhouse, $3)