Well I’ll be a soused silly sonuvabitch, this is the friskiest, most sonically spectacular display of bad-ass rock’n’roll rowdiness to ever thunderously roar outta the Midwest! It’s a decadent voodoo-laden whirlwind of tornadic fury that’s as hot and steamy as a crawfish-boil in Hell – untamed, uncivilized, unrefined, and downright unruly, just the way Beezlebub requested! The vocals are robustly belted-out by a devilishly delicious wildcat momma who enthusiastically exudes a sweat-drenched swirl of sex, sin, and sleaze; the wildly out-of-control slide-guitar frantically slithers throughout a steady crunch of fretboard-rattlin’ rhythms like a venomous snake stalking its prey in a cool, well-shaded patch of San Augustine grass; a virile hoochie-coochie helping of honkytonk keyboards strut in and out like a proud budding alleycat prowlin’ for pussy on a Saturday night; and a ferocious rumbling brannigan continuously erupts between the bass and drums as if they’re stubbornly dukin’ it out to the death! Damn straight, this is a dark, magical mix of The Cramps, CCR, X, The Faces, Big Mama Thornton, and The Rolling Stones thoroughly soaked in a murky baptismal of Mississippi River swampwater. This juicy skull-thumper of a disc has cast an everlasting spell on me, and now I’m uglier, meaner, and nastier than I was just two hours ago. I’ve been Chicken Hawked, yeeeeehaw hot damn! -Roger Moser, Jr.