HELLACOPTERS, THE & THE FLAMING SIDEBURNS: White Trash Soul!: Split CD

During the past couple of years, it seems that I’ve read boundless volumes of praise-ridden articles, reviews, and interviews voraciously advocating the mighty roaring rock’n’roll wrath of The Hellacopters. Until now, I hadn’t been deemed lucky, blessed, or worthy enough by the otherwordly thundering Gods of Rock in the lightning-streaked hereafter to receive any Hellacopters’ recorded rowdiness. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, I am unable to diligently review this here semi-sparkling audial platter due to severe scratches and deeply imbedded abrasions on its playing surface… yep, each and every time I’ve attempted to give it a rapidly whirling spin, it skips and splutters like a stuttering, malfunctioning android wired to the max on a lethal batch of homemade trailerpark meth. I dunno; in my sick, twisted, and overwhelmingly warped lil’ mind, I’m conjuring images of Todd and Sean drunkenly engaging in a brutal deathmatch game of hall-hockey in their apartment and impulsively using this disc as a spur-of-the-moment substitute for a puck (actually, it looks more like they used it in an overly aggressive frisbee/rugby tournament in a gravel-strewn parking lot somewhere!). After they came to their somewhat sober senses, I can just picture ’em sayin’, “Ooops, this one’s a goner… let’s send it to Rog… he stays so incoherently sloshed all the time, he’ll never notice the difference. He’ll just write it off as hardcore industrial noise terrorism, and then he’ll unwittingly call it a day.” Nice try, fellas! Due to your shameful bout of neglectful abuse viciously directed towards me, I’m gonna now sell my useless soul, become a psycho-rhetoric-espousin’ hippie coke addict, and pompously pen artsy pseudo-intellectual pilf for Rolling Stone magazine. HaHaHa, how do ya like them cans of fuzzy lil’ peaches?! Just kiddin’, hombres! Seriously though, I still desperately need a Hellacopters fix someway, somehow, and sometime soon (and, hot damn, The Flaming Sideburns have a maddaddy killer-cool moniker; I’d sure like to be able to give them an attentive brew-drenched listen sometime in the very near future, as well). Anyway, if I were able to judge this badly abused disc just by its cover alone, I’d have to rate it as one helluva unruly rocker (the cover graphics are devilishly divine, indeed!)…

 –guest (Bad Afro, House Of Rock)