HOOKERS, THE: God Made Me The Raven: all 7 inches

Yes this review is old but I just got this thing so chill the fuck out, m’kay. Ah, another blast of fire and brimstone from hell’s furnace as interpreted by Kentucky’s majesty – The Hookers. It’s been a few years absence for these guys since their single outing for Sub Pop (!) and let’s not forget their sorely overlooked magnum opus of black southern metal Black Metal for Crimson Wisdom, their farewell full length CD. The Hookers broke up after the ashes settled from Black Metal posting their eulogy unceremoniously on their own website, where they crawled into a quiet slumber in the smallest nook they could squeeze their worn down and beaten asses into. 2001 brought them out of their self-imposed suspended animation and found them even more undeniably evil and all-powerful. Singer Rock’n’Roll Outlaw even started his own side project, Brothers of Conquest (whose initials coincidences with the might cow belling Blue Oyster Cult – I bet he did this on purpose, that dastardly deceptive and clever brute!) There were speculations of a possible tour, appearances at garage rock festivals, more albums, etc. What they delivered was this here single release on the perennially cool Get Hip Records. It’s a much welcomed wash of virgin blood over the tiring waves of blues-rock revivals, bad arty punk, etc. So, you’re wearing your stretch black jeans and wanking off with your Urban Outfitter punk friends trying to learn Hives riffs. One of you just got a Ramones t-shirt for thirty bucks that’s made to look naturally faded through stuffy, smoke-filled, low capacity clubs, record swaps, tour van driving, sleeping on floors of untidy homes, and what not. You’re growing your facial hair and trying to affect that ‘70s rocker guy stance that lies somewhere between the overt gayness of Rod Stewart and the cool sinister of Gregg Allman. I’ve seen you hanging out at all the usual places, ass kissing to all the same faces, trying to belong where you don’t belong, lying in your lies, becoming what you can’t and won’t want in the end. For you, I give you a tip – The Hookers. No matter how ironic chic your t-shirt is and which breed of ‘70s rock inspired you this week, it all boils down to the gritty, grim structure of their unholy overtures. The Hookers are fueled by hatred (they hate you, they really do because you fail to see rock’n’roll raw and right in the eye), disgust (you and your friends need a spike gauntlet up your silly tiny assholes to loosen you up from all that caked up, fabricated crap you’re holding in), macabre (Fulci could not do better in terms of bloody gore-iffic imagery! Remember, Iron Maiden songs are mostly about Euro-mythology and wizard/ H.P. Lovecraft-ish themes because the heaviness of their music is the only thing that could sustain such an immense density of topic! Maiden just wouldn’t work if ol’ Bruce Dickinson bellowed songs about the rain forest, world hunger or political prisoners – leave that shit to Sting.), and down right offensive. (Yes, they were one of the first garage punk’n’roll bands to boldly display their love of metal like a family crest upon their bosom.) Okay, I’ve wasted enough time spewing a bunch of nothingness – go buy this Hookers single and shave, you dirty hippy wannabe! Learn to laugh at yourself and others! Yikes!

 

 –nam (Get Hip)