If you’re like me and you’re “road worn and weary” from the inhumane amounts of emo bilge that’s backed up and is spilling over everywhere, then this might be the disc for you. These Supersucker boys don’t wear their welschmertz on their sweater sleeves nor do they recoil at the sound of a simple power chord. They are not anguished milksops reciting couplets from their diaries while wearing “What Would Morrissey Do” wristbands. Far from it. In fact, they might just be self-centered dicks. If they have a self-conscious, over-sensitive hair on their bodies, then it’s buried in a crease somewhere that doesn’t see the light of day much. These are grubby rock’n’roll reprobates of the first order; they are a cross between the business side of Gene Simmons’ codpiece, Evel Knievel and something that fell out of Joey Ramone’s pant leg (when he was still around to have things fall out of his pant legs, that is.) This is a straight shot of swaggering Rock with a capital “R”—the bastard child of an unholy three-way tryst between ‘70s style arena rock, stripped-down punk and a spittoonful of outlaw country. Like all good sex shows, it’s a concoction that’s best taken live. And live this is—twenty-two tracks (counting a fake encore) of catchy, dirty, honest music that’ll kick up the dust and stir up your lust for drink and drugs and misrule. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Eddie Spaghetti and the boys somehow manage, time and time again, to sustain this impossible balance between being struttin’ cock rockers and being no-bullshit punk rockers and, most impressively, they come across as being absolutely genuine when they do it. Plus, they seem to genuinely have a helluva a good time, to boot. It’s cool what you can accomplish when you don’t take yourself so tight-ass seriously.