Greaseball motor punk that celebrates all the bawdy aspects of the Great American Trailer Trash lifestyle. If you didn’t know any better, you’d expect these fellers to be beer-bellied, wifebeater-wearing, pit-stained louts with out-of-fashion facial hair styles. But you’d be way off the mark; they look more like foppish ska boys, what with their neatly combed back haircuts and nicely tailored suits. But thankfully there’s not one ungodly blurt from a brass instrument anywhere on this disc. In fact, they remind me of a somewhat less gruff Nashville Pussy, complete with chunky, grunty guitars and lyrics distilled from the pages of Hot Rod and Easy Rider magazines. Thing is, this big-talking strain of moto-rawk is, with the notable exception of Zeke and a few others, rarely as balls-to-the-wall turbo-charged as its own hype would have you believe. Compared to the self-referential lyrics that alternate between worshipping cars and worshipping the band’s own purported demonic powers, the music comes up sounding a bit tame. And the rebel-without-a-clue, Bad Boy rawk thing’s been done to death. Still, in spite of everything I’ve just said, it sounds pretty good to me. I just wish there was more bark and even more bite.