The Blood Brothers

If you blink, you miss a whisky barrel whooshing past blasting out a clattering 'revolution' with everyone inside a flamin' orgy of thrashing, bashing, writhing and screaming. It's like something out of Dennis the Menace, during the Sid Vicious years; something you think you 'should' close your pretty little ears to. It's fictitious and vicious and, as heads and limbs swing, noticeably it's dangerously contagious. Crystal meth isn't even this big a threat to conservative America, and seeing as American culture dominates the planet, make that the entire Conservative world too. This band is the match lighting the Molotov Cocktails which will be sailing for every trail of petrol and methylated spirits their beat-up tour bus leaves behind.

"Fiiiii-iii-ire!" kicks off the face-melting riot!

How did we get into this volatile situation? Rumour has it, left in the sun somewhere, behind some shitty rock pit in middle-of-Nowheresville, there was a soggy biscuit beside a punk-rock Petri Dish. From it came mutant soldiers of oblivion, assailants to fight against them strains of Nirvana-inspired dad-rock and nuclear mall gunk which has been infecting our scummy alt-ghetto. Blood Brothers have the potency to sink U2 from our view. They're petulant gay lambs with Terminator lasers. They're screaming in tongues that hit with wave after wave of metaphor; screaming so you can't tell that they are poetic smart-arses; screaming so this is seemingly dumb-rock noize which can infiltrate your snotty little brother’s daydreams and skate game soundtracks, yet unraveling itself like a tequila worm in their guts, slowly becoming more and more intoxicating.

_ 'Ambulance vs Ambulance'_ is played fourth.

This is the opposite of meditation but has the same mind-clearing and focusing effect. They're screaming so you have to force yourself to keep up, but you don't and can't and you won't, so it loses you in the stadium rubble and pours cement and unicorn semen into a scenester die-cast, stuffs something in your inner ear on a sea of melodic keyboards, then detonates it, just for shits 'n' giggles, leaving your hair wax to evaporate as crows beak out your eyes. Your lopped-off head sits on the sidewalk, bleeding ‘til you look something like the backdrop, which is the new album’s cover art. Don't worry, at this point your hair is still perfectly straightened, just a little singed.

The eruption has no end, like a dinosaur with a chili enema. They're telling me it’s eating the red fruit that killed the dinos. They're telling me to kill 'em all. They're fucking with me and every other indie-rock / art-rock / scared-to-be-an-emo in this theatre beneath the leathery heart of America’s cocaine-marinated blockbuster dream. If this was a theme-park ride I'd be back in the queue with a book to burn and sack of sucked fat to throw.

Our hero is dressed in chopped-and-sewn-back-together striped tees. Bandana around the neck, like a pirate. He sings,_ "where is love now bah-ba-bah-dah", and rips every cute girl’s broken heart from its barb-wired nest. They play more. The new album sounds near perfect, live, and they still sling themselves around like they hate their skeletons. They still sound like the kids from _South Park raised by Thurston and Kim.