We're past the era of radio, past the era of putting on a record/tape/cd. Now we listen to things on our streeminservices and little weird things happen like you're listening to New Zealand standout shitkickers The Gordons and your Spotify rolls right on into 70's midwest bluegrass geniuses The Gordons.
This is their second album, reviewed by me.
Goddamn do they get that banjo a-plucked as fuck, this is frantic incredible stuff, driven by two voices so perfect and pure in their legitimate passion for music and the things their music is about, so fraught with grit and twang and sincerity that you don't even know how to resist it.
Your head will bob, and goddammit your hands will slap and your toes will tap. I mean this sincerely - when I first heard this, and again now as I hear this again it happens again, my hands did feel compelled by unholy fury to slap the nearest knee/table/anyfuckinthing withing reach. If you make it through the first five minutes of this and don't feel the same you need to check on your soul and see if it's still roundabouts your corporeal frame, still having any kind of ability to incur the body to do the things that a body outta do.
Which is a long way of saying, this is frantic, gorgeous, bluegrass that makes me feel right alright about the oncoming Boston winter, about the winter of all our lives, about every thing that one might worry about that might be washed away by the shimmering splash of cold clear plucking and strumming and fiddlin and hootin and doing every goddamned thing god damned us all to do 4/5
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment