Panic in Detroit? Not quite yet, but even the most optimistic of Motor City rockers must be apprehensive about the music biz doing what the car industry did 30 years ago, pulling its money from the inner city and relocating to next year’s location, location, location. Plus, even the most devoted noiseniks among us have to admit the air’s getting kinda thin in the garage what with so many souped up little drag racers running their engines in a confined space – how long before we all turn blue from the fumes?
Well, if The Dirtbombs lay awake at night contemplating this stuff, it doesn’t show in the hormonally charged grooves of Dangerous Magical Noise. Instead, they just make like punk happened in ’66 as a reupholstered variation on horny British invasion rhythm and good ol’ urban American spoiled brat blues. Maybe the Count Five and The Sonics did it better, but they’re not doing it now. Plus, The Dirtbombs probably sound like The Shit from the back of a stuffed club; their noise is the mating call of strange insecto-anthropoids with emaciated limbs and big hair looking for the meaning of Saturday night, a juvenile delinquent racket with disposable titles like ‘Motor City Baby’, ‘Stuck In Thee Garage’ and ‘I’m Through With White Girls’.
The arrest report should read male, Caucasian, early 20s; distinguishing marks a gangly and hyperactive rhythm section, blocky barre chords, a great stuttery lead guitar player (with just a hint of raga-rock dissonance in a tune like ‘Thunder In The Sky’) and a snotty-nosed and insubordinate vocalist turning lariat tricks with the mic lead.
If all that fits your prescription, constant reader, you could find far worse ways of thinning out your wallet.