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Notting Hill Arts Club

[I]Uncouth[/I] is the word...

Uncouth is the word. Beachbuggy play rock'n'roll all souped-up and geared-down, with the mufflers removed. Singer/guitarist Jack Straker shreds his vocals with echo-boxes until all that's left is a detached noise. Meanwhile, his rhythm section - one bassist, two drummers playing side-by-side - hit harder than an earthquake, slicker than grease. Top this off with a wry, love-us-or-just-fuck-off-and-die spirit, and it's suddenly no mystery Steve Albini flew 'em over from their native Doncaster to capture this dense diesel-rock on tape.



No matter how spotless their matching white pit-stop smocks, sinister sleaze is Beachbuggy's text. You can feel it in the probing low-end grunt of their riffs; so solid, so shuddering, you'll swear you could swing astride 'em and peel off into the darkness. You sense it in the tangible nastiness that bubbles underneath the likes of 'Kill Straker' and 'Speed-Racer'. With all their automobile imagery, Beachbuggy are the Greaser-Rocker archetype of the '50s, retooled for the noise-fried ears of the Y2K rock audience.



They're currently without a label over here (perversely, they have an album out on US indie Sympathy For The Record Industry), though, judging by the influential heads nodding tonight, that won't be a problem much longer. Those with a hunger for grit and groove in equal helpings - hang in there. Beachbuggy are coming for you.

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