Two kings of the indie dancefloor unite for a warm, timeless take on 20th century pop and rock
Notting Hill Arts Club
[I]Uncouth[/I] is the word...
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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