It's as pure as music made by men who probably fry their cornflakes in hog fat can be.

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Newport TJ's

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Newport TJ’s

As a formal oration it lacks a certain something. As a mission statement, though, it’s straight to the point. “This song’s about getting some drugs!” barks Blind Marky Felchtone, frontman of Seattle’s premier scumpunks [a]Zeke[/a]. “It’s called ‘Let’s Get Drugs’!” Brevity, as someone once noted, is the soul of wit.

[a]Zeke[/a] are the heart of darkness in the murkiest corner of Hades‘ suburban garage. Conceptually, the quartet are so monomaniacal and tunnel-visioned they are beyond criticism. Rocket From The Crypt and the New Bomb Turks provide suitably greasy Yank pointers, only [I]they [/I]sometimes write songs longer than two minutes and have been known to employ a third chord. Wusses.

The frenzied splatter of soloing throughout ‘Night Rider’ and ‘I Don’t Give A Fuck’ suggests ’80s thrash metal soundtracks a lot of their long interstate truck journeys. But this has not a gram of bearing on the fact that [a]Zeke[/a] are punk as almighty fuck.

Song begins, the three-man frontline have convulsions, the drummer gives us the finger and yells, “[I]Shut up[/I]”, song ends, the spirit of Iggy Pop can be heard weeping. It’s as pure as music made by men who probably fry their cornflakes in hog fat can be.