Black Lips


Dirty Hands

Wash away your morality in a tidal wave of bubbling sick and sodden your synapses with a keg of triple malt – Black Lips have arrived. Screw all that clever art-rock nonsense, this may sound like it was phoned in by transatlantic can and string, but it’s the unholy squawking of a rock pig which has been dwelling in the crotch of Iggy Pop’s jeans for four decades now. Ugly and ace.