Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big telly. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electric tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental care. Choose fixed-interest mortgage payments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching bags. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking materials. Select DIY and asking yourself who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Select sitting on that couch, scowling at soul-destroying mind-numbing game shows, stuffing your mouth with fucking rubbish food. Select to waste away at the end of it all, pissing away your final few in some sad hovel, nothing but an embarrassment to the self-centred, fucked-up little brats you brought into the world to take your place. Select your future. Select life. But why in the world would I want to do something like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the why? There is no why. Who needs why?
GLASGOW KISS, "Down In Flames", is like gettin' yer heid bashed in the head with a bottle and kissed again by the same cunt who bashed it in there. No genre box for this one, no thanks to HALESTORM, no thanks to NIGHTWISH, no thanks to all their bollocks. This is no longer nice symphonic trash, this is riffs crawl oot the amp like septic in the pipes, Charlotte's screamin' voice like an angel got booted oot heaven for smokin' tabs in the loos. Daniel playing like he's got his guitars set alight, Sveinung slicing strings like he's flaying a rat, John Erik's bass thudding like the neighbour banging on yer door at 5am bawlin' ye still owe him fags, Frode on drums banging harder than the polis when they eventually kick the door in. The whole of them frightens ye like a bad trip ye cannae get yerself oot of, only ye dinnae want tae.
It ain't classy stadium effluvia, it's dirty, dripping, teeth-rattlin' metal still smolderin', wee pools of loveliness concealed in the muck. A chorus'll carry ye along, aye, then deposit ye belly-first once again in the sewer with the verse. That's the dance: highs that scorch yer lungs, lows that shake the bone.
Charlotte’s the one that fucks wi’ ye most -- she’ll croon ye soft, then suddenly she’s bitin’ chunks oot yer ear. One minute ye’re floatin’ in daylight, next minute ye’re choking in midnight smoke. Ye cannae trust her, and that’s exactly why ye cannae turn her aff.
This album’s postcards fae the abyss: wee moments of joy scribbled on the back of broken glass. They recorded it across random holes, clubs, anywhere they could plug in, stitched it together wi’ spit, sweat, and maybe a wee bit o’ blood. And it works -- it’s jagged, it’s cracked, but it’s alive, pumpin’ like a vein wi’ fresh gear.
When it's done ye're shakin', tryin' tae work oot what the fuck occurred. And ye'll dae it again, 'cos ye haven't got a choice. That's addiction. That's GLASGOW KISS.
Rating: 9 oot o' 10 Glasgow Kisses. Spare the last yin for the walk hame.
Translations (Scottish → English):
Cunt = Person (derogatory/familiar depending on context)
Tabs = Cigarettes
Fags = Also cigarettes. Words: Matt Denny.
"Down In Flames" is released December 12th, via ECLIPSE RECORDS
GLASGOW KISS, "Down In Flames", is like gettin' yer heid bashed in the head with a bottle and kissed again by the same cunt who bashed it in there. No genre box for this one, no thanks to HALESTORM, no thanks to NIGHTWISH, no thanks to all their bollocks. This is no longer nice symphonic trash, this is riffs crawl oot the amp like septic in the pipes, Charlotte's screamin' voice like an angel got booted oot heaven for smokin' tabs in the loos. Daniel playing like he's got his guitars set alight, Sveinung slicing strings like he's flaying a rat, John Erik's bass thudding like the neighbour banging on yer door at 5am bawlin' ye still owe him fags, Frode on drums banging harder than the polis when they eventually kick the door in. The whole of them frightens ye like a bad trip ye cannae get yerself oot of, only ye dinnae want tae.
It ain't classy stadium effluvia, it's dirty, dripping, teeth-rattlin' metal still smolderin', wee pools of loveliness concealed in the muck. A chorus'll carry ye along, aye, then deposit ye belly-first once again in the sewer with the verse. That's the dance: highs that scorch yer lungs, lows that shake the bone.
Charlotte’s the one that fucks wi’ ye most -- she’ll croon ye soft, then suddenly she’s bitin’ chunks oot yer ear. One minute ye’re floatin’ in daylight, next minute ye’re choking in midnight smoke. Ye cannae trust her, and that’s exactly why ye cannae turn her aff.
This album’s postcards fae the abyss: wee moments of joy scribbled on the back of broken glass. They recorded it across random holes, clubs, anywhere they could plug in, stitched it together wi’ spit, sweat, and maybe a wee bit o’ blood. And it works -- it’s jagged, it’s cracked, but it’s alive, pumpin’ like a vein wi’ fresh gear.
When it's done ye're shakin', tryin' tae work oot what the fuck occurred. And ye'll dae it again, 'cos ye haven't got a choice. That's addiction. That's GLASGOW KISS.
Rating: 9 oot o' 10 Glasgow Kisses. Spare the last yin for the walk hame.
Translations (Scottish → English):
Cunt = Person (derogatory/familiar depending on context)
Tabs = Cigarettes
Fags = Also cigarettes. Words: Matt Denny.
"Down In Flames" is released December 12th, via ECLIPSE RECORDS
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