Well tickle my prostate and light the fuse, "Some Kind of Alchemy" isn’t just a reunion. Sure, if your idea of reunion involves chainsaws and parole violations; OTHERWISE didn't come back, they came back with a crowbar and a grin that'd make a mortician nervous..
I’m not here to hold your dainty little hands mouth breathers, or wax poetic about "Emotional journeys" and all that daytime TV horseshit. I’m not your therapist, and I certainly won’t explain the emotional depth of this music as if it’s some college dissertation.
This EP was fermented in a Nevada back alley with blood, sweat, bourbon, and a dash of righteous indignation. If you want subtlety? Go read a Hallmark card. This is six songs of gasoline and a match. And it's got me strutting around in circles, throwing confetti and middle fingers.
"Some Kind of Alchemy" starts off with an intro that gives you that greasy, bone-deep chill, like you just walked into a war-zone wearing a clown nose. It's raw, it's sharp, and it smells of napalm and cheap aftershave.
They've dragged original drummer Dave McMahan back into the fold like a long-lost cousin from the wrong side of the apocalypse, and it shows. There's this primal stomp to the whole EP, or just a biker gang doing tribal rituals behind a strip mall. You choose
The choruses are big enough to swallow a tour bus. Adrian Patrick belts every word like it might be his last breath before the gas ignites. And his brother Ryan’s guitar is the sound of desert ghosts whispering through the amps. If you’re still blinking, congratulations, you’re probably not devoid of breath just yet.
Speaking of alchemy, this thing is a transmutation. It's pain into power. Trauma into triumph. A pair of Vegas-born brothers who’ve been chewed up by the industry and spit back out with gold records and gritted teeth, now digging their heels into the dirt and screaming, “Try again, motherfucker!”
If you want something slick, polished, or safe, go find a STEREOPHONICS CD and cry into your pumpkin latte. But if you're looking for blood-soaked riffs, battle-scarred vocals, and a band that’ll grind your bones into confetti, Some Kind of Alchemy is the sermon you’ve been waiting on.
This is family-hating, cop-baiting, drive-faster music and it sounds just like your ex lighting a cigarette off your burning house.
Score: 8/10 Barbequed road kills not so fresh off of Route 95... Words: Matt Denny.
I’m not here to hold your dainty little hands mouth breathers, or wax poetic about "Emotional journeys" and all that daytime TV horseshit. I’m not your therapist, and I certainly won’t explain the emotional depth of this music as if it’s some college dissertation.
This EP was fermented in a Nevada back alley with blood, sweat, bourbon, and a dash of righteous indignation. If you want subtlety? Go read a Hallmark card. This is six songs of gasoline and a match. And it's got me strutting around in circles, throwing confetti and middle fingers.
"Some Kind of Alchemy" starts off with an intro that gives you that greasy, bone-deep chill, like you just walked into a war-zone wearing a clown nose. It's raw, it's sharp, and it smells of napalm and cheap aftershave.
They've dragged original drummer Dave McMahan back into the fold like a long-lost cousin from the wrong side of the apocalypse, and it shows. There's this primal stomp to the whole EP, or just a biker gang doing tribal rituals behind a strip mall. You choose
The choruses are big enough to swallow a tour bus. Adrian Patrick belts every word like it might be his last breath before the gas ignites. And his brother Ryan’s guitar is the sound of desert ghosts whispering through the amps. If you’re still blinking, congratulations, you’re probably not devoid of breath just yet.
Speaking of alchemy, this thing is a transmutation. It's pain into power. Trauma into triumph. A pair of Vegas-born brothers who’ve been chewed up by the industry and spit back out with gold records and gritted teeth, now digging their heels into the dirt and screaming, “Try again, motherfucker!”
If you want something slick, polished, or safe, go find a STEREOPHONICS CD and cry into your pumpkin latte. But if you're looking for blood-soaked riffs, battle-scarred vocals, and a band that’ll grind your bones into confetti, Some Kind of Alchemy is the sermon you’ve been waiting on.
This is family-hating, cop-baiting, drive-faster music and it sounds just like your ex lighting a cigarette off your burning house.
Score: 8/10 Barbequed road kills not so fresh off of Route 95... Words: Matt Denny.
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