NASHVILLE PUSSY: THEY NEVER SAID DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME

Rating

February 27th, 2009 at 12:00pm
Anso DF

120

NASHVILLE PUSSY: THEY NEVER SAID DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME Years ago, high-speed southern rockers Nashville Pussy almost made me miss this killer Motorhead gig. This is hard to admit, but in my mind, the handful of NP gigs by which I’d been dick-punched were so awesomely raucous, punishing, and relentless that a seed of doubt began to grow in me that Motorhead may not be able to follow them as the tour’s headliners. After the Pussy set, I almost made it to the doors, but a series of surprised frowns turned me back near the coat check. And then Motorhead tore my fucking head off. It felt great to be wrong.

The point is not that I’m a moron (though true), but that Nashville Pussy were the recipients of the pretty high praise that night, if only in the head of one silly dude. A better high-octane rock ‘n roll live band than Motorhead? Impossible. But does a balls-out AC/DC-meets-Ramones quartet fronted by a frothing outlaw and backed by frequently nude and/or fire-breathing chicks justify pause for thought? Hell yes.

That was ten years ago, so it’s possible that after four albums and a lot of post-9/11 dourness, Nashville Pussy could slip across the defining line between incorrigibly addled party animals and creepy old people who arrive to bars at an intimidating level of intoxication and pick fights with each other. (Ever been to Milwaukee? Sheesh.) And while it’s awesome that 2009’s From Hell To Texas shows a matured (musically, at least) Nashville Pussy deftly navigating honest-to-god harmonies, call-and-response choruses, and a pace suggesting an threatening biker motorcade (not Grammy-nominated debut Let Them Eat Pussy’s careening hot rod that just lost a wheel), it’s not like the band’s appeal is rescued by melody. Shit no; frontman Blaine Cartwright is as crudely hilarious as ever, taking shots at good-fer-nothing objects of worship (“Lazy Jesus”), duplicitous women (“Why Why Why”), and sobriety (“I’m So High” featuring Danko Jones channeling Dave Wyndorf).

Composition-wise, the NP of old was more solid than spectacular, but with sophomore bassist Karen Cuda (get it?) adding Humble Pie-esque hooks atop Cartwright’s degenerate rasp, they now boast a third offensive option after lead guitarist Ruyter Suys and Cartwright’s hedonistic funny bone (“I wanna get high in the stratosphere/And take a shit on the moon”). By album closer/road dog chronicle “Give Me A Hit Before I Go,” they’ve dropped no fewer than five rock classics and nary a dud.

To a band who provides such good, irresponsible fun, I feel like a dickless stating that they should be proud of themselves; after all, isn’t the idea to shun straight morals and remain alive merely to discomfit squares (“Drunk-Driving Man”), be a nuisance to authority (“Ain’t Your Business”), and get really, really fucked up (“Dead Men Can’t Get Drunk”). Yeah fuck that, they should be proud.

metal horns