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< Black Lips
Good Evil, Not Bad
words by Stuart Stubbs
It may have been earlier, but at the Isle Of White Festival this year Mick, Keith, Ronnie and Charlie definitely proved a fable equally famous as themselves to be false. Rolling Stones do gather moss. An encore loaded with ‘Paint It Black’ and ‘Gimme Shelter’ aside, the tax dodging dino-rockers’ set almost had mould visibly growing on it, as The Stones insisted on playing songs fresh from their latest song-writing sessions. How. Dare. They? But fuck it, Black Lips are here now with their UK debut album; a 13 track trip back to 1965, where if you’re not playing psychedelic blues of ‘Get Off of My Cloud’ ilk, while being nicked for possession at the weekends, you’re a square, or, even worse, you’re old. If you’re a Stones purest, you’ve probably turned the page by now but just in case you’re still here, yes, we’re comparing this record to The Rolling Stones’ finest work. Near on blasphemy perhaps, but justified as soon as you hear the throaty high crow of Cole Alexandra as his Atlantan counterparts roll out wiry garage blues riffs, sounding like they’re scuttering out of Vox amps on their deathbeds.
‘It Feels Alright’ is a cuban heel stamping pouter, designed for a fire hazard heavy basement club, ‘Katrina’ (written the night of the the New Orleans devastating hurricane) is easily interpreted as broken heart medicine, while ‘Veni Vidi Vici’ is the album’s ‘ballad’ that clips and clops like a slacker horse, smoking weed at sunset, and slurring at passers-by.
With strings bending to breaking point, ‘Cold Hands’ is less early Stones, more Cavern-era Beatles, and thus more towards the rockabilly/Chuck Berry spectrum of Black Lips’ influences. It too is a 3-minute pop song for a sweat-box venue where cheap narcotics and heavy fringes distract from the condensation dripping from the ceiling. It’s just one of 13 reasons present why ‘Good Bad, Not Evil’ has just saved American guitar music for us.
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