Anyone who thinks the Confederate flag is better suited for burning than waving (let alone decorating one's skimpy under-bodice -- yeehaw!) had better tiptoe around Nashville Pussy's latest disc like a Sturgis preacher on Labor Day weekend. But for all of its sinfully contrived bombast, High as Hell shouldn't prompt God Himself to declare smitin' season on backslid rednecks just yet. And since the rebel flag embodies little more than whitey's worst need to buy and sell humans, let's at least recognize these Pussies for giving their prized and malignant eyesore a much needed makeover, short of incineration: By hanging three of the belligerent banners lengthwise on stage while they play, the Georgia-based lust merchants promote their spectacle as long-legged, star-studded XXX fare, demonstrating that the South may indeed rise again -- if only to cream itself.
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Sporting monster implants at six-foot-three, bassist Corey Parks must feel like she's blown her beauty sleep hauling scrap metal; alongside lead guitarist Ruyter Suys (the band's truest talent), our fire-breathing alpha-amazon carries the group's evil hard rock through sweaty, bug-eyed contortions best experienced live. On disc, however, their one-dimensional tribute to AC/DC and the Nuge proves just how heavily the hot-rodders rely on visual aids and gimmicks over chops and ingenuity.
With ravaged pipes and thuggishly dopey lyrics, frontman Blaine Cartwright (you gotta love a rock star named Blaine) drops enough ham-fisted power chords and four-letter bombs to make the average gearhead crack another cold one. Consider "Struttin' Cock," the full-length's devil-may-care opening track: "Hell, yeah/Alright/Keep on fuckin' we'll be too tired to fight/Corey sez/Party down!/We're gonna piss all over your town/Hit me!/Baby, I'm a struttin' cock/Hit me!/ Let's rock." Such profane little jingles pepper the album, rendering rhymery like "goddamn" and "Uncle Sam" as interchangeable as hog parts. "She's Got the Drugs" soothes like ditchweed, while "Piece of Ass" forges ahead with the blistering fury of a lecher's pep rally. The repetitively crunchy "Blowjob From a Rattlesnake" trades in prom-trotting for pure venom and, like the rest of the band's hillbilly racket, taps into the same guilty pleasure centers as do monster truck shows, bacon and Smackdown. Like roving ambassadors for the shitkicker's way of life, Nashville Pussy remains one of the hardest-touring acts on the circuit, pitching the good ol' boy's recommended daily allowance of sex, drugs and firearms while flirting with a pointy-headed Klansman's vision of reconstruction.
Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?
