Snake Mountain

People don’t push enough — especially rock musicians, a generally sedentary lot who love to remain at rest, both on stage and in their brains. Snake Mountain, however, is all about pushing. And pulling. And yanking you through a ditch, a deep one full of dripping hypodermics and raw sewage, apparently. The group’s five-song, self-titled EP takes the listener on a whiplash joyride from beginning to end. The opener, “43 to Montbello,” could pass for early, “Urban Guerilla”-era Hawkwind with a case of the cheap-beer shits, while the caveman-on-LSD howl of “Groovy Reputation” degenerates gloriously into a clot of total sonic vomit. On its debut, Snake Mountain does more than push the boundary between sawed-off rock and stoned belligerence; it pulverizes it.