Dead Confederate

Just listening to these guys, you can bet they have long greasy hair and bitchin beards. They probably wear soiled flannels and denim that smells like your hippie uncle. It should come as no surprise then that the tunes they churn out are as ragged and slow-rolling as the whiskey and weed-influenced guys who made them.

Their debut album Wrecking Ball has the air of a hangover, cloudy and disconnected but with the awareness that it’ll soon pass. One moment your eyes are half-shut, coasting on the vaguely alt-country groove of “It Was a Rose,” when you’re suddenly startled to attention by the throbbing pounds of the bombastic rhythm section. The heavily distorted and atmospheric thrashing that colors much of the record provides more storm than shelter for the singer, who whines woefully in a voice reminiscent of Kurt Cobain’s grungy howl. The spirit of Cobain lives on “Start Me Laughing” which sounds like a preacher wrestling the devil to the ground while “All The Angels” smolders slower than dripping pine sap before exploding into a brushfire.

It's cool stuff that probably translates better in a live setting than on record. And even though the group is starting to get a little buzz going, I don’t hear anything compelling enough to put them over the edge and get them to full-tilt party mode.

LISTEN TO GONER OR THE RAT