(-review by Anguish Young)
This is some serious speedball and malt liquor ya’all motherfuckery that takes me back to the teenage years of blasting “Hell Comes To Your House” in the turpentine huffing, suburban garages of our middleclass delinquent friends’, whose parents were smalltown squares and absolutely shocked and appalled by us creepy, Midwestern lost boys who were wearin’ make-up and growing sideburns and renting John Waters movies and corrupting their fine, upstanding young sons and daughters with our bedazzling leather pants and filthy habits.
The long suffering mothers who had to join prayer groups and take prescription pills to cope with our black sunglasses and stacks of smut and sullen attitudes. You remember the thrill of getting drunk and feeling-up enthusiastic bad, bad, gum chewing, scrappy, young backstreet girls, on brown leather couches from the seventies, in wood paneled basements, and somebody’s mom always yelling from the top of the stairs to turn the music down, and drivin’ around in vintage Oldsmobiles, and loitering with your depressed friends in rural cemeteries? That’s the feeling The Sacred bring back. Snotty youth, sneering innocence, fifties rocknroll, struttin’ around at night, under lamplights, under the influence, unafraid and unsupervised.
Old men in plaid suitjackets who bought your Bacardi. Cheap thrills, sneaking into the billiard hall, underage. Blonde bombshells in shiny, hot pink, hot pants, sitting on weathered old scumbag’s laps. Evil Knievel pinball machines that had never once been Windexed. Bowling alley cocktail lounges. Aging waitresses with way too much perfume and dragqueen eyeshadow. Sid Vicious covers Eddie Cochran, Jeff Drake getting high with Danny Sugarman and Steve Jones. Spraypainting your band logo on the underpass. That stripper who took you home when you were too drunk to walk. Sleazy Deadboys scuzziness and primitive high pompadour glam. Seeing your best friend’s names already keyed into the paint of the juvenile detention solitary confinement cell. Strutting around the big city in the A.M. with your childhood punk idol, nearly burning down the bars. Crashing out in filthy squats. Your gorgeous Spanish girlfriend singing “Drive-In Saturday” to you in her beaded black dress. The Sacred are one of the last great, hellraising rocknroll bands of bar brawling badseeds and bewitching lonestar queens.
Along with Dr. Boogie, and the Sweet Things, the Sacred are among the few and the proud, remaining American gutter gangs still flyin’ colors shamelessly for sex and rebellion and a pocket full of pills. Bohemian bandleader, Deane 13, was raised on rebellious trash punk like The Humpers, D-Generation, Hollywood Brats and Hanoi Rocks, and always brings the danger and excitement of after dark, long lost youth to his edgy originals and notoriously reckless live performances. If you like old Alice Cooper, Little Richard, Heartbreakers, and Lords Of The Church, these Catholic school dropouts are sure to arouse filthy instincts in you that you’ll feel guilty about, later. “Lovesick Pills” is all about temptation and excess, dirty feelings, and string ties. “Sick Society” is an old school, star spangled scream, a rebel rousing fuck you to the Man, in the defiant spirit of the MC5‘s “American Ruse”, or Mike Monroe’s “While You Were Looking At Me”. These born to kill greasebags and sultry fox temptresses have come for your children. Sexy, provocative, street fightin’ dandies, lyin’ in wait, like pumas, patiently preparing to pounce on your leopardskin purse. The sound of dragstrip rioters, pitchers of cheap draft beer, impulsive carnality, and sinful urgings. Inappropriate for children due to explicit content and surly frowns. On No Front Teeth records.
Veglam 