5. Motorhead Everything louder than everything else. Polluted metal above dissection, sentiment felt pens a denim vest. Collapse of hands, melody nor respect, the underdog with the loudest toys with the subjugation of spreading rust. Scarred as proud of a turfbusting weenie roast implosion, every attempt at motives crushing the trash canned laughter underfoot. A weak collection of calling cards, carbide stagecoach snaps a spoke, Johnny lost in the acetate void, Philthy and Lemmy, two new dwarfs. Frantic opening title cuts through fast and reptiles Escher them in, Barnet London sandstone quarries massive chunks of crumbling noise, battery acid desperado spaghetti Western Eastender's game, three disharmonies over the top, pass me another and make it black. Bellowing skyward muttonchops the broken tusk of a rabid boar, John Paul Sartre's crystal express, the Triumph's wheels over common sense, nails thrown off an iron horse, aim to fire, Smirnoff and Carlsberg double kicks for a white noise dubbed as the tapeworm rolls. Blinding ozone blur of the past, crippled and scowling paradigm shift, pumped full of bass and defiant of death. Highly distorted circumstance a non-event of the lowest degree, pirates flag on a sinking ship. Then coked to the nines, grease and fire, steaming dogtags your id at last.
Darren Wershler-Henry Index
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