Do Me Bad Things

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Do Me Bad Things - Yes' - Must Destroy

Do Me Bad Things
Yes'
Must Destroy


The debut album from Britain 's finest exponents of high-voltage rock n' soul thunders from your speakers like a panzer division rolling into Las Vegas on the 4 th of July. This project bears all the hallmarks of a foolhardy experiment that really shouldn't work. But it really does. Fronted by an A-grade soul diva and a demented pixie that would appear to be the test-tube love-child of Pat Benetar and Elvis Presley,
Do Me Bad Things - Yes' - Must Destroy

DMBT avail themselves of every quality that the alternative music establishment hates; razor-sharp proficiency, all-encompassing accessibility, flagrant disregard for sartorial sobriety and a knack for genre-hopping so pronounced it'd make Beck blush. Call them crazy and you probably wouldn't be risking a law-suit, but whatever pill these particular loons are popping appears to be doing the trick.

The disc opens with the band's Time for Deliverance', a geek-rock operetta reminiscent of Fishbone, Motorhead and the musical Hair', which pretty much cues you up for the glam odyssey upon which you are about to embark. The Song Rides' and Sprezzatuna' come at you like T-Rex performing at Rick James' funeral Or Rick James shooting coke at Marc Bolan's funeral. I'm not sure which is the better analogy but either way, they compliment the blistering current single What's Hideous?' just perfectly.

The rare-groove / southern rock of Off The Hook' and Herbie Hancock synth pulse of Liv Ullman On drums' drag you through to the second act of this melodrama, and you're still waiting for a filler which refuses to arrive. Molly's Wood' showcases a third lead vocalist whose growl recalls Screaming Trees / QOTSA sideman Mark Lanegan. The 70's rock push of the back-track, although somewhat of a pastiche, is pretty satisfying. But then, I'm a sucker for that whole shtick.

Suburban Flame' is part R n B ballad, part 80's glam-rock. Destiny's Crue', if you will. Posturing; emotive, oddly compelling and a great counterpoint to the joyously daft AC/DC on purple haze roar of The Daily Grind'. The disc closes with Hold On' and my jaw just hangs. It's The Cars. It's Elton John. It's even Go West. The lazy, chugging back-track and plaintive Santana-esque lead-guitar lick prop up a coming-of-age lament that sticks in your head like a mugger's flick-knife. It's everything you hated about the 80's and you still can't bring yourself to slag it, because by now you've learned to trust DMBT. And so you should, because they go places other bands fear to tread. They're the rock n' roll SAS. And anyhow, what else are you gonna do with ya 13.99, eh?

D. Raven

www.domewebthings.com

www.mustdestroymusic.com



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