star spangled banana

What’s that, you fancy some wig flipping, fuzz flared fried freak beat with a side order of primal primed garage growling groove to go with plenty of smoking strut savvy sounds. Our inner garage psych eye has been wobbling since this dude arrived to do real bad things on the turntable. ‘pebbles 2000’ is the stoned out happening debut platter from the new lords of fuzz – Star Spangled Banana – the wildest (and most feral) cats on the scene, in fact the only cats on the scene cause it’s a scene they made up, its called bubble grunge – yeah kids word on the street its cooking a gas. Here found rifling through your record collection and having a snigger. Fifteen bonged out beatnik grooves feature within, there’s twang (’surfer George‘), trash, goofball and sheer shit faced badass-ness to be had here a kind of one stop psyched out party bag rummaged from the bins of those Pebbles / Nuggets / Back to the Grave sorties and re-branded with kooky updates of all your favourite prehistoric pop pretties all done to sound freakier, weirder and more out there than the originals themselves giving you a chance to junk them in order to make more room for future star spangled banana off spring. Among the assembled crowd undergoing sonic facelifts grooves by the likes of Paul Revere and the Raiders, Flipper, Wimple Winch (perhaps all said the only disappointing version here with ‘save my soul‘ not quite possessing the snarling bite of the original), Them 9a killer psychotropic take of ’I can only give you everything’), the Monkees (the kaleidoscopic country folk rumble that is ‘circle sky‘ has to be heard), 1910 Fruit Gum Company, Chocolate Watchband and some band called the Beatles. Its here you’ll be greeted to the bitching headf**k cover of ‘(I’m not your) Steppin Stone’ which to these ears sounds like a seriously wasted and wired to the eyeballs Brian Jonestown as well as a pretty nifty and smoking near faithful appraisal of ‘lets talk about girls’. somewhere else there’s the Cramps-esque primitive stomp of ’hanky panky’. Should say that by the time you get to side 2 things begin to unravel, essentially the more shit faced side of the platter and with that the more interesting, aside the frantically worse for wear and warping 50’s bubble grooved ‘123 red light’ there’s a trio of Lennon and McCartney ditties being wonderfully bludgeoned. First up the trash savage butchering of ‘I wanna be your man’ should by rights be the stereophonic staple diet of any right minded ugly things reading head while ‘why don’t we do it in the road’ is just pure horn, cannibalised and caned into a mutant caveman boogying stomp as though headed up by a seriously dosed up Roky – oh and ‘you can’t do that’ is pure genius evil. Blighter comes pressed up on thick slabs of yellow wax all housed in a eye catching Velvet-esque sleeve with free CD (for those who don’t have a turntable – heathens). Bad boogie for bonged out beatnik. Squares needs not apply. Guess its okay to say at this point these dudes feature members of the high priests of weird the Alien Ballroom nee Kool-Aid (global tyranny) – didn’t want to tell you earlier cause that would have just blown your mind. Essential stuff.

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