the buttertones

Sometimes pop can be so straight, staid and well, quite frankly, up itself and seriously too serious and prim for its own good. Aren’t you glad then that there are still bands like the Buttertones around and about impishly taking life with a pinch of salt and into bargain cooking up the kind of class A rumble that’s liable to leave with withdrawal pangs each time the stylus leaves its waxen grooves. Described by their press folk as a gathering of ‘the Cramps, the Sonics and the New York Dolls colluding to score a grindhouse flick’ the imminent in dropping ‘gravedigging’ set for innovative leisure is previewed by the duelling Tarantino twang of ‘sadie’s a sadist’ – a full on rock-a-hula flashback who primitive twang-a-rella vintage had us here, imagining the Killer press ganged into the legendary Blue Caps by the dude of dudes Gene Vincent.


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