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Dirtbombs | Ultraglide in Black | review | Mick Collins | soul | punk | rock | Lollipop

The Dirtbombs

Ultraglide in Black (In the Red)
by Jon Sarre

The greasyfinger prints of Mick Collins' Deetroit roots are all over this thing. This guy's done lo-fi garage with The Gories, fucked up slide guitar speed classics with The Screws, gone all over the map as Andre Williams' producer/sideman and done dirty punk rock with the first Dirtbombs LP (and that's not nearly a complete list of the bands he's either played in or been involved with). This new Dirtbombs record, kids, is soul. Whole chunksa soul backbeat galore like ya hear it and ya wanna get up and dance (or try anyhow, I can't really shake it too well, unless I'm drunk and the last time that happened, they told me and my lady friend to sit the hell down before we hurt some innocent patron). There's fuzz, too: lotsa evil-sounding undercurrents like when George Clinton said Parliament discovered the stuff when they borrowed Vanilla Fudge's gear. It's cool stuff that moves yer ass'n'makes yer lip curl into b-i-i-i-i-i-ig smiles, ya'd haveta be totally paralyzed not to react.

Supposedly, Mick's got two drummers to nail down the rhythm. Since that's obviously a complicated undertaking, he doubles the bass too and let's fly. He tackles Curtis Mayfield ("Kung Fu"), Stevie Wonder (fucking smoking "Livin' For the City"), Barry White ("I'm Qualified to Satisfy You"), Marvin Gay ("Got to Give It Up") and even Thin Lizzy guy Phil Lynott (the freight train rumble "Ode to a Black Man," which, tho' I'm not familiar with the orig, is possibly the coolest thing on this, the Stevie Wonder cover excepted, tho' he is referenced "If you see Stevie Wonder tell him I see"). The Dirtbombs rock sleek rave-ups like "The Thing" ("do the thing, babbee!"), sweeten it up a bit on the George Clinton-penned "I'll Wait," throw in fake party noises and beer bottle clinks on "Livin' For the Weekend" (which at least at the start sounds a bit like "Honky Tonk Woman") and fuckin' funk you up all the way to the floor. It's a sweaty soul feast for the ears'n'ass and if you can't dig it, there must be something seriously and profoundly wrong with the world. Don't tell me, I already know.
(PO Box 208 Burbank, CA 91506)
 


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