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Nekromantix | Dead Girls Dont Cry | review | punk | Lollipop


Dead Girls Don't Cry (Epitaph)
by Ewan Wadharmi

There's something rotten in Denmark. For fuck's sake, they've got a damn coffin for an upright bass! They've got insane mohawk pompadours. For humor and sheer rip-ability, they can't be bested. What more do you want from a Danish psychobilly band? With these tattooed hoo-hahs opening, no one gave a shit about Tiger Army (there's too much penance to be done after the abysmal III: Ghost Tigers Rise!). And while both these bands are expanding their styles, Nekromantix are delving into the dark Americana that brought us B-movies, gunfights, and ghostly sweater-dropping prom queens.

In their twisted world, the country of "A Stone With Your/My Name" lives in sin with the thrash metal "Backstage Pass to Hell." Like a scene from The Burbs, the block party "What's On Your Neighbors BBQ" insinuates "it sure doesn't smell like pork or beef to me." The production is the best yet, allowing a slew of styles with drive and blistering guitar while drums splatter like arterial spray. Of all of his bastard kids, Screaming Jay Hawkins surely would be proudest of these.


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