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Booji Boys – Weekend Rocker [IMPORT] – New LP
Drunken Sailor Records

Booji Boys – Weekend Rocker [IMPORT] – New LP

Regular price $ 17.00 $ 0.00
Another kick set from the Booji Boys, essential listening for any fan of garage punk, great balance of slop and focus, live-wire and forward drive, socking you in the ears with punches of punk rock, hitting you in the face with scoops of grease and grits, kicking out the short blasts of rock and roll and then concluding with one stretched-out Freebird of fuzzed out guitar mania, killer from go to whoa, "recorded in the summer by Luke Mumford at peepeepoopoo studios in Halifax NS."

Booji Boys are:
Adam LeDrew - Bass
Justin Crowe - Drums
Alex Mitchell - Vocals
Cody Googoo - Guitar
Steve Earle - Guitar

Punk is dead. We know this because everyone fucking tells us all the fucking time, from Crass to Buzzfeed to that jaded stranger in the pub who started talking to you three hours ago but you can’t get him to shut the fuck up and leave you alone.

But fuck, man, punk’s ghosts are something special. Take Nova Scotia’s Booji Boys, for example, who know their way around a dumb hook or two (always played at pace, through blown-out speakers and tempered with the perfect balance of smarts and snot). They may be named after a Devo song, but they’ve more in common with the mutoid new wave of Uncontrollable Urge than the art-wacko pop of Whip It, and that’s no bad thing.

They arrived seemingly from nowhere at the start of 2017 with a debut that still sounds like one of the freshest, most deliciously energetic albums to emerge all year. Since then there’s been a six-track EP (Sweet Boy, on Cruel Noise Records) and now they’re back to close out an eventful 12 months with a raging second LP. And they’re releasing it on Christmas Day, because a) it’s the perfect gift for us all and b) they fucking can.

For the most part, Weekend Rocker picks up from where its predecessor left off – a Robert Pollard-esque, DGAF attitude to fidelity and a batch of tunes that’ll have you punching the air with joy as you gasp for breath. It’s a relentless collection, in the best possible sense. What’s more, it’s bookended by two solid diversions: the title track opener compresses more furious intensity into the its one minute and 13 seconds running time than a lifetime in the company of that jaded pub guy could ever provide; meanwhile closer Oh Yeah is seven minutes of melodic curveballs that starts out loud and ends up feeling transcendent in the same way as Fucked Up’s finest moments. They know what they’re doing, alright.

Punk may be dead, but there’s something totally fucking beautiful about music that feels this goddam alive. You know what to do. 
Will Fitzpatrick

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