Band: Beige Eagle Boys
Album: You’re Gonna Get Yours
Label: Reptilian Records
Release date: Out now
Sounds like: Being drunk in hell with Lemmy, Zeke, METZ and Cherubs.
Haha, oh man are you in for a treat. Want anarchic lunacy in the sense of running around on fire? Want to experience a descent into a maelstrom of howling, spitting pandemonium? Listen to Detroit’s Beige Eagle Boys and their debut album, the brilliantly titled You’re Gonna Get Yours and get ready to inhale their warped sense of disarray and fervent lunacy that’s present over these 25 minutes of intoxicated bedlam.
Seriousness is left at home. In fact, the notion of being any way remotely dignified is hit around the head with a de-tuned guitar. Opening track, I Saw Your Face On The Pavement (a skater’s anthem if there ever was one), drips with malice and is utterly repugnant. The sludge-covered guitars belch a grumble of chewed up, gnashing chords that somehow form into notes, whilst the bleary, drunken vocals seem to consist of all three members of BEB bellowing at each other in-between mouthfuls of stale beer into a cheap, distorted transistor radio. It sounds fucking fantastic – an ugly, stomach churning, noise-punk meltdown.
You Can Make The Beat Go Boom Baby opens with one hell of a sleazy riff and treads a pathway of gutter-rock filth, with some excellent sneering vocal trade-offs that are either buried in layers of feedback or gargled bellows of screaming cackles. The METZ-trash punk of You Ruined Everything is fast, furious and utter commotion in under 2 minutes of breakneck fret-splitting turbulence and clattered, chaotic drumbeats. I Want Out has that same mouth-frothing spittle of Remission-era Mastodon (if they were totally feral and had been living in the woods for the last 10 years) and feels like the grinning, wild-eyed cousin of Crusher Destroyer after taking too much meth.
Get ready to inhale Beige Eagle Boys warped sense of disarray and fervent lunacy that’s present over these 25 minutes of intoxicated bedlam..
Beige Eagle Boys reign it in on Nothing’s Ever Good Enough – to begin with, it’s less face-shredding, wall-climbing terror but more noisy, discordant guitar wails, coupled with sombre vocal snarls and a grunge-rock gait that bursts into a punishing assault of rapid-fire drumming and Daughters-style guitar-grind shredding and throaty screams of “NO I DON’T HAVE THE ANSWERS!” We descend into gang-vocal territory on the see-sawing, sweat-stained rumble of I Do Not Belong Here, which is just plain fucking weird in the same vein as Heroin Man-nutjobs, Cherubs and uncomfortably savage, loud and threatening.
Burning Cantina is part hilarious, swaggering noise rock, meets oi-punk gang vocals fed through the meat grinder, chanting the album title like a bestial war-cry. Again, think Cherubs and their utterly bonkers approach to making aggressively uncomfortable sounds whilst smashing a broken guitar through an amp. The rusty bass thump on Not My Fault will leave you with that feeling of never being clean again, whilst the larynx ripping vocal-collision is part JR Hayes having a shouting match with Troy Sanders through a contact microphone attached to a bit of wood that’s being slammed into the ground.
Things take a bizarre turn on the Husker Du fuzz-pop rock of Katy Perry, especially with the line: “Katy Perry I’ve got you on my wall, but I can’t bring myself to listen to your songs” which is delivered in a creepy, serial-killer monotone. Happy stalking, guys.
You’re Gonna Get Yours closes with an excellent cover of Don Henley‘s Dirty Laundry – a song that this Detroit trio really do make their own; from the gargling noises and laughter in place of the synth-swipes, to the ranting, animal vocal yelps, to the caterwauling guitar wails and ramshackle structure.
You’re Gonna Get Yours will chew you up and spit you out. Then probably vomit all over you. Abrasive, rampaging noise-rock turbulence, filled with sludge and tormented bass-grooves that’s guaranteed to mess with your head.
Buy You’re Gonna Get Yours from Reptilian Records and worship your face on the pavement.