When I run out of records I delete the blog. No profit is made from this blog. The recordings are all made from records I bought myself. For additional information, see the Global Shipping Programme Used: An item that has been previously used. How it was meant to be heard.
Pull that pin and count to three. A lot of it does depend on Eric Davidson's personal taste or involvement in things. This amount is subject to change until you make payment. Get it bought and get it read. My new favourite 'Gimme Gimme's. Getting Trent Ruane to open up about The Mummies was a coup.
Flip the mono switch and twist that knob 'til it don't twist no more. Do you know of any links where I can get a hold of some of these bands? A lot of discussion about the Cheater Slicks I actually saw them without knowing anything about them in late '89 or early 90's. Neither, it seems, was Tim Warren, as he shelved the tapes. Your previous comment rings true about personal taste, but a pretty good book, none the less. Telstar 17 manic raw screamin' savage punk killers! I understand why the surf element of the garage scene was sidelined space, time, having to stop somewhere but the likes of The Phantom Surfers and The Untamed Youth deserve a few pages due to their bleed into various scenes, bands and labels. This amount is subject to change until you make payment. For additional information, see the Global Shipping Programme This amount includes applicable customs duties, taxes, brokerage and other fees.
The story is that The Mummies had wanted Billy Childish to produce but when that proved impossible, for unknown reasons, label boss Tim Warren sent his friend, Mariconda ex of The Raunch Hands. Posted by Dom on 30th Oct 2016 Just Awesome!!! At a time when a lot of garage rock bands sounded like they were drowning in a sea of paisley and nehru affectation, flipped the whole scene the bird with one of the most gloriously ugly garage albums ever, 1992's. . This amount includes applicable customs duties, taxes, brokerage and other fees. Sounding like it was recorded in an acoustically untreated basement on equipment that might have been state of the art in 1947, is one long blast of monophonic skwak, with the needles almost perpetually in the red as four guys in mummy outfits bash out crude '60s-style rock about beer, babes, and open hostility on battered gear which was doubtless discarded by tone-deaf teenagers who got over their 15-minute delusion of possible future rock stardom in 1966.
Like the cover photo, by the last track, listeners will need bandaging head to toe, left bloody and bludgeoned. Not all farted about with years later by Those Who Fear The Holy Crackle. . . . .
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