Review Summary: Y'all ready for a southern review? My names Rudy. Here goes...
For all of the screamin' hootenannies, boy are you up for a real treat with a sound that's tootin' from a grand ole band. Citycop goes to town armed and ready with some southern strings, a little ratatat, and a whole lot of rebel intensity. Ain't a lotta' talliwhacking wit' different sounds, but it sticks true to the roots of the Lord's favorite instrument. The acoustic geetah.
3/4 of Citycop make up Vitamin Bass. Excuse me. Vita Bassa. I reckon I was thinking about my wife and my... Ugh... Never mind.
Anyways, the Vitta Bassa outfit, in summation, is a band formed to keep the fellas in Citycop from goin' insane and/or bozo. All of their darkest thoughts and wretched sins are tossed into a giant cauldron of satanic evil where they brew under the stagnant radiation of the sun on an average July summer day in Tuscaloosa. It's quite the doozy of an album, chocked full of grimy, dirty howls that would make even the most frightening of coyotes wilt in shame.
The general pacing of the album is about as abstract as the city folk who live about 30 miles out yonder. It juggles between the truculency of a ragin' bull, and the tenderness of a bunny. Well, maybe not quite THAT tender. About the tenderness of a well cooked chicken strip. Anyways, the screamin' vocalists take turns garglin horseshoes, and makin' the album sound all discombobulated. This is what I think they were going for here, because the young testosterone laden group seems to do whatever in tarnation they want and plus, there is a very unhygienic pup sittin' in a tub with a middle finger up plunged towards the camera.
Don't really understand kids art these days but... Yeah.
When they feel there needs to be more of a ruckus, they all just move their hands and feet really fast in accordance to their instrument to combust a really busy noise. It's kind of swell if I may say so myself. Reminds me of a cattle stampede through a high rised canyon. The drummer does a really good job of maintaining a wild stallion impression with his galloping foot pedal maneuver. The poor guitarists sound like their Momma's never taught them how to play guitar or took them to any wailin' shindigs, but they try their hardest to make some sort of successful harmony/melody. Maybe if they would've gone sang in a choir as young pups they would understand the true meanin' of melodies. I know I do. I dunna know...
All in all, I reckon this is a mighty intriguing record for all the young chumps who like these kinds of dillies. Personally I'd rather listen to a little ditty by Lynyrd, or Mr. Coe. But I guess the new generation will eventually swallow us small town folk up. And when they do, I'll be ready for it. Cuz' I'll be fightin' em off with this "music" blaring in my earbuds.
Lords Blessin'
Rudy
