On "Ready for More," the fifth cut from "Empty Bottles, Broken Hearts" Spencer Moody meows, "I'm subtle as a T-Rex/and I haven't gotten started yet." It's exactly this crude honesty, the pointed ignorance of polite conventions, that made the Murder City Devils saviors of grooving, gutter-al rock 'n' roll; their second album of briskly punk guitar and quivering organs hoists the Seattle band's star even higher in the heavens. They ain't no angels, of course-their moniker makes that clear-but there's something sublime about the grimmy anti-anthemsthe Devils sweat out of their horny pores. As they sing about the solitude of lonely drunkards, loveless debauchers and lusty rogues, the sense of transcendence is nearly overpowering, the feverish heat purrifying even as the songs' chords and sharacters lurch hellbound. Once you've fallen for the lures of the Devil's dark side, "Empty Bottles, Broken Hearts" becomes a giant step torwards salvation. When Moody sings, "It's the slow music of the spirit that makes you want to touch," you know what he means, and you touch-and when you get burned, you don't pull away. Sometimes it's the pain that makes life worth living. The Murder City Devils are that pain, and they're exactly what your life needs right now. |
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