Spitfire Records

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“Sometimes it feels like everyone’s out to get me, so leave me alone ‘cause I’m full of hate and whisky.”

The best part about Nashville Pussy is that they are never going to be accepted by the mainstream press because they supposedly aren’t highbrow enough or ironic enough to appease those in the media who decide what is cool and what is credible. I can just hear one of those horned rimmed glasses wearing Lou Reed worshippers going, “the singer wears a mesh trucker hat…but in a less than ironic way. They write material that appeals to the lowest common denominator—trailer parks? Please. This must be a joke. I can’t believe anyone refers to the vagina as ‘pussy’ anymore. That is so droll.” Nope. No joke. NP just creates some of the best, must unpretentious rock being produced anywhere by anyone right now. The biggest challenge for this band has simply entailed getting the group’s raucous live musicianship recorded on disc in a way that does the band justice. Nashville Pussy’s previous efforts entitled Say Something Nasty, High as Hell and Let Them Eat Pussy were all great, rough edged efforts that managed to satisfy like a hunk of Teriyaki jerky after a day of chewing tobacco by the creek…but…even those efforts didn’t completely exemplify the entire multi-faceted package that is Nashville Pussy.

On “Get Some” Blaine Cartwright screams about all the unsavory aspects of life that many want to pretend doesn’t exist or parts of life that can just be laughed off and discounted as “white trash.” Yep, give me songs about boobs, beer and debauchery any day of the week—hey, no worries—it isn’t like we’re rocking out to tunes about inbreeding or some kind of Deliverance-style bunghole slamming. Nope, the first five tunes here may have the type of titles one might expect from an NP offering, but what the listener couldn’t expect is for each of the songs in this grouping to get progressively better with each play. “Pussy Time” serves as sort of an introductory taste of what to expect for the next twelve selections while “Come On, Come On” just flat out kicks pimply hillbilly ass with its chants of “come on, come on, come on—fuck yeah!” This track, and in fact, the whole album reeks of glorious, vintage AC/DC crossed with moonshine and a wild streak. “Going Down Swinging” and “Good Night For a Heartattack” are can’t miss tunes about mustering up the desire to fight, fuck and live when the chips are down and the pipes in the trailer leak. The crown jewel of this first half of the record is the anthemic “Hate And Whisky”---a song as raspy and dead on defiant as any you’re ever likely to hear.

“Spent lonely days learnin’ about life goin’ wrong as sung to me in some dead man’s songs.”

The band’s musicianship has never been tighter on record, but the second half starts with one of the weaker tracks—“Lazy White Boy” which isn’t bad really, but thankfully still gives way to one of the best with “Hell Ain’t What It Used To Be”. Ruyter’s guitar work has reached mammoth heights here as she proves herself to be a quality player and the fact that she is a female really becomes irrelevant and incidental. She plays the perfect licks for NP on this disc, and whether she were married to Blaine or not, Ruyter is the absolute best person possible to play the six string for this group. Now, if you’ve done unsavory things that involved lard and your flaccid willy while checking out her photo on the Internet or something, then that’s your business. The next three tunes rise valiantly to the standard set by the first five, and even though “One Way Down”, “Raisin’ Hell Again” and “Atlanta’s Still Burning” are located here in slots generally reserved by artists who need a place to stash their recording’s substantial filler, this trio of selections are just flat out better than any of the music produced by many of the so-called hard rock bands out there. In addition to Ruyter’s axe prowess, new bassist Karen Cuda further enhances the sound here by rolling out snarling bass lines that combine with Remo’s drumming to provide the meaty backbone to Cartwright and Suys’ musical histrionics.

Two of the last three songs are smoking covers that definitely stand up to the originals. One is an exemplary version of Ace Frehely’s “Snowblind” while the other cover is a classic rendition of Ike and Tina’s “Nutbush City Limits.” Both tunes manage to place NP’s own gritty spin on the festivities while still managing to pay them proper homage at the same time. It is a fine line, and Nashville Pussy walks it nicely. In between “Nutbush” and album closer “Snowblind” is another absolute classic entitled “Meaner Than My Momma.”

“Every time I see her naked,
I wish that God would strike me blind,
Because she’s got my daddy’s mustache,
And her butt looks just like mine.”

It is difficult to imagine Nashville Pussy ever producing a better record than this one. During the recording, the group enlisted the assistance of producer Daniel Rey (Ramones), and the resultant songs are compact, rollicking and equipped with hooks that won’t leave your alcohol-saturated brain for days. Who gives a damn about social strife or natural disasters when there is rock to be had of this quality? Bono doesn’t work for everyone all the time, in fact, for some, he doesn’t work at all, and for those people, we are all lucky that Nashville Pussy is there to fill the void. The next time you are sitting in front of the TV and some talking head is spouting off about “the rocking new record from The Darkness who do wear their long hair ‘ironically’” and you feel like clawing your own eyes out while letting the blood flow warmly down to the elbows, just wait and contemplate the fact that all can’t be bad if a band as good as this one can release an album as great as this one. It doesn’t even matter what Blaine’s hat looks like or whether Ruyter Suys is a girl instead of a guy, I would eat jerky in a red state every week if it meant getting to listen to tunes this back alley inspirational. In every possible way this record surpasses the previous work by the band and provides an avenue for those interested in rocking amidst the aroma of gasoline and pot smoke.

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