THE FUCKING CHAMPS
The Fucking Champs VI
Drag City
· Dude from Trans Am also plays in another well-named band.
Here’s a band that shows restraint. They could have called themselves the Goddamn Fucking Champs. Or the Fucking Champs of South Cockland. Or the Fucking Shitting Champs. Or Pope Fucking Champs XII. But they didn’t. They left their name right where it should be.
This is the same sort of judgment they show in their music. They hold back just enough. Rather than candy-coat and inflate their instrumental metal with guitar solos they know to stick with the riffs that would be pleasing to anybody who plays video games for a living. Melodically, they bust out the harmony lead guitars like they’re auditioning for the guitar slots in the next Phil Lynott-less version of Thin Lizzy to shamelessly milk the classic rock nostalgia circuit. After all, they don’t have any of the original hard rhyming of Phil Lynott in their instrumentals. Wait! No Phil Lynott? Maybe they hold back too much! Damn!
Do they hold back too much or too little? Hmmmmm…. that’s the question. They’ve got anti-comedian Neil Hamburger fronting on a track. That might balance the scales. It’s a pretty deadpan move. In fact, it’s a pretty deadpan album. Deadpan involves a lot of restraint.
All I know is that they didn’t call themselves The Chicken Fucking Champs, so I’m giving brothers some respect.
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