THE BONNEVilLLES - Folk Art And The Death Of Electric Jesus

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Tonight  somewhere,
men tough as hand-me-down shoe leather, the bastard sons of a year of sleepless nights, sing with voices like honey from a skull to raw-boned women as a guitar choir of sirens conspire to deliver their downfall. Heathen wood traps keep 'em anchored in the dirt, stomping a story for all y'all to hear. A low-slung black leather sky grinds slow across silk skins as an ancient lone-gone howl hangs lost in the stars. 

Death and desperation crawl the backroads dragging forty-seven miles of golden barbed wire, ridin' down south with a big ol' new born boogie. Dirty Ol' Scratch has 'em by the ear and he's hollerin' trouble and he's shoutin' blues, shoutin' 'bout somebody's gettin' hurt bad tonight. 

It might be trouble walkin' like a woman, it might come driving in from Belfast just before dawn, hell, it might could come kickin' down your front door or be lying right next to you in your own damn bed, but it's coming, baby. It's comin' rest assured. The band I want to hear when it happens is Northern Ireland's The Bonnevilles. They've been there. This is their story.

"Hell is a place where i'll pay for my sins
No way out and only one way in."

I'm not gonna bother to look it up but I bet at some point I've said that The Bonnevilles are one of the very best of the post- (early) Black Keys/white stripes-influenced bands. If not, I thought it. They're a two-piece what swings hard and makes cool, loud, deep dark punk and stylish hard roots music with good pop-sense & without a whiff of retro poly stink. 

Stooge'd and RL'd, Hound Dog'd and Motorheaded blues infected rock (or vice versa) beyond what one might expect from a little ol' two-piece band from the wilds of Lurgan, Ireland. This ain't no party rock blues. This is personal. Listen.