Pink Lightning - Blue Skies

To inhabit a Pink Lightning song is to be flung…

…to be slung, bumped over that way...
to be sent…
...flung up into every corner of the room until one of the walls give and you’re out into the mud.

And you keep dancing, dirt and all… Or is it more a graceful kind of contorting.

You’d almost mosh, if you could, but the drums are just as much push as they are pull, pulling, kicking... more toward tilt-o-whirl-terrain, where said-drums threaten to pull your proverbial rugs out from beneath your feet…

And those guitars, brilliant buzzsaw badassery, with their mean hooks dipping and twirling you in a clenched conniption waltz.

And if metal married jazz and their abominably groovy offspring spat its first words through fuzzed amplifiers, than you’d have their bass.

Then there’s that accordion, the chief of Pink Lightning’s effected ambiance, conjuring gaunt punk-ghosts of crazy carnivals, nervy ragtime and twisted gypsy folk.

What was that howling? What was that crooning? That sing-speak poetry in a half-honked raspy sort of theatricality? Your lead vocalist, a mad barker, freaked-himself up into agit-falsettos as though he were shouting the show-stopping lyric at every chorus, if only his cohorts weren’t so possessed to keep the tilt-o-whirl-whirling…the show might never stop…

Banjos? Mandolins? Ghostly piano jitterbug taps? Saxophones? Nightclub lounge-pop cycloned into mutated post-ska jigs… Listen closer. Press the headphones onto your ears. Bob and weave around the room a little more. You'll get the hang of it. 

And you get this album this December.