HookerClops

Listening to Hookerclops makes me wanna snort a bunch of Adderall, shotgun a couple beers, and roam the moonlit city streets raising all kinds of hell. If you haven’t guessed already, subtlety is not one of this band’s strong suits. Writing rowdy punk songs, however, and pumping them full of ball-busting blues-rock riffs is. You gotta love their proto-punk primitivism, testosterone-fueled guitar, tag-team, rock ’em sock ’em drumming, and low-down skulking bass-lines, not to mention the absurdist sense of humor of the lyrics and their guttural vocal delivery. I mean c’mon, a one-eyed prostitute with lobster claws for hands? You can’t make this stuff up. Oh wait, yes you can. Their music speaks to the caveman in me that wants only to fight, feed, and, well, ya know—fornicate. No ego or super-ego to be heard on this album. It’s nothin’ but id on overdrive. (Will Barry) - The Noise

We’ll admit we’re just a bit afraid of thrashing hard rock quartet Hookerclops. Maybe it’s their propensity for aggressive beards and even more aggressive power chords. Or their somewhat absurd, Primus-sounding track titles (“Robot Glasses,” “Fucked Up Cat” and “Ubba Dubba”). Or perhaps, just perhaps, it’s their back-story, which involves mutation, the Exxon Valdez oil spill and the sharing of a single (spiritual?) eye among the four band members. Could be any or all of those. Doesn’t matter, as long as you know they’re playing Church tonight. And that it’s definitely the eye thing. *shudder* - Dig Boston