The Warbrides

Hailing from Moose Jaw, SK, a long way from the metropolitan origins of garage punk, the group combines guitars that buzz-saw across fuzzed verses, biting and gritty like worn cement, slicing smoothly over the drum and bass groove, like spinning wheels on freshly paved asphalt. The riffing is chunky and searing, a non-stop barrage of whirlwind notes and melodies.

Structurally complex and dense, almost claustrophobic, movements in the songs pass like a train through thick woods, which suddenly emerges into the the sun and pasture of the chorus, vocals swooping in on subtle arcs.

Breaks and beats strut and shuffle, morose soldiers who've lived previous lives as club-going dancing girls, the steady cadence of the
pounding percussion vitably giving in to the insurgent movement in the hip-swaying and booty-shaking department.

The buzz-saw periodically breaks while psychedelic shimmers flutter to the surface like last breaths of underwater oxygen burbling upwards.

The Warbrides want to rock, and they want you to dance.