Sydney’s Gay Paris are probably one of the few rock acts who are thrown out of cramped dive bars before punters do. Like their Motörhead-ed ancestors, heavy guitar fans will be at odds trying to claim them as their own. Gay Paris was born with the black heart of hardcore punks, the soul of muddy bluesmen and brandish the muscle-bound arms of metal. It’s dirty, filthy, sleazy rock n’ roll kick-started by cheap thrills and whiskey sours. In the loosest possible terms, Luke ‘Wailin H’ Monks sings. He presumably lives off of rotgut and granulated concrete, packing it down a larynx made of broken bottles and snakeskin. What erupts out is a chainsaw voice magnetising the heaviest blues of the universe, streaked with black-eyed soul and hand-shimmying hosannas in praise of trashbirds, Jesus and partying all night.
Wailin’ H rakishly breathes hot ash into characters such as Black Louie or Joseph Hollybone, a likely pair of bucktooth psychobilly horrors dwelling in ramshackle Louisiana backwoods. Single Ash Wednesday Boudoir Party will leave you torn between headbanging or taking to the dance floor to twirl your girl (or boy, take your pick) around some. Son Of A Butcher Parliament leads us straight into temptation, Monks throwing himself off the pulpit leading a Baptist testimonial all ripped denim and covered in hair. Their hard driving swamp and ear-splitting fuzz rocks houses down, beating sludge metallers Red Fang or Clutch at their own po-faced game, colouring whale-sized riffs with a swing-dance groove and devilish charisma.
BY TOM VALCANIS
Best Track: Son Of A Butcher Parliament
If You Liked These, You’ll Like This: TOM WAITS, MOTÖRHEAD, HELLACOPTERS
In A Word: Rowdy
