Album Review: Golden Pelicans – Oldest Ride, Longest Line

I have absolutely no idea what Golden Pelicans are about. I have no idea who they are, who they sound like, what their favourite cereal is. None of that shit. All I know is that they’re from Florida, and they kick ass. Serious ass. They kick more ass than Steven Seagal in the mid 90’s. They kick more ass than AC/DC doing a private show for you and your buddies whilst in the midst of the Bon Scott-era. Shit, Golden Pelicans kick more ass than AC/DC kicking Stevan Seagal’s pudgy ass on the set of Under Siege 4. They’re fucking awesome.

Now, Golden Pelicans have released a fair bit of material, and all of it is essential. Their new album is no exception. ‘Oldest Ride, Longest Line’ is a descent into the bowels of riff-hell, a ride into the place where only Brian James, Blackie and Ron Asheton dare to tread. Golden Pelicans own debauchery in the same way that John Howard owns the bushy eyebrows/NOT BALD combo. They put themselves in reckless endangerment with every vocal and chord they are capable of shoving out of their mouths and fingers.

The end goal for Golden Pelicans is to be as raw and offensive as possible, and they achieve with honours. Take tunes like “Kunckledragger”, “Maggots” or “Low Fallutin” – the band blaze through these songs like they’ve been possessed by the souls of The Damned or The Boys circa debut album. Every song sounds similar, but every song contains the same type of disembowelling riffs that no other band seem capable of pulling off, so what’s the bloody problem? They unleash the kind of vitriol and spite that is usually only found in the fighting pits of Guatemala. It’s a dangerously foreign concept to bring to middle class ears, but goddamn don’t we need to hear it. The biting riffs bestow their power and fury with unrelenting passion, and whoever the fuck is singing has made it his mission to tear your ear off, Mike Tyson-style. There’s a couple Poltergeist-esque moments where Golden Pelicans reach beyond the speakers and practice their incendiary punk right in your very own living room, bellowing each chorus to unethical proportions.

Although this album doesn’t even break 20 minutes, it’s enough to make you shit the bed…twice. It’s fucked up and incredible, and if you’re eardrums haven’t blown out by the time those 17 minutes and 40 seconds have dried up, then you’ve screwed up somewhere along the way. This album is as essential as downing one of those Pizza Hut monstrosities with the Four ‘n’ Twenty Pies littered in the crust like swelling pimples ready to blow. If you need your face melted, you need this album.

Golden Pelicans rule, this album rules, Total Punk Records rules. Grab it here, or head to Repressed Records, pretty sure there’s some copies over that way.

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