Alabama 3 are the best fuckin band on the planet.
Repeat:
Best.
Band.
Ever.
Larry Love is a burnt-out PCP preacher with a crumbled larynx and a crackbeaten gurn. The band are insane drugfuck masters of Country n Western Acid House Punk Rock brilliance. Live - and on record - it’s supreme. The Theatre is sweating pure THC tonight.

Too Sick To Pray makes me priapic. Mansion On The Hill causes me to hyperventilate. Woke Up This Morning twists my peripheral vision into a bulbous, veiny red mess. U Don’t Dans 2 Tekno recalls thousands of bug-eyed gurning raves in random farms, chasing down the sun in a defiant demonic bodyshafting accelerated halfwit heroic haze.

But.
What the fuck has Reverend D. Wayne done to himself?
Fuck.
He’s
Fucked.
Actually, probably all the band are fucked, but whilst the rest of the group are endorphinned into sparkling action, the rapper is on another planet entirely. A whiskeychubby, meandering, incoherent pisshead whose wit and redemptive reflections are in danger of being completely submerged in a vat of VP vacuity.

The venue’s dancing its tits off, and so am I. The gig’s great. Gushingly inclusive. All ages. Old Acid Heads. Bikers. Student types. Kids. All getting off on this inventive and outstanding act.

But.
Why am I feeling slightly uneasy about it all?
Fuck it.
Here's my plan.
Pass the Vic.
It's gonna be a long and licentious nite.