Normally the job of a reviewer is to try and dissect a record and explain to the potential buyer what is going on under the hood of that particular musical vehicle. With this bunch of Minneapolis generic gene splicers it would be quicker to tell you what isn’t in there.
Like some sort of big, brash, souped-up street racer, The Foshays burn through mutant garage rock, glam stomps, Stax horn sections, pulsing new wave electro, punk-blues guitars, CBGB’s era street bands, industrial engineered 60’s doo-wop and a darkly psychedelic take on children’s TV themes.
And like those over engineered beasts, in just over 2 minutes they have blown themselves out in blast of flames and smoke leaving just some tire marks on the road, the acrid smell of burning oil and an odd feeling that you need a lie down. What a way to go….