The hyped-up quartet's onstage image of wrestling masks and German army helmets resurrect the sort of pantomime outrage of 1960s schlock-meister Screaming Lord Sutch and trash-psych merchants The Mummies. Bassist Kyle Thunder, guitar man Handsome Al, drum beater extraordinaire Shug and plinky-plonky keyboardist Pete – just Pete – keep their secret identities close to their chests.
So it goes for more than a decade of WWE inspired rock-and-rage, from the 2006 Vote for Jesus six-track through a slew of releases to 2014's Under the Underground album. Somewhere along the way, the fantastic four managed to found Buckfest, a now annual indoor festival which has taken up residence in assorted Glasgow cellar bars.
The band's name, for those not well-versed in the mythological drinking habits of the Scottish West Coast male, refers to the excitable short-term side-effects of the much loved brand of fortified wine brewed by monks.
The transcendental effects of necking such a brew are well documented. The following should act as a guide to listeners of a nervous or tea-total disposition, and should be treated with caution.
The record kicks off with Nine Stone Cowboy, a song awash with fuzz guitar repetition, sci-fi synths and a rocket-size countdown. Topped off with a vocal melody that's a dead ringer for Buddy and Cathy Rich's big band version of Sonny and Cher's The Beat Goes On, it blasts off into orbit with a clatter. Dr Dre USA sounds like Fiery Jack era Fall siphoned through psycho-billy yowling and recorded in what sounds like a shed where the band are hollering through a mattress.
Down A Hole sees our heroes crash back down to earth with a vintage strut and an out of tune Woolworths keyboard not heard since Live at the Witch Trials and excavated from a skip. Closing the Andre the Giant side, the pounding jungle drums, echo-laden vocals and primitive synth stabs of Chewing Gum sound like Suicide reborn with menaces before collapsing into an end of groove goof-off.
Over on the Lucha Libre side, Hippy Shit sees the gang regroup as they come swaggering in from the crypt like a leather-jacketed gang taking on the stragglers of retro-styled youth cults with a call to arms that should set the long-hairs running for the hills.
The final three heartbreakers sound like excerpts from a delinquent-studded rock and roll musical that might well be the anti-Grease. I Don't Care (That You Don't Care) is a bratty two-fingers to the stuck-up madam who just ditched the leader of the gang (no, not that one). F.Y.I. Luv U is a last dance at-the-hop declaration that confesses all with a classic 1960s Brit-beat vocal. Finally, Let Her Know hangs tough once more as the grand finale to a teenage dream, which, as the real Bucky rage subsides, remains wild at heart and weird on top.
Product, February 2017