Using all the tools they had handy—mandolins, fiddles, crack songwriting and a baaad-ass singer—they created a record that pays due reverence to the giants of bluegrass like Ralph Stanley, RATT and ABBA.
It's an alluring concoction of gritty, rambunctious NYC garage rock and sexy southwestern stylings. Inspired, cross-cultural pollination that is both dead on sexy and full of punkish abandon.
Puttin' the ass back in bluegrass; songs about shallow graves, winning the Sweepstakes, pot-smoking, and other topics deemed unsavory by fusspot standards.
An exuberant, noisy, custom job of mutant string-band sensibilities tricked out with crafty original songwriting and delivered with a confident, sly, sexy grin.
Biram's blend of punk, delta blues, and hillbilly throws down the boogie gauntlet and sends a feral bolt of brimstone south of your studded leather belt.
This is gospel for the 13th circle, and he's singing it like his feet are already halfway in the fires.