If GG Allin had given much credence to girly-pants pussy business such as you know, writing tunes and all that abomnable lilly-livered hippy horseshit, the result would possibly spew forth like the malignant mucuous of a melody that coughs itself through the gnarled hands of the balloon-balled, red-knuckled suburban Damien in denim that is the irreverent and irresistable Flowers by Mississippi’s Flight. Smelling of piss and leather and on its way to see your sister, there’s a maniacal machismo to the song’s outer that belies some seriously dark psychological trauma at its core. Sure, it may have a tattoo on its forehead and spend its days careering around a satellite sink town waving a golf club from a stolen motor but when a day’s terror is over the bed is wet with all sorts of terrifying Oedipal night frights. Still, this guy still seems like he’d happily wedgie the Black Lips and steal their sandwiches at lunch and for that we can forgive him for going all soft and getting involved in the terrible business of writing some of the best broken pop melodies to come this way in a hot minute or so.

Flight – Flowers