Saturday, November 5, 2016
(Already Dead Tapes)
On “Deck the Halls with Their Blood,” Joey Camello, the man behind the moniker, sings “On Christmas, the world is a fucked-up place,” pretty much summarizing his outlook on everything. Drunken acoustic guitar songs stumble forth from the tape deck, knocking over tables and lamps and stuff before collapsing in a heap in the corner. That’s how Filthy Fuckers operates, like a lo-fi indie companion to for the wallet chain and pomade set, the ones who think Mike Ness is the beeswax. Always struggling against something, be it relationships, family, or just himself, Camello lashes out at the world like a wounded and cornered badger, more complain-y than scratch-your-eyes-out-y, but pegging that singular vibe nonetheless. Think a more lo-fi Beach Slang without the full band and you kind of get the picture. It ain’t half bad, if you’re in the mood for that kind of thing. And the name is fun to say around people who are easily offended – how could the music not sound like a mucky emotional mess with a name like Filthy Fuckers? Sad bastards of the world unite, then, and black yourselves out on bourbon and beer while lamenting your downtrodden lives. Peer through drunken shit-brown goggles at the cockeyed Paradise Joey Camello is peddling. Happiness in misery. That’s how it has to be.