"Smack The Brick" C18 (NNA Tapes)

Historically speaking, it is undeniable it is a thrilling time (I don't believe time exists either) to be co-residing on this particular lost planet. In the smoky recesses of our jam-crammed storage unit of a world psyche, a head heavy brew of impending doom is being percolated with the savory notion that unlimited freedom and one world joyous rapture may be tapping on our borrowed doors. Like, very, very soon. Planted in this tilled soil, the delicate saplings of a deeply rooted musical creation has sprung forth. It is vegetative nectar that cannot help but weed out and breed love and satiated nourishment. This root manifests under the expression Guerilla Toss. And they only breed wild fried eyed soul funk.

Don't get it confused, the band has plastered up some reverent contagious cut-up disco trance. Shining in the live spectacle, all self-assured nobles can not help but shake. But, please people, and I am asking nicely, attempt a new shimmy besides bumping into each other. I got dragged to hardcore shows in 86 and that stuff wasn't even fun then. 

For the uninitiated,and I doubt they exist outside of the mass pike, GToss is a deliciously delirious and enigmatic live spectacle. I've always liked the records, but it is my personal conviction that this is the first studio foray that properly documents their splendor adequately. Four songs for lovers, and journeywomen and dogs, into furious funk, slip and slide stop at the green light noise breaks, terse trance, and go see the guy with the green hat for the pure shit jam music. All delivered with a true punk incendiary flare. 

Peter with the sticks, pops like a player who was birthed in 1924 and has played three sets a night since he was nine. And never vacationed. Hell, let's be honest this job is the name of that Aerosmith record from the nineties with all the ballads you pretend to dislike. Permanently. Pete is an old soul- you can see it in all three eyes. Don't bother watching his hands.

The bass booms and loosens your hip joints. Kinda like a union foreman who is happy to be making 150 an hour on the night ship. The gitar knows exactly, yea exactly, when to pluck, doing so with the assurance of that crazy kid at recess who did magic tricks with rubber bands. The keyboard is glamour, shine, and shows the wisdom earned with good easy plain living.

The tape moves them in a pop direction and I couldn't be happier. Kassie, the Kantruce, has nearly perfected her newly pasteurized (pasture sized) squeelish, girlish hiss and found a way to hook up the lines to the big one. In your craw. I crEyEd.

By the time you finish you are scraping your knees on the carpet from the 80s, thrashing stupid around your cramped studio,or are convinced if you knew 20 other bands with this trick bag you would never again lust after artificial stimuli.

I have not played out a tape this bad since Highway to Hell and I can't stop. I'm calling my priest.

I don't know what more to say except GToss could be the first crispy band to escape from the underground this century. I am delusional, biased, and optimistic but if a pimp Rasta mob boss into Allah rapped two verses over this I could find my keys to the lockbox and have GToss cash the 3009 year old treasury note decaying there. I would, but I can't find a proper abacus at a trustworthy auction. With the money, they could monopolize Jamaica Brain and raise ayahuskaDu to alleviate the sickness. It's all good Mayor Walsh helped write this review. He salutes you.

-- Michael Montagano