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.
--Ryan Masteller
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