This band of hedonistic twentysomething transplants to New Orleans started as a boozy joke. Named for their pledge of drinking a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor every morning, these aspiring low-lives and Charles Bukowski wannabes came to town nine years ago and inhabited the Crescent City’s rapidly gentrifying 9th Ward, a haven to amateur musicians, outsider artists, dysfunctional alcoholic philosophers and other assorted drifters, dreamers and bohemians. Since forming in 1997, they have been building a cult following on the city’s underground scene and along the way have actually learned how to play their instruments—somewhat.
Recorded in the 9th Ward shortly before Hurricane Katrina hit, this punk-edged celebration of debauchery below sea level is the Big Sleazy’s answer to the Beastie Boys. Fueled by sonic shrapnel amidst catchy riffs with the occasional funk or blues reference, it sounds like Shane McGowan of the Pogues on amphetamines jamming with a sloppy-drunk edition of the North Mississippi All-Stars. Devotees of instrumental virtuosity should steer clear of this snide, vile mess. Fans of defiantly twisted music—from Richard Hell to Morphine—may find a certain dark charm in sick ditties like “Skin,” “Conversation Whore,” “Gin Instead of Whiskey” and the positively evil “Dumpster Juice.”