The Dirty Badgers

Most bands don’t take it far enough. Rock isn’t dead. Blues isn’t dead. Fuck that. There will always be a sweet spot for music where Blues and Punk hit. Legitimate idea of what happens when hard mountain blues meets old school CBGBs New York punk. Here’s the Dirty Badgers. Think “New York Dolls.” Think “White Stripes.” Think Pussy Galore’s version of “Rocks Off.” The idea that a gang can stand up and play something real – that’s still real. From the mountain blues side - fucking Duke, dirty gas-station attendant, saw him at a Halloween show with a skull painted over his face, local phenom, fronts the band. If Black Francis of The Pixies is the voice of God – Duke is his holy son. No shit. It isn’t fair that someone can sing like that. Wild beard, nerd spectacles, Saxy Dave punches you with a wave of sax noise, sax shit pinning you back. Hollering into the mic, yelling, testifying, speaking in tongues. Saxy Dave and Duke lead the madness of the stage show – seriously fear for their safety – because you don’t get there without life and madness and shit – and when you go so far out there you can’t get back. Scott Stetson on guitar and Scott Spinner on bass from the mean streets of NY and Kurt hammering on the drums. Those boys are supposed to be holding things together but they’re following their mates into the dark woods. Nothing good happens in the deep forest. See them live. The air changes. The bar fills up. Women are dancing before the stage. Duke cries out: “make me feel alright – make me feel alright!” Gutter Blues is their best number to date – a driving statement of desperation and desire. They have a growing handful of originals that are all hard and true and bleed. It’s real. This is the real thing. They’ve sinned and done wrong and been broken and pulled themselves up to fight again. The Dirty Badgers. What happens when hard mountain blues meets old school CBGBs punk.