SOAK THE SADDLE is Keats’ verdant mind flooding out its nightingales with petrol.
SOAK THE SADDLE is Artaud’s thunder and lightning lucidity between your ears.
SOAK THE SADDLE is WAKE THE FUCK UP!
So begins the siren-like sound of the first song of this onslaught. Harsh machinations follow, framed by disturbing lyrics with BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM and crashed repeatedly by a breathtaking snare drum with cutthroat cymbal splashes saturated with white hot distortion. There’s food for ears with every menacing claw of sound and you wonder just where in the hell it’s coming from. Who the hell made this? you ask.
SOAK THE SADDLE pounds with the metallic thunder-pulse of the Industrial Revolution; with iron drums and heart attack guitars like nails on a freakin’ chalkboard. Eric Paul’s words come screeching out of his mouth like arrows shot for the safety of top 40 dilettantes in vogue. Listen as Paul’s matchless voice greases up the gears while the band beats rhythms with the repetitive power of an assembly line bent on churning out cuts to break any comfort in sound you’ve ever known. Just listen.
The well-trained ear might hear schlock, and the lovers won’t dance to it. But they and anybody else who hears it, as it happens from time to time with a great record, they’ll be whipped through and through, and like the good thinking beast does, come back for some more. SOAK THE SADDLE is one of those whippings—right now. Never mind the album closing in on its fifteenth year.