Nashville Pussy head-honcho Blaine Cartwright, has been quoted as calling the band’s latest album, Up The Dosage, their “Back In Black”. Bold statement, one that has elicited both excitement and discontent over the new album. Having listened to it a few times, I see no reason to have either reaction to Up The Dosage. Those who exist in the “cowboy rocker” stage of life, or those who can’t get enough variation of the Sons Of Anarchy logo on their clothing, will think this is an awesome album. Anyone looking for something more interesting than riffs that sounds like they came from Motorhead’s dumpster, will find it tedious.
Opening with a country flavored swing riff, “Everybody’s Fault But Mine” is a southern fried steak of rump shaking grooves, which repeat over and over while Cartwright caterwauls like a dying cat being forced to endure an enema . “Rub It To Death” is a prime example of NP digging through Motorhead’s garbage, and finding a sack of riffs Lemmy had no use for. Adding poetry and prose to the mix, Cartwright belts out “Every night/this pussy’s tight/and it’s all part of our plan/Last chance/To get in your pants”. The hilarity of “Rub It To Death” continues for over four, spellbinding, minutes.
Following that, Nashville Pussy jumps back into the southern bit with “Till The Meat Falls Off The Bone,” which sounds like chase music for the latest episode of Dog The Bounty Hunter. “The South’s Too Fat To Rise Again” speeds things up just fast enough for the drunk girl in the crowd, the one who pulled up her confederate flag t-shirt, to spin her boobs to while screaming “Yeehawww”. Nashville Pussy push themselves so far into the “cowboy rocker” identity, that everything they do becomes parody. “Before The Drugs Wear Off” is blues-based, piano driven, song where the protagonist attempts to have sex with a women who has no idea she’s ten months pregnant. Hysterical.
By the halfway point, Up The Dosage has worn out its welcome. The repetition of the music is just silly. Some will point out AC/DC, or the aforementioned Motorhead, as examples of iconic bands, who are known to repeat themselves over and over. This is true, but they’re still trying. Both of those bands try to put some magic, and passion, into what they do. Nashville Pussy have none of that. They seem to think it’s enough to play regurgitated riffs with an attitude of “Haw haw!! We said pussy!!”.
Outside of your average professional wrestler searching for an entrance theme, I can’t imagine anybody caring about this album at all.
