Sometimes I like to imagine myself free from the responsibilities and concerns that plague most American adults. Between the mortgage, student loans, credit card debt, where to fit in an appointment with the mrs for a decent handjob, children, sleep, all of these things are assholes in their own right. While it might seem cliche and a bit stereotypical, nothing represents freedom more in my eyes than a motherfucking motorcycle and an awesomely unkempt beard.
Dead Beat Poetry, all over their motherfucking self titled album, scream loud ass saddle bagged motorcycle and funky ass 'store a beer under my chin' beard. It's as free as mowing the lawn in only your jorts.
Thump thump th-thump thump bass lines under bar brawl drums, a guitar player with chops to fucking fucking kill for, and vocals that sound like a Jim Morrison that you'd rather buy a shot for versus wanting to punch in the fucking face for being so fucking annoying that Val Kilmer was a better him than him was a him. Yes, I just shit on Jim Morrison for acting more important than he actually was. Sure I loved the dude's voice and maybe a part of his persona, but come the Fuck on, if you consider the vocals alone, The Doors are unlistenable.
Dead Beat Poetry on the other hand, fucking hell yes.
DBP (because I make acronyms out of everything and everyone) has the roadside biker bar thing going hard, but the instrumentation and lyrical intelligence, paired with a dash of bilingualism and just a hint of sass, makes Dead Beat Poetry's self titled album a perfect excuse to drink while sweating. I gave it two complete spins while washing my cars this past weekend and while I don't (and won't) own a motorcycle, I vicariously lived through a pair of neighbors as they loudly exited my hood on the rockets in their respective crotch.
Tits. Leather clad tits.