King Devil - Lackland Blues

By: Joel Frieders

SYFFAL gets a shitload of music submissions. I do my best to listen to every single one. Sometimes the shit sticks, sometimes it doesn't. Granted, most of the times when it sticks it's because I'm in the right mood to let new schwanz play just the tip. If I'm pissed about something or on my rag, shit that I would normally love the Fuck out of gets ignored.

But then when I'm spread eagle "ear wise" everything is awesome balls.

One submission that I fell in lust with while in a shitty mood was King Devil. It broke the streak of submission stagnation.

King Devil's Lackland Blues sounds like two different albums and after spending a few weeks snacking from its feeder bar, both are fucking covered and smothered in exactly what I needed.

Without ruining the quest for you, I will tell you this entire thing has a weird Bob Geldoff in The Wall quality to it, but with jeans instead of the sparkly pantsuit. It has this gorgeous just waking up feel that I can't totally place just yet, but as he says he's "going to sing it whether you like or or fucking not". His rasp makes it introspective, but the delicacies of the female vocals gently dancing around his growl make it fucking stadium strong and when the drums punch through there's little I can do to stop from laughing along with him. On a few spots, the vocals touch on the throats of the band Maps & Atlases, and by throat touching, I mean they sound similar when singing, I know nothing of what they do outside of singing with their throats bro. Gross bro.

King Devil's register while yelling is fucking meaty as shit, and seated next to him singing into his whiskey glass is his speak singing that is just as protein rich, but with more of an earthy undertone.

Yet, as I mentioned before the two albums on this one single album, there's an extremely creepy circus element lingering around that pops its head out like a whack a mole arcade game. Just when you think you're certain there's a guy playing a caliope around the corner the big top disappears and you're back inside a rock n roll album. I can't say I completely understand it, but when I'm in the right place to accept a creepy clown penis, the clown penis is acceptable, and aptly powdered and done up with a smile across the glans.

King Devil made me a fan, but the clown penis made me late for work.

Now you go listen bro bro.