Raw garage sounds from the underworld
20h00 - 5 €
After Party avec "GG Mad PUNK" et MAGIQUE SPENCER aux platines ..... 60's FUZZZzzz and PunkZZZzzz !!!!!!!
It was on the hottest and muggiest night of that
summer best left forgotten that it all happened. A
cursed night for all who took part in it. A night that
marked the beginning of an ill fated enterprise whose
dire consequences are still not fully known.
The Moon was not full. Running from the angry mob
that chased them, a mere two steps ahead of the
reach of their torches and forks, three women sought
shelter in the steamy guts of the Louisiana Bayous.
The alternative, they knew, allowed them a cho
But it would be between the gallows and the stake.
Marie LaVeau, voodoo queen and master in the art
of head shrinking and making her enemies go mad;
Lena Hurácan, Amazon priestess, capable of
summoning Nature’s spirits and calling upon winds,
floods and thunders with the beat of her drums; and
Conchita de Aragón, runaway gipsy from a circus
freak show, unable to dissemble a rogue smile when
revealing future misfortunes during palm reading
sessions to the reckless fools who dared to ask,
infallible spreading spells, the evil eye and sour
The night has always been a bad adviser for petty
minds who look only to destroy that which they
cannot understand. Which they fear or do not know.
In the dark, the shadows seem to come alive. They
show rotten and sharp teeth, while smiling with vile
intentions. And fear gains weight by the tons.
Sensing their persecutors’ will weakening
meter advanced into the swamp, the three women
Two hours later, already free from the chase, they
came upon the slim figure of Reverend Jesse, while
he was collecting alligator scales for a stew. Having
long replaced reading the Holy Scriptures by the
search for enlightenment at the bottom of a
moonshine bottle, the old preacher saved judgments
for Doomsday. He saw the clothes and the charms,
realizing everything, the visible and the occult, but he
didn’t care. He invited the three women for dinner.
nd ading hich nd with every
, e ay. After exchanging recipes and religious experiences,
they found musical affinities worth exploring. To
complete the sounds of the combo, they decided to
resuscitate the corpse of Old Rod
gone mad, retired with the last of the steam engines.
Seeking greener and more tolerant pastures, they
moved to Portugal, giving up alligators, gumbo,
mezcal and bourbon for nights of black magic,
presunto, red wine and Serra cheese. With their
howls and screeching sounds they aim only to find
communion with other like minded lost souls and to
keep alive the specter of the rawest rock ever made
in this God forsaken corner of Europe.
So lock up your daughters, your bottles and your
goats and chickens! The Dirty Coal Train are here
with their cursed instruments and they’re not afraid to