Named after The British Giant, this trio burns through eight songs of lo-fi punk that sounds like inner-urban revolution than backyard barn antics which is exactly where these songs were conceived.
The first thing you get out of Hungry Dogs is that the vocals are quite unique, like it’s a strange seance turbo-charged into hyperdrive. Three chord metal prose acts like you could be hip-swaying to some Judas Priest jam dominates “Crab House,” when in essence, Henry Blacker has the demeanor more like The Stooges.
Compiled from a shit ton of songs and paired down into a neat little package, this album is pieced together from what seems like total randomness. The lyrics involved expel into a stream of conscience. Once you get past that and decipher what is really being said, the album is actually densely painted to the equator of where this band stands both geographically and emotionally.
“how many fingers am i holding up? what’s my name? what’s the day today? the course that i’ve steered, over motionless seas, suspiciously clear, of obstacle, tentacle, sea fret and drear, the wrecks in my wake, are not my concern, nor the ones that i break, against the might jut of my prow, my, MY MAJESTY, only my majesty has got me this far, only my majesty to fall back on.” — from the song “You’re Birthday Has Come and Gone.”
Somewhere between The Melvins and Girls Versus Boys, is a cacophony of punk sludge that will warp your mind. They will tangle you up in their words and spit you out. For them, the song pretty much remains the same. Crotch-thrusting rhythms, chords fuzzed out with noise, and a vocalist that sounds like he is ripping out his larynx and throwing it in your face. You almost feel sympathy to his vocal chords, a slight shrill to his guttural growls that spew out of his mouth.
Henry Blacker is noise pollution you can dance to. It’s bearded cantor where the sweat drips from. You will get caught up in the whirlwind.