Before we get to the actual show, take this detour. Nashville Pussy would have been the perfect wedding band for Billy Bob Thorton and Angelina Jolie. Let's start with a few superficial comparisons. Thorton is a scary, older dude who married Jolie, a total babe with a few screws loose. Nashville Pussy singer-guitarist Blaine Cartwright is a scary, older dude who married lead guitarist Ruyter Suys, a total babe with a few screws loose. Both men are very attached to their crusty baseball caps. Both women are very attached to their beautiful wickedness. Find a better match, and I'll give you a quarter.
Now back to the matter at hand.
Calling Atlanta their home, Nashville Pussy is southern discomfort at its finest. Throat-searing vocals mixed with havoc-wrecking music makes for one hell of a ride. The speed and merciless assault of punk rock is given an extra helping of surliness thanks to this band's monster attitude. Deep-fried punk rock was the featured entrée for the evening, and everyone at Irving Plaza had their bibs on.
Cartwright's squinty eyes were the antithesis of bassist Corey Parks' and Suys' anatomical parts. The women have boobs that could kill. Oh yeah, and the six-foot-three bassist has a taste for breathing fire. Drummer Jeremy Thompson bangs like hell (ahem) while Suys convulses her way through each song. And all four spit water into the crowd. Musically, this band rips up noise and dumps it over your head. Nashville Pussy is so crazy-raunchy that it makes me horny.
Promoting their latest album High as Hell, Nashville Pussy played new classics like "She's Got the Drugs," "Shoot First and Run Like Hell," "Piece of Ass," and "Go to Hell." Of course, there were old favorites from 1999's Let Them Eat Pussy like "Go Motherfucker Go," "5 Minutes to Live," "I'm the Man," and "Fried Chicken and Coffee." Maybe I was hallucinating, maybe not, but I could swear that a moshing Yosemite Sam shouted in my ear, "Them thar some crazy sons a' bitches!"
I'm not going to lie to you – this band scares me shitless. Cartwright and Thompson make the Dukes of Hazard look like Siegfried and Roy. Suys and Parks make Daisy Dukes look like my saggy-breasted high-school guidance counselor. The band plays like tripping square dancers with rabid rattlesnakes shoved up their ass. If you're not down with the sleazy party, get out of the way lest Nashville Pussy bulldoze you into the street.
