Live show preview
June 26, Irving Plaza, New York City
Combining a neo-gothic Southern background, proletarian baseness, a propensity for stentorian exclamations of superiority and bacchanalian explorations of the role of femininity, Nashville Pussy’s live show has successfully fashioned a semi-original niche on today’s scene. In other words, they’re the new Molly Hatchet...with a few twists.
Twists on the Southern Rock thang for the perpetually-touring Pussy include: six-foot-three blonde bassist Corey Parks, who, clad in a leather (or leopard-print) halter (note recent breast augmentation), showcases Gene Simmons’ fire-breathing trick, while come-hither guitarist Ruter Suys (pronounced rider sighs, for some reason) clad in leopard-print (or leather) halter, flings Blackfoot/Hatchet riffs at exaggerated tempos. “Tits and fire,” boasts singer and chief beer-gut Blaine Cartwright, “that sends ‘em right over the edge.”
Often it does. Even with the nightly french-kiss Parks and Suys shared apparently removed from the set --Parks does occasionally swap saliva with a lucky female fan--the Pussy exudes x-tra black eyeliner, Rebel-flag-n-denim, Milwaukee’s Best-n-motorcycle boot rock.
Judging by their new release, High As Hell, Irving Plaza attendees should be in for a sleazy stomping. By resolutely refusing to allow introspection to slow them down, Hell maintains the momentum of 1998’s Let Them Eat Pussy and is equally stoopid--if not stoopider---than that ultra-rednecked debut. Listening to Cartwright’s Lemmy-derived bellow is like chewing extra-grit sandpaper, but the key is drummer Jeremy Thompson, who keeps songs like “Let’s Ride”, “Go To Hell” and a swaggering cover of Aussie thumpers Rose Tattoo’s “Rock and Roll Outlaw” focused on the NP credo: “Get In! Shut Up! Hold On!” Though Suys’ solos on the album are merely adequate, she thrives live, making up with sheer volume what she lacks in incisive technique.
Lines from the new album’s “Struttin Cock” allude to the band’s tour goals (“We’re gonna piss all over your town!”) but another title, “Blowjob From A Rattlesnake” might be a more apt description. Step right up, then, but remember to wash afterwards--it’s hard to say where N.P.’s mouths have been.
Time Out New York, 2000
