speedball baby

The Blackout is the third album from New York City's Speedball Baby. Fifteen brand new originals of honed-to-near-perfection psycho-no-wave-rockabilly. Here Speedball Baby is joined by James Chance, Mick Collins (Dirtbombs and half the In The Red catalog), Cristina Martinez (Boss Hog) and Jon Spencer (Blues Explosion, Pussy Galore) to make this by far their finest effort to date. Like the Velvets, New York Dolls, Suicide and Contortions before them, Speedball Baby are truly the sound of New York City. Tales of pimps, players and hustlers, set to the background of jagged and fractured rhythms. Their music is dark and gritty. This music could have come from nowhere else.
Fusing the primordial slurp of rockabilly with a broken, homegrown hybrid of gospel testimony and punk mayhem, Speedball Baby cuts a swath through the rotting cane fields of contemporary music. Their shows have earned them the loyalty of music lovers and emergency room ghouls on both coasts and between. The notoriously fickle crowds in their home parish of NYC have stuck to Speedball Baby like feathers on a tarred heretic.


	SPEEDBALL BABY
	The Blackout is the third album from New York City's Speedball Baby. Fifteen brand new originals of honed-to-near-perfection psycho-no-wave-rockabilly. Here Speedball Baby is joined by James Chance, Mick Collins (Dirtbombs and half the In The Red catalog), Cristina Martinez (Boss Hog) and Jon Spencer (Blues Explosion, Pussy Galore) to make this by far their finest effort to date. Like the Velvets, New York Dolls, Suicide and Contortions before them, Speedball Baby are truly the sound of New York City. Tales of pimps, players and hustlers, set to the background of jagged and fractured rhythms. Their music is dark and gritty. This music could have come from nowhere else. Fusing the primordial slurp of rockabilly with a broken, homegrown hybrid of gospel testimony and punk mayhem, Speedball Baby cuts a swath through the rotting cane fields of contemporary music. Their shows have earned them the loyalty of music lovers and emergency room ghouls on both coasts and between. The notoriously fickle crowds in their home parish of NYC have stuck to Speedball Baby like feathers on a tarred heretic.	Martin works the traps like a cocktail forge, loading syncopated coal like the port town native he is. Ali curls around the beat with blunt grace, by measures a gamin then a pit boss. Together, they're more a twin barrel riot gun than a rhythm section. Matt wrestles fractured jabs of twang and slur from a singed encyclopedia of guitar don'ts. Ron flails, feints, and careens with the teethmarks of Burroughs biting Beefheart. He works the crowd like Lawrence Ferlinghetti hosting a game show or a midwife's blood-spattered husband. His antic destructive pageant has blanched unsuspecting soundmen and cold-cocked audiences.
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