Beech Creeps – Beech Creeps Beech Creeps – Beech Creeps

Beech Creeps - Beech Creeps (2015)

Beech Creeps – Beech Creeps (2015)

A-HA! I see what you did there. You almost had me going on a whole thing about how I was raised on the water and how hard it is to fuck in the sand and all those times with the dolphins and the riptide and the DDT and what a privilege it is to not be living in the spent savagery of the land-locked plains and how hard it is to get a real good bad thing going when you’re all battered in sunscreen and the fat dads with the banquet beers can see you clear as a skin tag.

Not that they could catch you.

Or maybe that’s the thrill.

But anyway, anyway. I just now realized, after weeks and weeks of soaking the bitter-assed cold into my ill-spent bones to the grouse-rattling tones of these BQE wackjobs that we’re actually talking deciduous looming here which, to be honest, makes a whole helluva lot more sense as pervy practicality.

Not that I’d know the first thing about earning a spot on the old S.O.R. or the torpid cover of the Fagus grandifolia but, I mean, I can totally see how the two go hand in hand in a strictly objective, Kevin Bacon bold (albeit forgotten) stance as the Woodsman character-study kind of way.

Or maybe it’s just a typo or a pisstake or a red flag or red herring or an excuse to reach that 500 word mark more readily than if I’d just hunker down and talk about the evolutionary craftsmanship that comes with a members-of expletive ridden slink-stained derision slip but who this band is or was in their respective states is irrelevant, man because Beech Creeps is on some seriously serious indigenous NYC claptrap shit.

Almost ugly pretty but far too invested in the sweat that comes with the weight of a double-stack stance, Beech Creeps dangles a Melvins bait with their disparate KISS worshipping heavy as all fuck thunder crunch and distant tenor cum toothless hound growl and that’d be a fine as all fuck place to leave them off but they’re too conscious of the enormity they’re spinning (and aware of the power of a cohesive narrative which neither KISS nor Melvins have ever really given to fucks about unless you’re talking The Elder and you’re not) to let the brown note and roadhog callous hold out for so long that it overwhelms their ability to affect delicious melody without a wink or a sneer or a disinterested Orbitz Girl BJ.

So let’s just say, they’re against the sun rage and up with the Gidget death kick played out for the Leopard Seal orgiastic ending of all things kindly and cuddly and THEY FUCK PENGUINS, MAN! DID YOU KNOW THAT?!?!

Nature is freak scene.

Beech Creeps Tracklist:

1 – Everybody Loves The Beach
2 – Teenage Boogie
3 -Times Be Short
4 – Son Of Sud
5 – Arm Of The T-Rex
6 – On The Beech
7 – Long Walk Home

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