Red Red Meat

AMG Review of Red Red Meat

Bryan Carroll
All Music Guide

Red Red Meat's self-titled LP consists of 15 fuzzed-out, inspired ock & roll songs soaked in codeine and twisted 'til they're ready to snap. The ragamuffin Chicago band plays their hazy brand of oots rock underneath singer Tim Rutili's croaked tales of eating dirt and falling into the bottle. Much like a precariously perched pile of dirty dishes, you just hope you can get through each one of them without toppling the pile and slicing your hand open. The album is Red Red Meat's Bleach. It's the post-punk, grunge equivalent of First Step, and its no-fi ock glory is the perfect way for the band to debut. In the mix, foully conspiratorial guitars, fat bass, and angry drums subjugate the vocals, rendering Rutili's tortured delivery of his nearly mystical songs incomprehensible without a lyric sheet. Fortunately, they've included one. "Evel Knieval can't feel his fractures/'Cause his brain's making voodoo from muscle relaxers" and "Got your ribcage on my mind" are far from the accidental lyrics of an inebriated weekender record made by a wanky band of lushes on their days off. Which is exactly what the album sounds like, in the craziest, absolutely best way imaginable.