by Buzz Drainpipe
There are albums, and then there’s this—an ashtray prayer disguised as a debut. Concrete Blonde isn’t trying to be your friend; it’s trying to keep you alive long enough to realize you already lost, and that’s the victory. It’s a Christmas present for your dealer wrapped in barbed wire and tinsel. It’s raising a toast to your sobriety with whatever’s left in the glass.
Johnette Napolitano doesn’t sing—she excavates. Her voice sounds like it’s been sleeping under the freeway and woke up with visions. The guitars are half Chicano goth, half downtown siren, shimmering in the sodium glow of Hollywood self-doubt. Every bass note feels like a confession whispered through an amp on its last legs.
There’s the poetry of the hangover, the rhythm of persistence. Your Haunted Head plays like a séance for the person you could’ve been, and Still in Hollywood reminds you that purgatory has its own skyline.
By the time the album fades, you realize the world didn’t beat you—it just joined you in the mirror.
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