12" LP / CD / Digital
September 30, 2016


Paint Fumes drew first blood together in the year 2011, sharing a mutual love of garage scuzz and brain-chain reaction, and the connection was immediate and fierce. Sounds congealed via weekly seances at the Sewercide Mansion in Charlotte, NC and relentless touring which brought their unhinged reverberations to points all across the USA. Like the lovechild of Link Wray and Cheetah Chrome, raised by Lemmy on the streets of Venus, they sweated out the fever every night in ecstatic style. By the time Slovenly Recs got around to spitting out a couple classic 45s and their debut platter Uck Life, most true heads and even those way out of the know alike had gotten the message. Deep within a blitzkrieg of treble and feedback, there were real live tunes to sink your teeth into, the shit that’s stuck in your head when you wake up in another dimension.

In the year of the horse, the ‘Fumes swelled in ranks with Ian Rose and Ben Carr of NC synth-topian punks Natural Causes, starting 12 thrash bands and surviving on nothing but hallucinations of vegetarian chimichangas. Together this crew ruined the beaches of Europe with Los Vigilantes, converted hundreds on the all-night diesel-powered festival circuit and in the midst of it all took a vacation down to Puerto Rico and committed to tape a new full-length that you should get every inch of, entitled If It Ain’t Paint Fumes It Ain’t Worth A Huff.

But this story ain’t all about getting loaded and making copper records. To tell it right, these fragrant pricks more than once lost their cool, and yeah, they went over the edge, sometimes all too literally. All the crackin up should’ve sent them packin up, because it seemed like the holy jerk upstairs had it out for these guys since the damn beginning! Maybe something to do with having Satan fill in on maracas in Kansas City. They stalked a path that would’ve buried most bands, what with the bad dope and broken bones, the miscreant shit and fucked-up luck. Somehow though, the Paint Fumes are longer than life. Soul is survival and the ghosts of rock n roll just won’t let ’em quit. So they’re comin’ for ya, live from the grave, just like yesterday!!

So are you ready for showtime in the sewer?! The reconstituted, undiluted, all-original moldy trinity is back and it’s the Egyptian rats’ revenge! Powered by Brett Colton Whittlesey’s junkyard guitars, weaponized for maximum travelin speed while up in the spaceways in vicious post-Sharrock / Ayler cacophony: yeah, that’s when my mind split open. Givin’ the rhythm is Joshua Johnson, a one man groove section whose ripping gringo swing is the stuff of legends and in high demand with Bloodshot Bill, King Khan’s Tandoori Knights and his own lascivious brand, Wahyas. Out front is Elijah Von Cramon, master of the sharp-toothed groove and the lyrical lather, there’s nary a dry eye or crotch in the house when he lets loose on the microphone.

They don’t have to come back to the crossroads: they live here, honey. Their night beats your month. We need them now more than ever, so let us each relax, take a deep huff, and get bent to where we once were wrong.