Cheers to Sleazegrinder for the review and column inches in the latest edition of Classic Rock magazine. You can pick up a copy at all good newsagents, and some shit ones too.
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“A bunch of over-the-hill creeps from South Wales stinking of desperation and jaundice launching an all-out assault on goodness and decency with a fistful of rock ‘n’ roll; a bellyful of roiling poison and a collection of late-70s punk and hard rock records, all warped, cranked and sticky with beer and puke.
The Sick Livers are all about maximum impact, so every song is searing, Angus Young-alike guitar solos, every chorus a massive scream-along filled with Misfits-y ‘whoa-ohs’, every lyric a chest beating boast about their sexual potency or their intimate friendships with the devil and his hard-partying cronies.
Their closest cousins in rock are probably Turbonegro, although with those dudes, you’re never quite sure if it’s all a gag, a make-up smeared hoodwink, a grand illusion. With The Sick Livers, there’s no question: this is their fucked-up, merciless, pitiless, gonna-kill-them-all-soon lifestyle.
If you can imagine Guns N’ Roses as skid row tramps, then you already know what’s up.”