Mudlow Discography of CDs

Mudlow albums Thomas Wolfe wrote that "...our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cut-purse went unhung." If that sliver of catholic prose had a soundtrack it would be played by Brighton UK's Mudlow. Mudlow plays literate southern music without continent, drifting and fraught with terroir. It is at once humid, torrid, and familiar; a wholly indecent sound. It's the grist, gristle and grit of the hard luck life. Noir skies meet muddy boots. The old trouble. Tobias plays guitar, howls and sings, winks like Popeye and writes songs. The stalwart Matt plays drums, craftsman Paul Beat plays bass and records the music. Sullen sweetheartist Trimble blows the saxophone. Named for a particular island off the western edge of downtown South Purgatory, sitting hard by a slow-burning swamp just down the road from the old General Tire factory (long abandoned). Port-side stands a tough and brazen little burlesque bar, lit like a set from Twin Peaks. It's there, downstairs, framed by smoke-rimed red velvet curtains that Mudlow swing their craft. They play cool, cruel and criminal, lounged and louched versions of Frank's Wild Years at The Stooges Funhouse for love-worn ghosts, sinewy butchers and Gutter Twins, as a sway-backed barmaid, mouth full of gold and skin scented of hyssop, serves marked cards and moonshine to lost North Sea sailors, southern kings, and their curs. Their music is the soundtrack for a film as yet unimagined, the saxophoned theme to a tempest-tossed and dreamless sleep. Night hues meet dawn of day in salt air and sea light. A morphine blues follows a sloe gin waltz. -Rick Saunders

Mudlow music CDs Download Welcome to Mudlow Country here: http://phobos. apple /WebObjects/MZStore. woa/wa/viewAlbum?playListId=80900165 or here: http:// emusic /album/10896/10896056. html?fref=700329 THE FOLLOWING COMES FROM RICK SAUNDERS WORLD; homestead /ricksaunders With a voice like a rarely (although occasionally liberally) greased pawnshop tromboneMudlow's Tobias wails croons growls and squalls across the lushly criminal sultry seaportlandscape that is Welcome To Mudlow Country. It's their first album. With a swagger and swing so long and thick they gotta wear it for a belt,Brighton's Mudlow have become my new Afghan Whigs, my new Nick Cave, my new Marah, impossible to play loud enough. I want to crawl inside their sound and drink deep till hammered and slaked then dance. spin,buck,bark and rail along with it before the next song picks me up on it's gangster lean and shoulders me to the next basement bar. Bass and drums swingin' beats fatback crisp and cold hot greasy. Drummerman Matt Black layin' so far back into that drop down it's a G.D. Memphis miracle the whole thing don't totter and tip backwards on it's big sexy ass. But that Bass! Damn. Paul Beat keeps it all pulled down sublow sonic like a big fine woman's behind the wheel backin' it up. Brass horns careen and plead and sob and harmonica call the lonely and lonesome home. For all the raw refined glorifying groove power it's no stoop to roll it back and lay out in rich cinematic black and white ...