Band of Skulls

I should be brushing my teeth and swishing Listerine, readying myself for another day of paid hyperbole and, what we in the trade like to colloquially refer to as "total and utter BS," but I'm not. Yet. First I'm going to gush about my latest musical obsession, Band of Skulls. 

As is often the case now that I'm no longer a child in the '70s/'80s devouring Kerrang!, Rolling Stone, NME and Creem with hungry dripping jaws to read up on the next Hanoi Rocks or Pulp, I'm late to this party. 

Never the mind. It's better to bust in after a few kegs are drained. By then, most of the savages have fallen into a stupor (or slumber), and you're left with the people who want to sit on a tree stump and talk about Rush. 

So...Band of Skulls. I listen to Planet Rock on the weekends (streaming, of course) and sometimes I dance around the dial to other UK stations to hear what's being played over there. I kept hearing this band and kept finding their sound an interesting mix of heavy, catchy, infectious and dreamy. All words I look for in my escapism.

And then, that wondrous thing happened that only comes around every so often: I found that I'd been unconsciously drawn to this band because a few of their songs (the songs I kept playing over and over, elatedly) were—lyrically—mirrors of things I'm going through in my own life at this exact moment. Which just gave my love more weight. 

"Nightmares" is my new driving song. When I have the courage to drive. Which I'm finding I have more and more when I listen to the song. And "Bruises" is a close second.

I've already pre-ordered their new album, Himalayan. I look forward to more wild animal anger and padded catharsis. Meanwhile, I'm going to brush and gargle. But while the others are tapping pens on steno pads today, flinging the BS, I'll be a million miles away, watching the bruises heal.