A record nineteen years in the making, Fuckwolf’s debut is far from the kind of overwrought prog that would often accompany a tale of this sort. The band has been knocking about the warehouse and dive bar circuit that is rapidly disappearing in San Francisco, a sinewy keepsake of the punk heart that beats beneath the city’s scrubbed up silicon makeover. Fuckwolf dip into both the city’s verdant garage history and evergreen psychedelic font. The record is slicked with tar-thick resin riffs and singed with a mid-fi burn mark that keeps the record suspended in time between the early-aughts’ sawdust n’ sweat and ‘70s noise-punk classicism.
The record is wracked with rhythm — clicking, clanging, writhing, and wriggling beneath that scorched veneer. Fuckwolf dip the cut and coiled remnants of Suicide in the drippings of Pere Ubu, Neu, and PSF’s noisier corners. They burn hot from the beginning but the record really begins to get interesting as it gets stuck in the sun-soften glue of the midsection, rolling in the oiled ambience of “White Claw,” “Beef Broth,” and “My Life,” in a cloud of exhaust that chokes their char to a satisfying sludge. The long gestation seems to have given this record just the right amount of time to congeal. If the band had been etching every song that hurtled out of the amps over the years to tape, there’s no way they would have made something as timeless and taut as Goodbye, Asshole. Sometimes its best to let things stew.
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