A high-tension, pitbull mugged freak out, stumbling over a hill and tripping crown over chucks into a drainage ditch to sleep off a cocktail of budget liquor and spoiled, pilfered corndogs it has floating in its system, a beggar's banquet it scrounged out of an unlocked dumpster behind a 7/11, but not before dislocating two joints in its arm and living through an entire diluted revenge fantasy in its head on the slide down. That's the best I can do to describe Ughh, a fucked up and impressively ugly sounding garage band out of one of the more impressively ugly and fucked up towns ever settled in these United States, Los Angeles. The band only has one release to their name, but it's a real hard kick in the glutes. On He is Dead... Ughh is Live Ughh lets their displeasure with life and all creation be known from the very beginning on "So I Don't," a deep fried, Cramps suffering, creepy crawl with the sludgy brawling tempo of a bruised Whores. track and the bastard-whipped, flagellating grooves of a Pissed Jeans live set. The next track, "O" is carried along on a flash-flood of pins and needles, punctured and soaked by post-punk riffage with a spiny backbone of catchy uptakes to keep you under the yoke of its rotten, churning membrane- it's one of those numbers that come at you fast and out of control, like your weight against gravity, like you've just jumped the guard rail of a gorge in a vintage Beetle and have approximately three minutes before your cute little German-design, metal coffin goes splat with you in. Finally, on the last track "Death Cult," you get a taste of the blues ala the Hills Have Eyes, a stagnant slurry of backwater riffs and growl-snort vocals that would make even Jon Spencer worried about being up on his rabies vaccine. Need I say more? It's all in the name, Ughh!
