The Bamboo Kids, with Pearlene and the Bloody Hollies
Since they were recently touted by the New York Press as "the best unsigned band in New York," it's easy to imagine that somewhere the ghost of Joey Ramone is smiling down on Brooklyn's Bamboo Kids. As opposed to the flashier Strokes-like stuff that comes wafting out of Manhattan on clouds of supermodels' perfume and Ketel One, the Bamboo Kids kick up the kind of beer-drenched, punk-tinged fuss you think about when you picture NYC's grittier outer boroughs. The trio's bare-bones attack sounds at times like the Faces' whiskey- and blow-addled rave-ups, and at other times hints at something darker and meaner -- Elvis Costello in a very bad mood, say. Touches of glam surface in the frequent "whoo-ooh" choruses, and Dwight Weeks's singing, like that of Justin Hawkins of the Darkness, sounds like he's got an angry ferret in his trousers -- and that's a good thing. Air guitar, anyone?
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