The monstrous, knuckle-dragging crud rock these teenage cavemen revisit on their colossal debut obliterates the often lame, neo-garage shit much ballyhooed by self-professed underground musicologist Little Steven (ironically, this Boston three-piece were winners of his Underground Garage Battle of the Bands competition last year) with a savage velociraptor menu of wanton liver punches and blissful skull-bashing, resurrecting monolithic basement-spawned relics like the Sonics, Gories, Supercharger and Cheater Slicks without sounding patronizing or fake.
On the Konks' unabashed, infantile and unofficial theme song "29 Fingers," their crude and primal three-chord aesthetic is summed up dumbly and succinctly: "We got 29 fingers, and man, are we having fun / 29 fingers and only six are thumbs / We play cheap guitars, and just two lousy drums / We're the Konks, and we don't care." A primeval, bone-snapping cover of Soupy Sales' obscurely hilarious "King Kong" and a scintillatingly perverse take on "Let the Music Do the Talking," recorded originally by fellow Beantown derelicts Aerosmith, round out this drunken, raunchy mess, stripped-down to the unadulterated basics: distortion-riddled guitar and bass, growling vocals and a laughable two-piece drum conspiracy utilizing a broken milk crate and duct tape. A rock 'n' roll paleontologist's wet dream.
