Rob Duncan (ex of Eddy and the
T-Bolts) has just released an album that sounds as if it was distilled from my
own record collection.
In many ways it is a fucked up
and ragged homage to the US of A.
A debt paid in full to the rock
and rollers, the country balladeers, the girl groups of the sixties and the
ground breaking New York
punks.
A glass raised in honour to all
that our colonial cousins have given us.
At times the shadow of Johnny Thunders
looms large as Rob tip toes through the glass carpeted and needle strewn gutters
of the bowery tipping his hat to his influences, and then without missing a
beat he is chasing after a blue collared Springsteen to bellow his admiration at.
And just as you begin to wrap
your head around that change in direction there he goes again charging off full
pelt in another to snatch at something else, a hint of Neon Boys here, some Guns
and Roses there, the Dogs D’Amour of the UK making a sly appearance, a bit of Dylan,
a taste of the Ronettes, and it goes on and on.
Like a kid let loose in a candy
store you get the impression he wants it all, and he’s making a credible
attempt and grabbing everything in sight.
Those who were fans of the
releases by Eddy and the T-Bolts will not be disappointed in this next chapter
for Rob.
The humour the band were known
for still threads its way through the material, and as an added bonus he is
also very obviously relishing being able to spread his wings a bit and deliver
more than expected.
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