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HomeBoutiquesShinedown |
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|  |  | | Customer Reviews: | | | Average Customer Review: Write an online review and share your thoughts with other customers.
1 of 1 found the following review helpful:
Wicked Apr 23, 2010 This album is great...should check out Dean Fertita's solo album under the moniker Hello=Fire as well :-)
1 of 1 found the following review helpful:
Great album! Apr 22, 2010 Being a huge fan of The White Stripes and the Kills, this was an easy purchase for me. A great mix of blues and garage rock. It is a little experimental and doesn't sound all that much like the White Stripes or the Kills. The unique sound is refreshing and really works. All in all the best album so far this year in my opinion.
1 of 2 found the following review helpful:
Not mixed for vinyl Feb 14, 2010 This actually sounds better on the radio! I have read rave reviews on the sound quality of the CD, it is obvious the engineer did not EQ this for vinyl. Almost unlistenable.
2 of 2 found the following review helpful:
swlabr Feb 13, 2010 Hey My Lords and Ladies, Droogies, and all critters of the animal kingdom. Let me punch you in the face about something.
I know I shouldn't drink and critique' music, but I'm all excited about something.
Just heard the album, "Horehound" by the DEAD WEATHER.
It rocks harder than anything for like the last 20 years....
I know I'm 55 yrs. old, but this CD makes me wanna gobble halucinogens, Have sex in a strangers car. Set it on fire, then run into the woods laughing.
Just like Sister Ray said. Goo goo goo goo goodbye.
5 STARZ
4 of 40 found the following review helpful:
Sphincter? I hardly knew her! Feb 02, 2010 Stormy in here. Fevers stuffed with rags. A milk polymorph. A blistered elf squatting on an umbrella. Spiders dancing on the woodpile. Spires sparkling. Clocks killing the cuckoo and Hendrix spinning in the grave.
I give off metal. I sweat in the sweetness. A robot strangling tulips in its oily jaws. I push the buttons, feel the motor's hummingbird hammerings under the grip of my fingers as I roll my bullet-resistant menagerie along. The navel gazes, afflicted with a low range of visibility. The wise one in the manger. A bag of soggy bones.
I strike gold in the bold mold, all told.
Hunched and leaving gravy in its wake. Monstrous lugubricants. Supple dictations. Heaven's musty lantern falling in a clatter. A mist of indignation. A clambering up stairs in the background. Polite coughs ricocheting in the chamber pot belly flop.
Cold as a rolled scold, no bars holed.
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