Diplomats

One-two-three-four. It seems appropriate to start this review off with the time-honoured count, because if you close your eyes you can picture yourself in some filthy CBGB-esque club. This is dirty, dirty music, and not in a Christina Aguilera sense. This is more of a Stooges "I been dirt, and I don’t care” kind of album. Poor Iggy would be sniffling into his mink coat if he knew his throne was being hijacked by this Ontario trio. The Diplomats are a mix of scuzzy guitars, combined with a death rattle coming out of a throat saturated in sludge, with everything else tuned way down. Who even knows what he’s saying — it’s the feeling that matters more than the words used to express it. Even if that feeling scares you, something has to be said about the purity of that emotion. They are almost as bad as some of the best proto-punk bands. I have to go take a shower now.