Christ almighty, it's the Hot Snakes! Maybe you've heard of 'em. Back in 2000, they released a fine, upstanding debut called Automatic Midnight. Wasn't nothin' groundbreaking, but it spared no man caught standing in its crosshairs, filling mop-topped hipsters countrywide with bullets of mercurial death. It didn't concern itself with paltry academic nonsense like innovation and progression. Hell no! It came for one purpose and one purpose only: to bludgeon. And now the Snakes come again, slithering diligently between the feet of still-standing concertgoers, sensing the sweat of unshowered ankles, arching their backs, preparing to strike. These are the snakes you fear most: the kind that bite.

Combining the angular lashings of Drive Like Jehu with the strut and bravado of Rocket from the Crypt and a healthy dose of pure menace, the Snakes have assembled a sound straight from the heart of rock itself. You won't find them toppling the tower of convention to its very foundation, or even shaking their fists at it, and if this sound ever seems familiar or predictable, it's only because you've remembered it from your immortal soul. (Plato, next round's on me.) These guys capture the essential, timeless threat of rock music with every track they lay down. And damn straight-- the raw, naked aggression that pours out the speakers is intimidating. That's beauty of it. Hot Snakes aren't putting themselves out there to push rock music to another plane; they're thrilled just to refine it through a series of lean, caustic numbers full of bared-to-the-bones malice and spite, punctuated by occasional moments of subtle, perceived vulnerability.

It's clear from the get-go that there's danger lurking just beneath the surface of this music, and if given the chance, it'll chew you up and shit you out. The jagged, stutter-stepping guitars of John Reis and Rick Froberg (RFTC frontman, ex-Drive Like Jehu, respectively) skip the ears and drill straight through the skull. Steve Albini would be so proud of the heavy metallic rumblings produced by Gar Wood's bass guitar, and Jason Kourkounis simply shreds his skins. Together, these men create a musical backdrop that's hard as gaw-damn nails and not afraid to repeat itself until you understand exactly where it's coming from.

Froberg's vocal tone is the perfect emotional center of each and every one of Suicide Invoice's twelve tracks. Most of the time, he sounds like he's trying with all his might just to make it to the surface of the mix, like he's calling out across a vast distance. His desperation adds essential emotional impact to what would otherwise seem to be quite obvious subject matter, giving it a truly convincing edge. And once in a while, on songs like "Why Does It Hurt" and "Paperwork," Froberg drops the rage almost entirely, and all that's left for lines like "I know your heart is in the right place/ So why does it hurt?" is the sound of alienation. It doesn't happen much, but when it does it's damn powerful, and not for a second undignified.

Otherwise, tracks like "I Hate the Kids" ("Grab a spade, get in the dirt/ The older you get, the less you're worth") and "Paid in Cigarettes" are callous and cruel enough to punch you in the stomach and steal your lunch money. The only tropes these guys know are 'kicking ass' and 'taking names,' and the rest can go to hell, because Suicide Invoice is nothing but rock viscera in its most elegant simplicity. And sometimes, that's all you need.

-Eric Carr, July 2nd, 2002