If you ever had your hearing severely beat down by the hardcore pound of Orchid, then it should come as no buzz hiss ringing surprise that these Panthers from Brooklyn are not only hungry for salty corpuscles of human flesh, but also for sound canals of all mankind.
From the thump of the opening drum on their third album The Trick, Panthers bravely soar off a tower of hedonistic calamity, accelerating down a latitude of polluted air without a net or care, towards the bung hole of hell. The thirty minute bonk grooves like Sabbath's Master Of Reality and brawls like Minor Threat's Out Of Step. "Listen To Me" points the finger at the constricting mob of fashion misfits and tobacco suckers we all crush on so tough, in any scene on any planet, 'The kids won't have their say / I hate those kids anyway.' "Uncertainly," a nasty little 1:46 prick tease, caused me to look at the backs of my hands for the big black X's that were once marked there. "Hey Creep," the album's most ticklesome title, supplies picture proof evidence of some very naughty situations, like secret hush-hush antics, which no scumbag would ever want to have surfaced.
If Dennis from Refused were felching Sebastien of Death From Above 1979 while kinky love monster Joshua Homme video taped it for YouTube, The Trick would serve as its saucy soundtrack. Make sure to clean the bong water before taking a double barrel hit of this.