Death From Above WHO motherfucker? The crispy sparkle of electrocuting guitars on We Are Wolves' Total Magique ripple flesh with pellets of hellfire. The shrapnel stings worse than a swarm of suicidal yellow jackets en route to your butt hole. The complete slice from this north-of-the-border buzz saw is prickly, more potent at random intervals when the audio fists through the ring's of Saturn or crash the brittle necks of cannucks like a Mark Messier cross check. The end result is a bloody floor of ambulance activity that even Grammy Spoilsport can break an ankle to.
The French rant on "Magique" is the Canadian kooky equivalent of a Rage Against The Machine slow building chant of brooding asperity. Like flying alive through the night, chased by keyboard sirens organ blasts, before being pulled over and tazered in the tuckus by Robocop. "Some Words" is yet another ambush of eletro magnetic monstrosity from these pathological sex serenading Canadian standouts. With the devilish grimace in the eyes of crossover monsters like "Coconut Night", the Ween / Queens marmalade of strange, We Are Wolves rush into commercial territory with sharp fangs of hunger, searching for chubby punkards with fucked up haircuts to chomp and devour.
"I Wrote Your Name On My Kite" is a poem sent to us from a savant scientist in a time when kites with expansive panels of illumination bore the names of loved ones while acting as the world's safest and slowest means of universal transportation, whenever that may be. The ride elevates then ambitiously explodes upon leaving this doomed planet with a burst of instrumental pageantry.
As freakout-future-furious as it gets, Total Magique is a foot on the third rail of a fast track to drain bamage.
"Fight & Kiss"