Burnt Palms deserve to be bigger than The Beatles and fatter than Elvis. What they do might be pretty simple, but they nail that femme-fronted pop punk better than the rest.
They share the fizzy snap of Fuzzy and Magnapop from 20 years ago, and are way closer to Velocity Girl than any of those recent ‘something Girls’ bands, which means their sound stretches beyond owning a Shop Assistants album.
Try the psych-drenched organ of Zombie Haze, which would take pride of place on a Pebbles compilation, and if you can find one of the 100 copies, grab their album (it’ll “break your heart and bring it back to life”).
Gurr’s garage rock throttles reason - demented and blistering like Wax Idols only more so. Why haven’t Hozac signed them? The clever money says they - or someone - will after hearing these 3 songs.
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