Astounding surf rock
While there is no surfing off my madphallic peninsula worthy of the word, the rocking out by The Intoxicators crests the listener up, soaring over the asphalt, sea grape, and palm trees into the starry blur of history and now and the moment that is tomorrow, miles above the Atlantic and out into the darkling rolls of ocean, of all that is unholy and wild and unthinkable in one’s own corpuscles and marrow, synapses and soul. Their music is of the darkest grit, a pounding of the Big Ether, a mandatory provocation to flail, twist, and Batusi. I doff my dome to the Maker for making this bunch. They have saved my life times beyond reckoning. If you blink and but half-think of Florida, you’ll envision a hothouse of kitsch no other geography could sustain. These ghosts are damned hungry.
