Having wetted appetites earlier in the year by dangling debut E.P Broken Teeth in front of a palpably voracious press and listener contingent, the nine track full length will surely induce a rabid foaming at the mouth of those whose satisfaction can only be abetted by rock of the most deprived and alcohol fuelled order. Entitled simply Wet Nuns– a somewhat sensible decisions considering potential titles included the likes of “Happy Girthday”, the record is pure unbridled man-rock encapsulating everyone’s favourite bleary-eyed stonerisms delivered with rage fuelled by an almost permanent state of inebriation.

Yet on first listen it appears Wet Nuns are emphatically more multi-dimensional than you would expect from a two-piece carrying an intent to end every gig in a state of physical tumult, every pore emitting sweat, body and instrument united in an exhausted heap. Subtlety and dynamism has found its way into the picture, resulting in such trudging brilliance as ‘Only Sometimes’, the intro of which saunters in measured and affecting introspection.  It’s the closest Wet Nuns may ever come to penning anything resembling a ballad, yet it maintains their penchant for debauchery, although in this instance it is delivered through a melancholy haze of melodic slide guitar that could provide the soundtrack to a more downbeat moment from a Robert Rodriguez Mexican back-alley shoot-em’-up. Whilst ‘Only Sometimes’ provides a sort of morning after tale of regret and hindsight realisations, the remaining tracks exist very much in the moment of hedonistic excesses.  Carried over from their eponymous E.P, ‘Broken Teeth’ is a full on slab of amphetamine induced stoner rock- the opening lyrical salvo of “I live my life with a taste of blood in my mouth” says more about the band’s outlook than any overwrought description could hope to convey.

Riffs addicts will find plenty to latch onto here, Josh Homme’s gnarly Kyuss grooves rekindled and laid down with substantially more vigour than the QOTSA man could ever hope to muster whilst the sloth-paced doom of Sleep is tangible in moments such as the closing death throes of ‘Hanging’.  Meanwhile, drums exude a cymbal smashing glory, the kit treated as disposable after being submitted to continued hammer blows.

‘Heavens Below’ sees vocals at their most grizzly, the Arizona via Sheffield drawl peppered with the gravel-throated ravings that speak of countless Marlboro Reds and extended whiskey sessions leaving a suitably rough-hewn texture to every vocal delivery that makes poor old Rod Stewart’s characteristic voice seem angelic in comparison.

As the extended blues jam ‘No Money Blues’ meanders its way through the most sultry of bluesy dirges its pretty clear, even through the omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke, that Wet Nuns have done a bloody good job.  Wet Nuns could quite easily have been a record of titillation, nine tracks of red-eyed and adrenaline fuelled rawk, a quick yet ultimately unfulfilling fix.  Yet by broadening their palette towards explorations in dynamics, no easy task for a guitar & drum two-piece, Wet Nuns resonates with deeper emotion than base level tales of drug-addled excess over no-holds-barred riffage. It’s scuzzy blues rock at its finest, rabid and well-rounded.  Delicious stuff.

4.5 out of 5 high fives!

Wet Nuns are two dudes, one plays guitar and one plays drums. Together they churn out fuzzy-as-fuck red-eyed blues rock that is much more akin to the sounds of the delirious and unforgiving Arizona desert than of the lush Yorkshire Dales. Their latest EP Broken Teeth marks the next step in the duo’s raising profile after a momentous 2012 saw stacks of praise heaped upon them for their incendiary and increasingly notorious live shows, as well as being bestowed with Artrocker’s award for Video Of The Year.

Despite the potential drawbacks of using only one amplified instrument, the guitars form an impregnable wall of fuzz so thick and all consuming that guitarist Rob must have to wear a lifebelt to avoid drowning in it. The down-tuned strings fill out the low end, the fuzz flooding into any dead space within the mix that is looked after by producer Ross Orten of MIA and The Kills fame. The riffs are furious slabs of hard rock infused with gritty blues and the smoke of several hundred spliffs. Not consigned to simple moronic chuggery, Rob repeatedly runs up and down the fret board, showing some rather inventive guitar work manifesting most obviously on the title track’s bluesy licks. Drums are beaten with all the subtlety of a coked-up Andre the Giant wielding two cricket bats as stickman Alexis is seemingly unable to decide whether to hit the skins to within an inch of their lives or simply demolish his kit. Together the instruments create a cacophony that renders any other instrumentation ultimately futile; leaving only room for Rob’s gritty howl which is so coarse and ragged he must surely eat gravel for breakfast, washed down with a few Marlboro reds for good measure. ‘All The Young Girls’ eschews haunting backing vocals whilst standout track ‘Laura’ is an ode to every male teenage rock fan’s enthrallment with girls who play guitars with Rob growling “I wish I was that geetar!” over a stomping blues barrage.

‘Broken Teeth’ is music that demands you reach for the whiskey and become a drunken, sweaty mess. Its raw sexuality and pure aggression will have you coming back for fix after fix of Wet Nuns’ ‘death blues’; an exhilarating joy from start to finish.

4.5 out of 5 high fives!