Satan’s Kickin’ Yr Dick In

Rodney Mitchell was just a kid with a dream of showing everyone his soul on stage. A year has passed since Racebannon launched their last SCUD-like assault on eardrums in the form of the In the Grips of the Light album, but this has not been a silent time for the group. Locked away in the dungeon, and working in conjunction with the powers of rock n roll and the ineffable king of darkness, a new day descends upon the Bannon camp. If In the Grips was a dirty bomb, then Satan’s Kickin Yr Dick In is an ICBM headed right for your rectal. My stains washed out, but I can remember why I came out beaming so bright. Recorded once again with Mike Mogis at the helm, Racebannon craft a sordid tale of woe, depression, excitement, accolade, fear, rise, fall, alpha and omega through a five-part aural aria of the pleasures and pain of the rock n roll lifestyle. As much influenced by Sleep’s Jerusalem as The Who’s Tommy, this record finds Racebannon honing in on the kill, birthing songs, canonizing and edifying sonic Armageddon-day chicanery. The ratio of noise to music is now incorporated into one cohesive whole, and tracks often go from a funeral dirge to a defiant and pompous rock anthem into a spaced out overdose on frustration and quaaludes — often within the constraints of one song. More bottom end than a Waffle House on old-folks day, enough raw power to keep California lit for a year, more presence than a class of schizophrenics, and enough heaviosity to cause His Damnededness the Dark Lord Satan himself to either mosh or foul his undies: Indiana’s bastards are back, and they are poised to destroy, phasers set on kill. Without me there’d be no such thing as the badguy. Satans Kickin Yr Dick In details the trials and tribulations of one Rodney Mitchell, an everyone like any of us who just wants to win the rat-race, to be someone, to be a contender. He lusts for the power, prestige, and glamour of the big life, but is afraid he will never walk these roads. Dejected and alone, he cries out for assistance in this most banal but sincere of plans, and along the way finds himself holding hands with none other than that most hated and vilified of nefarious iconoclasts, the crown prince of damnation: Satan himself (ex-Slayer, Black Sabbath.and a million other bands). Implored by the promise of a better tomorrow because the present day begs for euthanasia, Rodney becomes Rhonda Delight, dazzling the eyes and ears of all who behold her. In this reciprocal teletype romance, Rhonda becomes acclimated to her new-found status of demigod in the sociopolitical milieu of modern pop culture. Her adoring public fiendishly devours her charismatic persona like so much blow at Charlie Sheen’s mansion, while Rhonda walks the anorexic line between media and mania, with her soul on the business end of a deal with the devil. Satan’s Kickin Yr Dick In: not for the weak, timid, feint of heart, or those with remote-controlled pacemakers. The blood boileth over as the infernal minions of hell once again claim another tattered soul, screaming and kicking every step of the way, like being born in reverse. A 35 minute headfuck that only lets up upon completion of the souls transmigration towards Acheron, you have been warned.