The Sonics are a band made of drums. Every sound has the crack, whoomp, bang of a snare hit so hard it explodes. Every drum strike is like your heart being suffocated by a bomb. Guitars aren't strummed, they're punched. The pianos sound like they're being smashed with hammers. With every scream ripping out of Gerry Roslie you can feel eyes bugging out of his head like a pair of pounding kick drums while he throws up a cascade of cymbals.
When not ripping apart cover songs to shreds, The Sonics were happy to sing about the sexual power of witches, recreational strychnine drinking, and slowly going psychopathic from love.
Proto-punk doesn't even begin to describe or do justice to the pure brute force of this sound. Every song they touch sounds like it has rabies.
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