Catholic Spray

In the days of conscious jazz (music done by those who know way too much about it) & pale idols, sorting through the new releases is a dirty job. Then comes the day you stumble upon Amazon Hunt, Catholic Spray’s first album, and everything suddenly gets faster, louder and weirder. The year was 2011, the record label was Teenage Menopause, and the record sounded like one of those days made of nothing but raw, naked truth when you wake up shirtless at 5.am, stuck in a building devastated by flames, slowly remembering the atrocious rumble between two transsexuals in the lobby hall that started it all. You know that kind of record. You also know the kind of band who makes such records: their story usually ends in ugly fights after 6 or 8 months and you’re left with rage, regrets and infinite blabbering.

Reminding the indie peasants they are the band responsible for making the 18th district of Paris cool again (“Hustling In Barbès”), Catholic Spray charges right on with an array of mongoloïd hooks thrown at maximum speed (“Masterchief Of The Foxes”, “Drift With Satan”), hitting harder and meaner when necessary (“Black Cat”), just to remind they definitely own the race, even though they still drive with eyes closed, guided only by Pierre and Cyprien’s voices, both singing like rats fighting against the wind, screaming for a smoke and a piece of ass, legal or not. The kind of guys who, when you meet them face to face, pass their whole life on to you, just like a disease.