Audio By Carbonatix
If there were such a thing as a postmodern post-apocalypse, and the world existed in a kind of warping shift of dark hues, Dalí-esque imagery and Technicolor, Philly’s Aunt Dracula is the band that would write its surf music. Whorls of twisted, reverby guitar, trippy, demented vocals and shifting paces of mania and loopy languidness can be found in any Aunt Dracula song. But so can bombastic, aggressive, sharply rendered passages that suggest a psychotic breakthrough. The band’s closest antecedents in weirdness would have to be In a Priest Driven Ambulance-era Flaming Lips, Alice Donut’s Bucketfulls of Sickness and Horror in an Otherwise Meaningless Life, and the Butthole Surfers in general. Guitar rock this inspired and experimental is a rarity, and Aunt Dracula gives sonic adventurers much to sink their teeth into.
When news happens, Westword is there —
Your support strengthens our coverage.
We’re aiming to raise $50,000 by December 31, so we can continue covering what matters most to this community. If Westword matters to you, please take action and contribute today, so when news happens, our reporters can be there.
