The Chargers stumble and fumble toward their own unrelenting sort of brilliance. Songs like "Black & Tan," with its squawking blues harmonica; "Omega Bro" and its immeasurable, insane dose of skronking "jazz" horns; and the hometown blues of "Every Light on Euclid" ("I hit every light on Euclid / coming home to you") are all finesse and muscle underneath the apparent chaos. These are the sounds of kids clawing their way out of a murky, mirthless Cuyahoga River. Holy effectively mixes Detroit's Stooges-via-MC5 garage racket with a Midwestern, blue-collar rock escapism, pissy lyrics, punk fury, a raunchy New York Dolls/ Stonesy shuffle, and even a dash of Kiss humor (lifting verbatim a line from Kiss's "Black Diamond" in "Shitty Song"). It becomes a loud, merciless, and wholly indefatigable slab of rock narcissism. In the end, the Chargers' stew boils over into such a scalding rock-and-roll ruckus that Holy unwittingly serves as a momentary antidote to the musical stagnation that seems to have mortally infected this once-proud rock-and-roll town.
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