The Blowtops 

With Cult of the Psychic Fetus. Saturday, May 10, at the Symposium.

Bubbling up four years ago from some cauldron of stolen six-packs, B-movie horror flicks, and eyes of newts, Buffalo's Blowtops have since released two CDs, a 10-inch EP, and a few singles, to middling acclaim. Attribute that to their soiled-'60s, four-chord crunch. Even for fans of the furthest fringes of garage rock, the Blowtops can seem, oh, how shall we say, unapproachably homicidal. This ain't your Greenhornes frat party.

Early takes on Pussy Galore/Birthday Party-style, feedback-smacked rhythms spiral into the most murky, densely packed sound that could still be considered remotely rockin.' Tales of murder, sadistic doctors, debauched priests, and only the most scorned of ice queens populate the Blowtops' ditches. They sneak more than one worn leather boot into goth territory (but never cartoon psychobilly), ultimately emerging from the garage-rock tomb a unique creature.

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