The dusty hand of the dead past raised itself in offense at the mocking voice of youth and pointed toward the distant glitter of a golden arena. A voice boomed from the sky, pronouncing that said youthful shit-disturbers would never see the inside of it, and REO Speedealer became simply Speedealer -- which is perhaps better suited anyway to the mean growl of the band's spastic, pummeling music.
As angry as the smoking gun of an unborn son, Speedealer's songs are situated somewhere between the evil southern rock of Cocknoose and the thrashing velocity of early California hardcore. Whereas a band such as, say, Nashville Pussy might try to approximate the experience of the rural shit-kicker through the use of caricature only to go home whining about royalties and being shown up by better bands, Speedealer doesn't necessarily give off the perfume of any particular social strata or experience. Nevertheless, you get the impression that the band members got screwed over by someone somewhere, and this music is their collective howl of drunken indignation. Also on blatant display will be the "great big bad-ass rock & roll" of Champaign, Illinois' Tummler and local berserkers Warthog. Don't expect any sympathy for bleeding eardrums or an elbow jab in the eye from the idiot dancing next to you. Just enjoy it while you can.