There are tales of a mop-topped foursome who whet their appetites and gnashed their teeth in Hamburg before hitting it big. They were surrounded by equally talents groups without the same guidance or savvy, never to experience the same fame euphoria and sickened meditation as that group of lads. But that dirty biker fist in the jaw still smarts all these years later, and Sick Hyenas wear its scar while pounding out the residual pain of a city never to be swept up in the ancient storm. It’s why Sick Hyenas have not a lick of that post-Hamburg sound in their self-titled, but rather a vamped pre-VU garage vibe that feels close to home. The American Midwest has been mining these treasured surf digs for awhile but it’s hard to imagine Germany still clinging to its black and white days as a generation of Western musicians have taken motorik rather than rock from its vaults. Here it is brought back to you without a trick or an angle other than the form in which is first sprung out of a fatigued nation enamored with the sounds of the UK and US youth brigade. Still as relevant and infectious 50 years later, Sick Hyenas have done Hamburg a great justice. They’ll do your record collection equal service if given the chance.
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