The Smoggers

If rock ’n’ roll really did die sometime in the mid-70s, then The Smoggers are the grave-robbers who dug it up again, slapped on a fresh coat of necromantic fuzz, and sent the corpse staggering back into the night with a Vox amp strapped to its spine. Their new LP, Fuzz from the Crypt, doesn’t just sound like it crawled out of a coffin—it brings the damn coffin with it, dragging it across the garage floor like a trophy.

Drop the needle and the first thing you hear is the unmistakable hum of something not entirely alive: a warm, moldy surge of tube-driven fuzz that feels like you’re being welcomed into a haunted house run by delinquent zombie greasers. The guitars don’t play riffs so much as they vomit shimmering, radioactive grime, while the organ slithers around like a possessed carnival machine that’s long since stopped caring about entertaining children.

The vocals? Imagine a chain-smoking phantom who spent its afterlife screaming at teenagers to get off its lawn. Beautiful. Downright therapeutic.Every song feels like a fever dream you had after mixing expired beer with too many episodes of Night of the Living Dead.

The Smoggers operate in that holy, unhinged territory where garage-punk becomes religion—a grubby church of distortion, echo chambers, and reverb that sounds like it was recorded in a mausoleum with questionable electricity. And the best part? It works. It shouldn’t, but it does, gloriously, like a Frankenstein monster stitched together from Nuggets-era vinyl and the collective hangover of the last 60 years of underground rock.

The album title isn’t metaphorical. You hear the crypt.Dust in the amp sockets.Coffin lids slamming.Bats arguing in the rafters.Every track feels like a séance conducted by people having the time of their lives.

Highlights? Impossible to choose. The whole record is one long, delirious séance, a fuzz-smeared joyride through the underworld with The Smoggers grinning like maniacs at the wheel. It’s wild, unpolished, chaotic—in other words, exactlyhow garage-punk is supposed to sound before the world sanitizes everything into algorithm-friendly plastic.

If you want your music clean, safe, and certified organic, run. Flee. Hide in a monastery.But if you want the real stuff—the grimy, undying, crypt-fresh spirit of rock ’n’ roll—then open the door, let the undead in, and turn the volume up until the neighbors call a priest.

Fuzz from the Crypt isn’t an album.It’s an exhumation.A resurrection ritual.A fuzz-drenched, skeleton-rattling love letter to the beautiful mess of rock ’n’ roll. And The Smoggers?They’re not just alive.They’re undead and unbeatable.

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