FREE SHIPPING ANYWHERE IN AUSTRALIA

Cory Hanson's third solo LP follows
upon 2020's luminescent Pale Horse

Rider, upping the heat to molten lev-
els, six strings at a time. In search

of further adventures, Cory draws
with vampiric glee from the madness
coursing through the world outside; a
spiraling shitshow that's reawakened
a compulsion in him-an old ambition,
even!-to crush brutality and elegance
together into a fresh set of rocks to
hail down upon us.
Western Cum is a high-stepping,
hard-dancing, first love/heartbreak,
tonight's-the-night, future nostalgia

kind of good time-the sound of gui-
tars through the speakers of luxury

cars. Like the dream you had once,
alone, asleep in an amplifier, blasting
Guns N' Roses through every last
orifice in your body. And it's coming
through!

It's another side of midnight some-
where; high o'clock too, and the dark,

cactaceaen fantasias of the previ-
ous incarnation have hardened and

dried in Cory's pre-apocalyptic gar-
den of choice, a sun-blinded plain of

sedimentary rock. Down the high-
way, beyond the horizon, through

the looking glass, etc-he's fixed for

rough times ahead, a gunslinger/anti-
hero of legend/infamy, back in town

with axe blazing and a rhythm trio
dubbed "Slowhand" walking up the
crazy horse he rode in on. You ready
to boogie?

Western Cum's map to the trea-
sure is less about pastiche, though;

more toward executing the songs by

executioner's axe, rolling their decap-
itated rhythm heads and soaring mel-
odies, the panoply of Cory's melodic

impulses with guitars, guitars, guitars.
Harmony leads are just the tip of the
iceberg, but be quick - the guitars
like to melt everything in their path!
The eight songs of Western Cum are
driven by the stalwart bass of brother
Casey Hanson and the drums of Evan

Backer with a few passing acoustics

from Cory and the intermittent spir-
it-moans of Tyler Nuffer's steel gui-
tar. The quartet sound-two guitars,

bass and drums-acts as beat-making
principle/phrasing device, as well as
template for Cory's layers of six-string

and vocal textures. From the roof-
top of their musical safe house-the

band in their makeshift hut and Cory
ensconced in an outhouse-they let
loose with a blast both face-melting
and mind-blowing: a social service
that gives constipation a good name.
With Western Cum, this debauched
and shameless world is redeemed in
the same breath as it is repudiated. A
massing of voices and guitars form an
almost post-gospel harmony, bright

and burgeoning, engorging the ther-
mostat, prising the pressure from your

chest before the final wink-out. Maybe
it's a mirage...but those things are just
another part of reality, ain't they?