So I’d been hearing about these Bobaflex guys for awhile, right? I didn’t know anything about them or what they sounded like, though. I finally came across a vague description of them being sort of stoneriffic, so I decided to check them out and it turned out to be one of those rare blind purchases that I didn’t regret at all.
I brought home Tales From Dirt Town, put it in the old 5-disc changer, and happily went along with my evening. After awhile, it occurred to me that I hadn’t yet heard anything that I didn’t like. Now how often does THAT happen? We’re not talking one or two songs surrounded by duds. We’re talking one seriously solid album, here. Unheard of.
Maybe I wasn’t hearing it right. I listened again, and again… and then again in the car all the next day. I started singing along and bouncing to the groove. And I decided that Tales From Dirt Town has made itself, at a very visceral level, one of the all-around best hard rock albums I’ve heard since Priestess’ Hello Master.
I’ll be the first to admit that vocals make or break a band for me, and in Bobaflex’s case, the vocals are a great example of the kind of melodic but angry qualities in a metal singer that make me wet myself. Sometimes verging on growls, sometimes sliding into a scream that recalls Avenged Sevenfold’s M. Shadows, passion abounds in the constant lyrical battle of “help me” vs. “screw you.” The only info I could find on the vocals states that two band members share duties, which explains things. Fortunately, both are well-suited to the task and don’t disappoint, even one slips into a slight faux-British accent at times.
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