Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is loud, fun music. Yeah, the world can be a fucked-up place, to be sure. But rather than wallowing in it a la the relentless mopery of, say, Radiohead (seriously, will somebody just get Thom Yorke some lithium already?), The Turpentine Brothers recognize that fact and then proceed to dance all over it, per the famous Pete Townshend dictum. They’re life-affirming, in a way that Hallmark will never understand. If listening to The White Stripes is the equivalent of driving daddy’s BMW from the frat house down to TGI McFuckwits to drink on your parents’ Visa card and listen to some ersatz, animatronic “band” drag the term “blues rock” through the mud for the umpteenth time, (and I submit that if it’s not, then it’s not far off), then giving We Don’t Care About Your Good Times a spin is like walking through your vaguely-sketchy- but-basically-working-class neighbor hood to the local dive, where the jukebox is hot, the bartender is cool, and the bands they book in on Saturday nights know what they’re up to, they get it, and it’s hot and smokey and sweaty and your job might suck and you might not have gotten laid in what seems like forever but right now the band is tight and that cute chick/dude (choose the appropriate gender) across the room is definitely giving you the eye and goddamn but it’s good to be alive.
The Turpentine Brothers may claim that they don’t care about our good times, but if that were really the case they wouldn’t be making such fine music. If you care about rock & roll at all, you owe it to yourself to go out and hunt this album down.
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