This ain’t no ordinary spit’n’sawdust dive: sure it reeks of smoke, of beverages long spilled between the cracks, of rage-fuelled bar brawls, but there is an eeriness you cannot quite shake off, one addled with the inescapable dread a lifelong exposure to horror movies has instilled within you. Chills race down your neck as the near-dead clientele – inebriated townsfolk you assure yourself aren’t quite human – pick up your unwelcome presence, and for love nor money you cannot find the entrance you stumbled through. Through the descending haze of whiskey fumes comes the distinct sound of leering laughter as shadows loom from the mysterious number of nooks and crannies; cheers turn to howls and cackles turn to jeers as the mob of monstrous calamities announce the rambunctious arrival of the Earl of Hell! To hell with the humdrum realities of the outside, it is time to Get Smoked and shoot drinks like you’ve never shot before, for the party is just getting started!
A carnivalesque slab of downtrodden debauchery and salacious sleaze from a bygone age, Get Smoked cruises down mischievous highways of sin with zero fucks for the squares and pencil-pushers for whom virtue is a way of life. Fueled with a lust for morbid carnage this motorfuzzin’ gas guzzler lives and breathes for macabre shindigs stoked by rock ‘n’ roll’s unholy fire, keeping alive the ghoulish traditions night-dwellers have adhered to for centuries. For all of 30 minutes this nightmarish collection of fuzzed-out jives guarantees a lively dance floor where limbs may fly through the air the same way intoxicating beverages are launched from their plastic cups in corruptible moments of ecstacy; at its sweatiest the infernal boogie fills the room with the unmistakble musk of the dirtiest exploitation flicks you could imagine; at its boldest, symphonic horrors gleefully twist grit and malice into the sinister convivialities a la the cinematic ‘Bitter Fruits’.
Accelerating at full throttle from the offset Earl of Hell seldom take their foot of the pedal, shredding the two lane blacktop with an arsenal of pummelling riffs and enough groove to rouse the devil from his slumber. A rollicking ‘Hang ’em High’ kicks the shenanigans off with Southern flare, its frenetic bourbon-soaked motifs burn the hairs of your face faster than you can scream Mephistopheles! Slapping its way to the fore immediately after, ‘Parasite’ makes for the perfect accompaniment to desert-scorched beer parties, complete with its sizzling lead sequeing to an opus so fuzzalicious the good guys in Earthride would be made proud: ‘I Am The Chll’ is a delerious groove machine far too hot to handle that revels in the twisted sins of the immoral company it keeps. Raising its wicked psychobilly head after the venomous bite of the anthemic ‘Blood Disco’, ‘Kill the Witch’ incants its voodoo all over this sordid den with mind-bending furor as otherworldly will you towards committing forbidden acts.
With the ominous sound of its possessed hollering Get Smoked summons last orders at the bar yet the contorted and delinquent faces of deviance are all you can make out; staggering out of delerium you are met with the puzzled grimaces of those previously slouched individuals who originally greeted you with unsettling indifference. What incidence just occured? Were these not the same frivolous patrons you had witnessed giving themselves so freely to the Earl of Hell? As reality smacks you over the head with what appears to be a barstool, one thing remains ultimately clear: there is potential for these nefarious gatherings to continue long into the night with whatever devious sounds these gleeful merrymakers conjure up in the near future; that is, if you can stumble into this same unmarked, wretched dive again…
The Motorfuzzin' Ibex 
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