In Los Angeles, in the 80's, wandering a rapist. He was wearing a gray raincoat Plymouth and his heart was washed down with tequila as camperos leading to the feet, bedraggled with mud and dust of the Mojave Desert. Flattened, obscene, martyr of himself, Jeffrey Lee Pierce was a rapist atypical. Not tortured human bodies. Its victims were the roots of American rock music. In his head to Gun Club rushed on them with the ferocity of a Ted Bundy at the peak of sexual arousal. Grab the roots for the neck, he liked to flay shots dirty punk, with lyrics outrage demonic and depraved. The demolished. The annihilated. Diabolically, converted to the canons of country and blues into a hybrid visceral damn seductive.
Jamaica. Magic land. Voodoo and ancestral cults. The young Jeffrey soaks of what troubled encounters during travels in the lands of the Caribbean and then, after he has distilled all with drug abuse, back to LA Here, surrounded by old blues records, he abandoned the guitar, go to the microphone and transforms Creeping Rituals in Gun Club But California is not the Mississippi and Los Angeles metropolitan fierce vampire, the exhumation folk music of rural African-American can not ignore the concerns and anger post punk. The result is something never heard before, a feverish creature that still entices lovers of rock music to the kind of squabbles membership. Post-punk, all right, but not enough. The Gun Club mix psychobilly of the Cramps with the Delta blues of Son House and Robert Johnson, Bo Diddley chasing ghost along the highways, build tribal games of light in the damp muggy jungles of vegetation and forgotten. In 1981, under Pierce, Ward Dotson on guitar, Rob Ritter on bass and Terry Graham on drums, the band recorded Fire Of Love, the first major step towards a destiny that will take them marginalized protagonists of a biological revolution-music only with Jon Spencer is widely acknowledged: corruption of the sacred blues tradition through pus virus punk.
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