Pirate Love
Laughing Gas

We've been getting pretty tired of all the trendy crap spewing out of the capital with its designer hair styled in the warm breeze emanating from genuine rock'n'roll. This time we're talking about a band that doesn't give a fuck about the traffic rules and has no time for tedious polite platitudes, a band with a maniacal focus directly on the throbbing center of the capital city of the land of High Energy Rock’n’roll. Pirate Love is mercifully entirely free of any hint of commercial shortcuts, and serves up snarling, peachy, merciless in-your-face rock'n'roll with a provident bounty of tunes, energy, and raw riffs. Pirate Love is fortunately NOT another Norwegian rock'n'roll band tiredly aping Gluecifer, Hellacopters or Turbonegro (after all, we have Gluecifer's, Hellacopter's, and Turboneger's records). On the contrary, we find them in a dazzling heroic landscape somewhere between the peaks where the Sonics, Lime Spiders and the Stooges occupy their thrones. It's dirty, it's cool, and it is as many seven-league steps away from James Blunt, Damien Rice and Coldplay as it's possible to get. In other words, this is rock'n'roll that cranks out the soundtrack to an inventory party completely out of control; with obligatory and obvious requisites like mountains of broken beer bottles, finger-fucking on a dusty floor, garage singles with whiskey stains, runny makeup on broken-hearted girls, yammering neighbors, weeping old ladies frenetically trying to destroy their hearing aids with their walkers, and where a crookedly smiling, smoke-puffing Johnny Thunders is a generous doorman. We can all be Extremely thankful that such a band still exists. In the name of rock, Egon Holstad, rauthorized rock’n’roll-dealer. Tromso, Kill City.