Observation provides the following evidence: On "Dance Floor's on Fire," a blues-rock riff turns into handclaps, cowbell and a roboto-voice singing "everybody, everybody." The first "Sensual Interlude" has honky-tonk piano for what seems like a ridiculous amount of time, and the second "Sensual Interlude" sounds like something off of an old DJ Shadow record. Then "Deathmobile" kicks in with a throaty "yeah!" and Iceage Cobra returns to their dirty stoner rock ways.
"Acid Pony" has the infectious refrain of "every day been workin' so hard," and who can't give in to a song called "Weapon of Mass Seduction," especially one that insists, "I'm a sex symbol, star of your dreams"? "Do the Black Lung" gets all spacey toward the end, after shaking your head with fierce guitars and drums, and following some strange crowd screams at the beginning of "Tornado of Knives," the chorus--"Slice!--is sung skinhead-punk style.
Conclusion: Yes, this is the kind of music that lives off the sickly, smoky air of clubs with bathrooms that breed hepatitis. But Iceage Cobra survives because they can get up off their bellies and dance on the slippery, cold ground.
