As much as the next guy, I’m tough and like to chug whiskey, crack skulls, put cigarettes out on my wrist, and screw chicks. Ok, well, maybe I’m not, but I like bands that are. And seeing the Giraffes’ live show is like getting shanked in the face with a soaring microphone. Booze swilling and all the rest, they display good theatrics, commandeering vocals, artful shreading, and it’s flat out impossible not to listen up… even if only for fear of being singled out if you don’t. But without the live presentation, upon opening up the case of their self-titled CD, the mustache veil is lifted, exposing a sort of loose upper lip (kinda like a giraffe). One listen reveals nothing more than a variety of minor league metal, hardcore, and surf rock, all of it pretty much contrived. (With one exception, the song ‘Man-U’, which totally rules.)
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