HÖG in 500 words: True romance with rock and roll. Sleazy carpeted rooms perfumed with tobacco and wizard’s smoke. Hands calloused and lightly discoloured like an age cracked oil painting from frequent friction with fret boards, drum sticks, bottle caps, dirty denim. Kaleidoscope thoughts about Hawkwind and the Blues and distortion and living with regrets and amplifiers and motorcycles and how you’re gonna spend the next little bit of cash you’ll see and The Stooges and love.

Side A kicks out the jams with the opening Ashton-esque riff & lick combo of ‘True Romance’, a proper hard hitting romp in touch with its own sleazy-but-bluesy heart. Fiery, boozy vibes race down the disaster paved highway until crashing into final moments which culminates with the sort of climactic section you instantly know will have you coming back to the start to have another look once both sides are spun. ‘Confessions Part III’ is a more mournful number, a semi-dirge recalibrating their pace in which you can hear their joint soul singing the aches and praises of rock and roll taking your life in the palm of its hand. They have given themselves over to it and you wonder; should I, too?

The killer noises make you shake, hairs stand on end and the cosmic spider-like visions grow louder and more vivid and then – then you’re just existing. You’re back at the source. The cool one. The dark and light divine one. You can’t fight the parasite. This parasite is rock and roll. You feed together. You breathe together. You live together. You have other things growing inside but this one is your favourite. It’s just who you are.

‘Line Haul’ grinds up against itself in the classic manner of obscure and gritty garage messes from the 60’s all the way up to NYC’s Hank Wood & The Hammerheads - a jittery frenzy around a crooked attempt at being laidback. The sort of song where you can easily picture the band dangerously dancing in shadows around the suddenly-set-on-fire keyboard before the whole thing collapses. Side B closes with a staunch stomping piece which brings to mind the most wretched moments of Cleveland’s Brown Sugar. It’s a declaration that sounds sinister but for those in the know it’s a reverie; a kind of broken toothed celebration. It’s short and sweet and they know you’re gonna flip back to Side A and do it all again.

Hazy concoctions of freedom riding and throbbing aches of dead-end avenues you’re trying to look away from; they make your tonight sweet and your tomorrow bitter. And you know it, but, whatever, you ain’t gonna stop now are you? This song will not play itself and you will not remember who you are until you play it. So play it! Louder! And then the next song and the next song and then take it from the top, baby.

HÖG confess their romance with their rock and roll parasites. These are hymns to the denim clad saints. Praise them.

- essay by Coco