Coffinberry Bing Their Way Through Self-Titled Album

On their new, self-titled album, Coffinberry move beyond their early post-punk affections to revel in a rootsier rockier place. A stranger direction this could not be. As it is, it's an interesting turn of events as the band have left behind their angular approach and now officially sound like a long lost cousin of Bob Dylan in a fist fight with Tom Waits. Coffinberry is a record of beat up drunken Americana that sounds as if it's about to break up in your hands into a thousand pieces. Whether or not that's a good thing depends on who you ask but one thing is for sure they don't make music that sounds like this anymore.

Sounding as if more than a few bottles of whiskey had been consumed in the recording of this record, Coffinberry seem as if they've been wondering the dust-bowl for the last fifteen or so years, imbibing liquor and writing songs on a broken guitar then somehow found themselves in front of a microphone. Coffinberryas a result is rough, under-produced, and comes off like it was recorded in the bathroom of a dive bar in between binge drinking sessions. This is a record whose broken and battered approach is gives it what charm it has. Call it charisma, character or whatever, their shambolic approach sort of works for them. Coffinberry is not the best record you will hear this year, but the fact you can hear the whiskey dripping off of the songs is rather endearing.

This is an album packed with destructive urges and no matter how hard Coffinberry try to reign them in, they overpower the band and Coffinberry. Earthy and unsettled, Coffinberry is far from the feel good hit of the summer (or fall as it might be). Destined for a ditch somewhere Coffinberry is a one way trip to the dirt farm that's almost enjoyable to listen to. The end of days never sounded to rough and ragged and potentially enjoyable.