Pure Rock Fury


Call me an idiot, but I’ve never really “gotten” Clutch. I’ve known some major Clutch-heads in my time, guys who regarded the band’s four albums as near-biblical texts, but then again, said individuals also smoked a lot of weed. And judging by the more knowledgeable word on the street, Clutch’s latest Pure Rock Fury is a less-than-stellar addition to their sizable canon, the four-piece once again jumping labels (this time back to Atlantic, home of 1993’s Transnational Speedway: Anthems, Anecdotes and Undeniable Truths debut) to more or less the same tune. And that tune? Exactly, I dunno: Clutch unfathomably manage to lock onto the most caveman of grooves and milk them for all their (wait for it now) pure rock fury, but somehow I’m still left in the dark, something about these guys striking me as conversely intellectual, as if plastic-in-question was some sort of grad-level thesis on the dumbo nature of modern rock. And to these (nearly welded-shut) ears, Pure Rock Fury is no different than previous Clutches, Neil Fallon’s bellicose bellow bespeaking volumes about the distance between band and listener, his lyrics about UFOs, monster trucks, and other flippancy providing the most ostensible evidence for such. So, again, I’m just not on board. Accurate? Hardly. Any good? Probably. Bound to please said Clutch-heads? You can bet a doobie on it.

Atlantic Records, 1290 Plaza of the Americas, New York, NY 10104;

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