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This review came in last year, but the reviewer, band, and label are all good friends of ours so we’re going to post it.

Listening to the self-titled 7″ from Boston’s New Lows (ex-Downhill Fast) reminds me of the time NYC was paid a visit by two of my dearest Boston friends, Houston LaRoue and Pierre McDuck. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Several hours before they were to arrive by bus, I received a message from Pierre informing me: “This bvs hath tvrned into Ancient Rome” — an epoch not known, it seems, for its austerity, nor for its ovular Us. Pierre then informs me, “Houston has powder all over his face and I’m not telling him. Let’s see what happens…”. And then: “Someone just sniffed loudly and [Houston] said ‘Who’s making fun of me?’” Somewhere in between all this, Houston sniffed loudly and gestured to the passenger behind him, shouting: “He’s so stupid, he probably thinks I have a cold.” Paying homage to the “Lucky Star” bus line, Houston could not resist inquiring of the assembled travelers: “So — who’d like to suck my lucky dick?”

Upon their arrival, Pierre and Houston proposed that the Chinatown bus should, from now on, play the first three seconds of Blood for Blood’s “Spit My Last Breath”¹ on loop for the trip’s full five hours, and we all agreed and thought it a pity that the Lucky Star bus line has been sleeping on that idea for so long. Later, on the subway, noticing a fellow passenger with a Blood For Blood tattoo, one of us murmured, “OHHHH, SPIT MY LAST BREATH.” At this point, having not seen said BFB devotee, Houston became excited and began yelling: “OHHHH SUCK MY LAST DICK,” and it seriously never got old. No, seriously — it didn’t. (Though it might have for our fellow passenger and BFB enthusiast.) It became an increasing wonder why Houston was not able to find anyone to suck his lucky/last dick, as he continued firing off sure-fire pick-up lines from his endless supply: “You have a fuckin’ narrow head, you know that?”

Later, at a bar, Pierre, always the gentleman, insisted on buying many rounds of drinks for the basterd mixture of people assembled to celebrate his and Houston’s visit — fuel on the fire of this sordid revel. At one point a bartender poured us a pitcher of PBR and said, “This one’s for the Jamaica Plains punk/skin Pierre McDuck, a rowdy bunch (?) indeed.” Echoing what must have been the sentiments of all assembled, Houston declared: “I’d fuckin’ kill to suck a dick right now,” and then stepped three paces out the front door and blew the fattest key-bump on a crowded sidewalk. A passerby with his ear to the street shouted, “YEAH BOY-EEE!” Houston averred: “YOU GOTTA DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO, RIGHT?” (Yes Houston, I suppose you do.)

The next morning, Houston returned from “sleeping in a room with no fuckin’ curtains so the sun was just shining right in my fuckin’ face all fuckin’ night [sic: all fuckin' morning]“, and Pierre had some novel advice: “You look like you need some powder.” This day would unfold much like the last. At breakfast, Pierre noticed unorthodox scarring patterns on Houston’s upper arm, namely, in the shape of the word “FUCK.” To this, Houston responded, “FUCK…You can see that? I’ve been wearin’ sleeveless shirts to fuckin’ work for months and they probably all think I’m a fuckin’ psycho.” (Author’s note: I’m sure they don’t think that, Houston.)

Over eggs, waffles, pancakes, and delicious breakfast meats, Houston regaled us with stories from his home back in the woods of Maine. Pierre inquired if Houston’s dogg Conrad was still in jail. He was not, and we were delighted to hear of his release. Later that day, like so many young people, we began discussing the merits of personal hygiene. Houston confided: “I fucked some girl in a trailer park and washed my dick in the bathroom before ’cause I hadn’t showered in days. Two nights later, I fucked her roommate in the other room, HA HA. And then she got pregnant. It wasn’t my kid though — it was my buddy’s, who fucked her the next night! But don’t worry, the baby died. My buddy called me up and said: ‘Not gonna be a dad, life is good…the baby died.’ I asked him what he was doing, and he said: ‘Getting fucked up, want to come over?’ and I told him: ‘Fuckin’ A-right!’”² At one point the stories stopped, and Houston became self-conscious about the up-north theme to his anecdotes; “You guys all live in the city, and I’m telling stories about the time I went fishing and my fuckin’ buddy hit a fuckin’ turkey on purpose.”³

Later that evening, Houston asked a young couple in passing if he could suck the gentleman’s dick. When the man agreed, Houston became visibly delighted, dropping to his knees in anticipation — only to discover that this rogue did not in fact want his dick sucked on this particular occasion! Enraged by this treachery, Houston confronted the dick-suck charlatan, striking him in the face with a nearby turkey sandwich. Words then turned hostile and he punched the impostor with such vehemence that it is unlikely he will ever again Indian-give dick. To purchase the New Lows 7″ visit lockinout.com, or to contact New Lows directly, visit myspace.com/newlows.

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