You gotta hand it to the Fu fighters for pulling off the most reverent of all these retro-sludge blasts. The cover's got what looks to be a Mustang Mach I and a Barracuda gettin' ready to drag, the lead guitarist is playing a vintage devil-horned Gibson SG, and the whole disc is recorded so hot that even at low volume it buzzes and bumps. Scott Hill's voice is a symptom of a burnt-stoner universe (a detached pseudo-enthusiastic drawl, cool and non-intrusive). And though most of the songs waddle through mid-tempo anonymity (a straight reprise of Sabbath's dirgy, mock-blues churn), the album is as warm-fuzzy comfortable and familiar as a gaffer-taped beanbag or your favorite air-hockey paddle or "Iron Man," with just enough of the chords changed to keep copyright lawyers at bay, enough psychedelic wah/echo accouterments to keep the drug zombies pacified, and enough feedback to keep those muscle cars peelin' out.

-- Carly Carioli

(Fu Manchu play the Rat this Sunday, June 16.)