New album 'Sawyer's Hope' out NOW! on

Motor Sounds Records.

 

 

Thomas Wolfe wrote that “...our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cut-purse went unhung.”  If that sliver of catholic prose had a soundtrack it would be played by Brighton UK’s  Mudlow. 
Mudlow plays literate southern music without continent, drifting and fraught with terroir. It is at once humid, torrid, and familiar; a wholly indecent sound. It’s the grist, gristle and grit of the hard luck life. Noir skies meet muddy boots. The old trouble. 
Tobias plays guitar, howls and sings, winks like Popeye and writes songs. The stalwart Matt Latcham plays drums, craftsman Paul Pascoe plays bass and records the music. Sullen sweetheartist Paul Trimble blows the saxophone. 
Named for a particular island off  the western edge of downtown South Purgatory, sitting hard by a slow-burning swamp just down the road from the old General Tire factory (long abandoned). Port-side stands a tough and brazen little burlesque bar, lit like a set from Twin Peaks. It’s there, downstairs, framed by smoke-rimed red velvet curtains that Mudlow swing their craft. 
They play cool, cruel and criminal, lounged and louched versions of Frank’s Wild Years at The Stooges Funhouse for love-worn ghosts, sinewy butchers and Gutter Twins, as a sway-backed barmaid, mouth full of gold and skin scented of hyssop, serves marked cards and moonshine to lost North Sea sailors, southern kings, and their curs. 
Their music is the soundtrack for a film as yet unimagined, the saxophoned theme to a  tempest-tossed and dreamless sleep. 
Night hues meet dawn of day in salt air and sea light. 
A morphine blues follows a sloe gin waltz.  

Thomas Wolfe wrote that “...our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cut-purse went unhung.”  If that sliver of catholic prose had a soundtrack it would be played by Brighton UK’s  Mudlow. 

Mudlow plays literate southern music without continent, drifting and fraught with terroir. It is at once humid, torrid, and familiar; a wholly indecent sound. It’s the grist, gristle and grit of the hard luck life. Noir skies meet muddy boots. The old trouble. 

Tobias plays guitar, howls and sings, winks like Popeye and writes songs. The stalwart Matt plays drums, craftsman Paul Beat plays bass and records the music. Sullen sweetheartist Trimble blows the saxophone. 

Named for a particular island off  the western edge of downtown South Purgatory, sitting hard by a slow-burning swamp just down the road from the old General Tire factory (long abandoned). Port-side stands a tough and brazen little burlesque bar, lit like a set from Twin Peaks. It’s there, downstairs, framed by smoke-rimed red velvet curtains that Mudlow swing their craft. They play cool, cruel and criminal, lounged and louched versions of Frank’s Wild Years at The Stooges Funhouse for love-worn ghosts, sinewy butchers and Gutter Twins, as a sway-backed barmaid, mouth full of gold and skin scented of hyssop, serves marked cards and moonshine to lost North Sea sailors, southern kings, and their curs. Their music is the soundtrack for a film as yet unimagined, the saxophoned theme to a  tempest-tossed and dreamless sleep. Night hues meet dawn of day in salt air and sea light. 

A morphine blues follows a sloe gin waltz.  

~Rick Saunders