Storyteller review: Wet Nuns – Wet Nuns


Note: The Storyteller Reviews are born from conversations between the author and another person. Friend, foe or complete stranger, their opinion and life story dictates the reception to new music. All conversations are transcribed and a story is weaved around as a first person narrative. We hope you enjoy this new feature at Sloucher! Continue reading “Storyteller review: Wet Nuns – Wet Nuns”

Interview – Wet Nuns

A normal day at Wet Nuns HQ. Art: Glenn Miller.

About a year ago, we interviewed Wet Nuns just before Christmas. We tried to do the same this year but we got shanghaied by a bunch of macheteros and ended up drinking Pozol ’til the cows came home. Still, the band did courteously replied to the emailed questions and even sent some badges that managed to get us in trouble with a group of pilgrims in the Metro that were going to La Basílica de Guadalupe.

What does “excommunication” mean again? Continue reading “Interview – Wet Nuns”

Interview – Wet Nuns

It’s a calm afternoon in a dreary upscale cahootin’ pub in Ranmoor. The clientele is well dressed in penny loafers and shiny suits, with dogs in diamond-studded leashes. The only normal looking fellas are a pair of honest-to-God Sheffield Death Blues rockers. They are Terence Trent D’barndance (guee-tahr, screams) and Wired Earp (drums, sexy torso) and they make music by the name of Wet Nuns. After some sexy drinks, we talk for a while…

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Moonpies and buckshot

Wet Nuns – Wet Nuns

The Skinny: “There’s always one bad alcoholic tryin’ to spoil it for everyone”

The Review proper: Wet Nuns, hailin’ from Sheffield, Alabama (home of the grits, sausage and pork pudding) are now on one of dem plastic discs that are compact. Just two good ol’ boys remindin’ y’all how that there Lord of Darkness works in mysterious (an’ severely distorted, fuzz’d) ways.
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Remember the time Wet Nuns averted the Rapture?

This rant is based on actual events at the Wet Nuns + Serious Sam Barrett show @ Stockroom, April 18th.

Cars were aflame. Screams and moans filled the atmosphere. The swanky buildings surrounding the Roebuck tavern laid asunder. The smell of destruction lingered as a thousand Wednesday and United fans congregated and fought, whilst police in riot gear took turns bashing skulls in at Orchard Square.

The Bus driver had stopped in the street and said “May God be with you”, as he open door and left us to our own devices. I was alone, my head swooning with the rankness of football fans turning into creatures from Hell.

But amidst that stench, I found a familiar smell. Jambalaya.

Continue reading “Remember the time Wet Nuns averted the Rapture?”