Artist:     The Hangmen

Album:     Cactusville

Label:     Acetate Records

Release Date:     9.13.19

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The Hangmen somehow escaped the noose. Dealt a bad hand as major label deals with Capitol and then Nirvana’s old home, DGC Records, went south fast, the dark country-punk legends fell hard after emerging in 1985 from the same firebombed trailer park that spawned Los Angeles area underground heroes X, the Gun Club and Social Distortion. Addiction sent them spiraling downward. Sobriety saved leader Bryan Small.

No longer dead men, or women, walking, Small and the Hangmen—trumpeted early on by none other than Black Flag and Circle Jerks’ singer Keith Morris, who became their manager—are rock ‘n’ roll survivors, still lobbing bricks and bottles of distorted guitars, gritty vocals, smoldering twang and mean rhythms at a corrupted industry that turned its back on them. Cactusville, their seventh album of fiery, hard-hitting roots rock, explodes on impact, with the kind of gripping songwriting openness that bleeds truth and leaves bruises. Pain comes pouring out of the sadly optimistic, plain-spoken defiance of “Don’t Count Me Out” and its big-hearted, swinging strum. It wounds in the way only a mournful country song can, delivering the same sting of loneliness felt in the cinematic “Black Boots” and the melodic sweep of a homeward-bound “Don’t Look Back.”

Burning effigies of ragged, unruly bodies of Neil Young and Crazy Horse noise unearthed in the heavy, pounding march “Death Valley” and the charred walls of riffs overwhelming the growling title track—a twisted tale of temptation and consequences from the road—are found in every shadowy corner of Cactusville. Taking the exhilarating “Man in Black’s Hand,” with its scorched earth, cowbell and rising wave of energy, the Hangmen set out to shanghai anyone not paying attention and throw them in the trunk of a moving car, as the ghost of Johnny Thunder consumes the sneering “Lookin’ For Blood” and the swaggering “Nobody’s Girl.” He’s welcome here.

Every so often, Small and bassist Angelique Congleton engage in fierce vocal duets wailing with the desperation of Exene Cervenka and John Doe, as lead guitarist Jimmy James wrangles searing solos from smoking amplifiers that rip out your guts and drummer Jorge E. Disguster hits with purpose and power. It’s all tightly sewn together, creating an impenetrable, cohesive fabric full of subtle hooks that also manages to breathe. It can be worn loosely, the perfect outfit for those occasions when the gnashing of teeth is necessary.

—Peter Lindblad