LIVE REVIEW
- Sir George Robey, London
It seemed as though they would suffer from the jinx, band members almost demolishing the DJ's turntables in the stuggle to get onstage and then each of them picking something different for the opening song. They looked around, bewildered and accusing, shrugged and proceeded to justify being top billing.
They are men with physical afflictions, bent double over instruments, lolling dangerously on to one side, but never quite toppling, always maintaining a proud pop stability. The vocalist is a real roaring boy, spitting fur, his throat slaked with grit. Alongside, the two guitarists work equally hard, blurs of skin sweeping across strings, generating a range of splendid noises, refreshing slaps in the face.
The Wolfhounds are one of the most potent bands on the bump and grind indie-rock circuit. There's life in the old dog yet.
PUSH - SOUNDS, 11 April 1987.
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