In the days of conscious jazz (music done by those who know way too much about it) and pale idols (Bon Iver, James Blake, Kendrick Lamar, people nobody wants to look like), sorting through the new releases is a dirty job. Then comes the day you stumble upon Amazon Hunt, Catholic Spray's first album, and everything suddenly gets faster, louder, and weirder. The year was 2011, the record label was Teenage Menopause, and the record sounded like one of those days made of nothing but raw, naked truth when you wake up shirtless at 5 a.m., stuck in a building devastated by flames, slowly remembering the atrocious rumble between two transsexuals in the lobby hall that started it all. You know that kind of record. You also know the kind of band who makes such records: their story usually ends in ugly fights after six or eight months and you're left with rage, regrets and infinite blabbering. Well, it appeared Catholic Spray wasn't one of those bands. Reminding the indie peasants they are the band responsible for making the 18th district of Paris cool again ("Hustling In Barbès"), Catholic Spray charges right on with an array of mongoloid hooks thrown at maximum speed ("Masterchief of the Foxes," "Drift with Satan"), hitting harder and meaner when necessary ("Black Cat"), just to remind they definitely own the race, even though they still drive with eyes closed, guided only by Pierre and Cyprien's voices, both singing like rats fighting against the wind, screaming for a smoke and a piece of ass, legal or not. The kind of guys who, when you meet them face to face, pass their whole life on to you, just like a disease. And with a record like Earth Slime, that shit could spread faster than rabies.