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Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 28 June 1975

AMERICAN BANDS USUALLY fall into one of two categories. They are either denim-clad cowpokes, bearded, laidback to the point of collapse, drinking corn liquor from the jug in some desperate attempt to gain affinity with life in the wild hinterlands. Or they are glamorous, big city wrecks, fixin' to die in their make up. So it comes as a pleasure to detect what appears, from a distance at any rate, to be a good healthy rack group, with a drop of technique and a bit of guts.

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