If you buy one album out this week, make it...

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Fuelled primarily by beer and titties, Wilson’s debut Full Blast Fuckery was the balls-out party rock soundtrack American Pie should’ve had. Imagine it; Seann William Scott and co abusing pastry and affronting hygiene standards to College Gangbang, and the like. A dream college piss-up pairing, fo’ sho’.

The Detroit rabble learned their chops with poignant fratboy odes like College Gangbang, I Can Beat Your Dad and Viking Pussies Fuck Off. It earned them a strong reputation, as a party-friendly live band to beat. Accordingly, like hairy Peter Pans, they could have refused to grow up – and settled for the fruits of their fun, brash labour. They could have done that very easily. So it’s pleasing to see their focus sharpened and fired up with this second LP.

Right To Rise, immediately more serious with that emphatic title, is essentially Wilson all grown-up. Where Full Blast Fuckery charged out with a youthfully raging ‘ARRRHGGHHH!’ – like Sesame Street’s Animal with ADHD – this is a honed, toned and basically better piece of dirty, righteous hard rock. Think Monster Magnet, getting a little squiffy at a very meaty barbecue.

This adamantly doesn’t mean, however, than they’ve lost their sense of fun. On the contrary, Right To Rise is chock-full of romping sausagemeat derring-do. Rabid chompfest Crave growls in a manner of which the chocolatey ‘Krave’ cereal ads would be proud. “Whassup ween bags…dicks up, windows down!” declares the opening voice on Windows Down, suggesting they’ve not totally abandoned the knob gag mindset of Full Blast Fuckery, while the likes of Satisfy Me embraces grunge influences with party-starting swagger.

So yes, they still like to party hard – and want you to party hard with them. The difference this time lies in the matured conviction and satisfaction at play. Deathly roars in tracks like All My Friends mix with Orange Goblin stoner rock and Clutch-like propulsion. Before I Burn brims with hardcore-tinged furiosity, screamy enough to be rousing – not grating or ‘kiddie’.

The aural equivalent of a stack of BBQ ribs, with a glass of fine wine, and the echo of a wet T-shirt competition. Party food to rock you through the heatwave.