As much as most of us would like metal to continue evolving, the simple truth is that the genre’s first few ideas remain its best.
As a result, there will always be a demand for bands like Pist. This is nuts-out and rum-fucked outlaw metal from the dingy pubs of Manchester, steeped in classic Sabbathian molasses and sprinkled with granules of dirty street speed sent by snail mail from the gutters of New Orleans.
Yes, there are one or two riffs that are so instantly familiar that you might accuse Pist of taking the easy route, but even at their most predictable this band offer pure, humble and cheerfully lobotomised fun of the highest order.
The pounding, post-bong stomp of 68 and the brontosaurus boogie of Trails suggest a versatility and verve that Pist would do well to investigate further, but there is plenty of infectious energy behind the myopic thwack of Shitstorm and the exquisitely titled Cunt Lip too. The title says it all. Drink up and bang your head, you hairy, alcoholic bastards.