Carolina Sin - The Sin Eaters

They eat sin, don't they? The Sin Eaters bear the centuries of sins, accumulated by the rich and disgusting, you know, so they won't have to hang around in purgatory for eternity. And here you've got the trailer trash psychobilly soundtrack. You can taste the beer and grease, you can smell the clutch slip and the rubber burn, you can feel the tail shimmy out as that Holley four barrel sucks wind and gas.

Grit, spit, fire and blood cranked and screaming off the slippery slide fingerings and the sarcastic psycho city bumpkin vocal style of Robin Mann and the booming skin smashing and backing vocals of Rock Forbes. A little cantankerous but still gets you where you wanna go. Just a couple of sophisticated rednecks from the back woods, white boy blues taking away the most heinous of your sins and crimes.

You know, to me, sin is kind of like that greasy spot on the driveway that picks up grass clippings and then just builds and builds and gets thicker and thicker. A nasty cake of gooey petroleum distillate and grass clippings from years of oily drippy drip from that old beater you drive. It is a hell tar blob that just sits there in the driveway waiting, heating in the sun, for you to park outside your dream double-wide trailer, to see your dream wife and kids, after an honest days work at your dream job. That cancer black freak of nature is like a vampire that needs the shade of your car. The car is the source of the petrol-blood. The wind brings the organic material. That's the way sins are; they build and build and pretty soon if you don't keep them in check, you're living a life of sin and dreams.

This citified country boy, blues explosion sears off the thin candy shell exposing the psychodasies lurking just below the concrete surface. Yes, you may eat the wafer from my chest so that I might be absolved. There comes a point where you need to take out the soul scraper and strip all that gristly grime away. The Sin Eaters can help. Face it. You need them.