Dealing in dirty riffs and an aggressive punk rock / bar band hybrid, Superbuick released a to-the-point self-titled record last year. With a name so stupid it’s almost brilliant, I felt drawn to Superbuick’s album before even popping in the disc. The cover features blood (which is metal) and a car (which chicks dig, man). Thirty seconds shy of the 25-minute mark, Superbuick is a quick salvo of ballbustin’, skull-stompin’ fury.

The record opens with “Woody.” The track is stuffed with hard rock riffs and spastic drums. The vocalist usually goes for the full-throttle screaming technique, but occasionally slips into a pseudo-Rob Zombie spoken word trance. In a weird sense, Superbuick does feel like the 78 rpm counterpart to White Zombie’s 33 and a third. Ever so slightly Southern-rock tinged, and great for those of us who like applying “the pedal” to “the metal,” the two have more in common than you’d initially think.

Lyrically, however, there’s not a whole lot going on. “Madre Maria” is about jail time; “Skater to the Grave” is about skateboarding; and like half of the album is about vaginas. Some of the songs are more indistinct than that. Referring again to “Woody,” it’s as if each line is independent of each other. “Is this a dream / I can’t feel a thing / My heart’s so cold / I lost my soul” go the opening lines. Later we learn that the narrator’s “drug is driving me insane / wake up get up I lost control, control, control.” The drug is never named, but since the song is called “Woody,” I’m guessing somebody had a bad Viagra moment.

Honestly, though, Superbuick isn’t really meant to be taken too seriously. The words are there; sing them if you want. But mostly, the point of this album is to cause some balls-out rocking. And I can respect that. Superbuick isn’t the kind of record I’m going to turn to often, but when I’m liquored up and looking for the soundtrack to my drunk mosh (Step 1: Try to spin kick. Step 2: Only clear about six inches), it’ll do nicely.