Th'Booty Hunters Christmas Concert

It's not a show. It's not a ritual. It's an auditory desecration, a cataclysm of rusty twangs and riffs that stab like pocketknives in a forgotten saloon. The Booty Hunters don't play instruments; they violate them, twisting them in a back-and-forth of bleeding strings and drums that thunder like the gallop of a herd of cowboy-booted demons.

Their songs have no melodies, harmonies, or redemption. They are an amalgam of honky-tonk wails emulsified with the punk rage of saloon riots, liquefied in a moonshine liquor filtered through smoky throats, and finally coalesced into an obelisk of unholy sound that makes the walls of the venue tremble as if the devil himself were two-stepping in hell. God had no hand in the creation of this sonic heresy. The very existence of this country-punk monolith proves that God is either powerless to silence the chaos or ignorant of the horrors that echo through his dusty realms. This prism of banjo and distortion is more than a concert. It is a physical declaration of humanity's contempt for natural silence.