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Blindly driving an old scrapheap with a stuck accelerator, fueled by potent trailer-park hootch and heading straight for hell, Nine Pound Hammer roared out of Lexington, Kentucky, belching mother-humping bourbon-soaked rock’n’roll and a sardonic swig of Southern culture that makes Jason and the Scorchers sound like a Sunday afternoon tea society and the Cramps like fussy stylists.
