Moondog Matinee

In a blown out mining town somewhere in the southwestern desert, dust rises from the floorboards of a dimly lit saloon infusing with the fumes of whiskey and sweat to ignite the fire of Moondog Matinee. The band is throwback to the past laced with a timeless sexual swagger and rapturous vision of the future. Their words whisper from burnt out motels and the back room demons that lie inside all of us. The vocals channel a strange brew of Janis Joplin mixed with Robert Plant sung through the li...

In a blown out mining town somewhere in the southwestern desert, dust rises from the floorboards of a dimly lit saloon infusing with the fumes of whiskey and sweat to ignite the fire of Moondog Matinee. The band is throwback to the past laced with a timeless sexual swagger and rapturous vision of the future. Their words whisper from burnt out motels and the back room demons that lie inside all of us. The vocals channel a strange brew of Janis Joplin mixed with Robert Plant sung through the liquored down throat of a hopped-up preacher. And the blues laced instrumental attack, shot though a double-barreled weapon of monstrous experimental jam-supreme, heals like a cure to what ails the ears. Moondog Matinee can just as easily ramble through the streets of New York or Philly as they could New Orleans or Memphis, but the fact remains: they derive from the gritty gambling and tattered mining towns that lie within the great desert of the west. Best experienced live, straight no chaser. It’s a traveling snake-oil sales show, which preys on blind followers and converts true believers…