So like, listen, I’m an American. I fucking LOVE a hot dog. I’m not gonna pretend like I’d prefer anything but a pissy American lager to wash that loaded glizzy down with (give me a ‘Gansett any day of the week). I like going outside and fucking around with an animal’s day.

(Pictured: An American male. Obviously)

There’s just no getting around it. I am what I am. And despite the fact that this country is currently making it actively more difficult to enjoy every single one of these mentioned things (and plenty more), I remain steadfast in my pride for so much of what America actually can offer when its not getting duped into handing the keys to the kingdom over to a fake-genius South African billionaire Nazi and his soggy orange puppet (Yes, I know you have eyes on this Elon. No, I cannot begin to care anymore).

One thing America’s always been really goddamn good at? Party metal. And by that I mean the Scissorfights, the Alabama Thunderpussys, the Kyusses and Sasquatches of the world who blend the best parts of Stoner Metal, Punk, Hardcore and straight up Hard Rock sensibilities into a raucous, sludgy concoctions purpose-built with beer, bud and backyard wrestling all on top of mind. It’s like, our thing, man. It’s what we do best.

… but what if it wasn’t?

Raging Speedhorn are not American. In fact, they’re a bunch of friggin’ Brits. And yeah, Teeth of the Diving may well be led by our own Union Jack’d Erik T, but even he abandoned those royal-loving bastards decades ago in favor of that sweet American freedom and liberty (we don’t have to get into how he’s feeling about that decision NOW). This isn’t supposed to be their thing. STAY IN YOUR LANE YA FUCKIN BEANS-FOR-BREAKFAST DWEEBS.

Alas, for over 25 years Raging Speedhorn have been doing their absolute damnedest to earn their honorary red, white and blue cards and, frankly, have been pretty gosh dang successful. Hell, their name is in reference to taking speed and getting raging boners. Add in a screeching eagle and a revving V8 motor and I can’t possibly think of anything much more American than that. Now they release an album called Nightwolf sporting an incredible depiction of Teen Wolf himself shotgunning a beer and, I just don’t know anymore. My fellow patriots need to do something to reset the scales.

It doesn’t help when the album comes barreling in with “Blood Red Sky,” featuring a barrage of catchy, earworm riffs and gruff, no-fucks-given vocals announce their arrival with killer intent. Even more-to-the-point, follow up “Buzz Killer” gets right to the matter-at-hand with some killer Thin Lizzy–inspired guitar licks, crowd-inspiring gang vocals, and one hell of a great, simple breakdown sure to turn any backyard hootenanny into an absolute rager. The fantastic refrain of “DON’T KILL THE BUZZ” is enough to make me grab for another beer long after I’ve had far too many and keep the mayhem churning. Bring on the mud wrestlers.

But this is just the start of the ruckus RSH are bringing to the party. “Every Night’s Alright For Fighting,” a tongue-in-cheek nod to legendary countrymate Elton John, may well end the party anthem of the year, chock full of simple, no-nonsense riffing that forces your heart rate into a frenzy, and again featuring a killer, doomy breakdown that would be just as well served in a junkyard as it would at a proper venue. Maybe even moreso. It’s an absolute doozy that earns your fervor through sheer force of will, and I wish all good luck in trying to resist it’s fuck-all charms. Similarly, the album’s title track “Night Wolf” takes a fucking monster riff straight out of Scissorfight’s wheelhouse and delivers a swaggering, anthemic track that will earn just as many fists in the air as it will across the chins of anyone that happens to piss you off while the track is anywhere in earshot.

And if you think there’s any respite from this absolute dog fight of an album, I urge you to heed caution, because it just does not relent. “DOA” and my personal favorite, “Comin’ in Hard” continue to slam the pedal to the floor with reckless abandon, the latter featuring a sweet little banjo riff mixed in with the guitar assault just to keep things extra fuckin crispy. God forbid you ever find yourself in a West Virginia holler being chased down by a group of 3-toothed hill folk carrying garden tools, but if you ever do find yourself in this unfortunate scenario, I hope you’ve got this track to spur you on away from that hillbilly horde. If that doesn’t give you the motivation to get a move on, I dunno what will.

I know it’s a cop out to say it’s pointless to belabor the point of “Night Wolf,” but I’m pretty sure Raging Speedhorn aren’t looking to a whole lot of explanation or platitudes for their work. They just want you to crack open a beer, rip a bong or a line off the back of some questionable toilet, and get down to fuckin business with this album.  I’m not even ashamed to say this is the most American album so far of 2025, and damned if I won’t use it as fuel to fight off the fuckwits in this country who apparently have no problem letting it become a playground for Vladdy Putin and the billionaire elite. With this album blasting in my ears, I feel just about ready to take on anything.

 

[Visit the band's website]

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