Four black-clad goons emerging up from the cracks of the New York City sidewalks, bangs obscuring dime store sunglasses, guitars in one arm, Nuggets in the other, wading through the urban sleaze with the unshakable swagger of the juvenile delinquent, wearing leather like they invented it – let’s talk about what the Mooney Suzuki ain’t. That’s what I said. Ain’t. Would you believe that far from prowling the seedy nether-regions of Bowery flop-houses, these art school sissies are more likely found downing guacamole at the local faux-Mexican restaurant, safely nestled within the well-polished gentrification of Avenue A? Believe this: The Mooney Suzuki are not cool! That’s what your ol’ Big Momma Doo told you about these jokers, shit, ten years ago! And you know what? They’re STILL NOT COOL! The Mooney Suzuki are just as fraudulent a bunch of rock’n’roll poseurs as they were back before Slick Willy was busted for fingerbangin’ the interns! But that’s about the ONLY thing that hasn’t changed! (And I’m not just talking about poor Momma’s knockers dropping 3 inches closer to her Thom McAns!) Big Momma’s seen a whole lotta disreputable and despicably dirty business in her day, but there ain’t nothin’ she’s seen that was fouler, more odious, or more disgustingly repugnant than the Mooney Suzuki’s flirtation with the Soul-Choking Manipulation Machine of Record Exec John Q. Bigtime! But if the crackpipe is indeed Satan’s cock, then The Major Label Record Contract is surely the Devils’ used Charmin – and the Moonies got their ugly mugs wiped with it and good! Like Upton Sinclair’s jungle, the Music Industry is a brutal, reeking slaughterhouse full of remorseless soul sodomizers, larval cannibalizers, and parasitic patronizers. But that didn’t stop the Mooney Suzuki from chasin’ that wascally White Wabbit right down the shit chute…deep into the vile, seething snake pit, ripe with the stench of festering flesh and the bubbling blood of young musicians. But Big Momma, what became of the ferociously faux four? Did the glut guzzling music biz buzzards snap the last scraps of carrion off the lonesome bones of our heroic zeros? Well, in pursuit of the elusive Golden Turd, The Mooney Suzuki threw themselves onto the gears of the Craptastic Factory of Soulless Pap. Squeezed between the eager teeth of the fiendish machinery, they were battered and bruised, used and abused, chewed-up and spit into a goopy spittoon. But that’s the thing with New York City vermin … they ain’t easy to get rid of. The Moonies are leather-clad rats, and like a rock’n’roll cockroach, just when you think you’ve smooshed them beneath your boot, they’ve scurried away to play another day… And play they did, kids…play they did! Big Momma seen it herself with her one good eye! And you too shall bear witness with this DVD you now grasp in yer clammy little hands! It was one night in October 2007 at Gruta 77 in Madrid when the Mooney Suzuki once again ripped the motherfucking lid off of the fucking bitch and hit me harder than Ike on freebase! From the explosive opening notes, a nuclear juice-infused Mooney Suzuki let it rip like an atomic whoopee cushion – showering the crowd with a rock’n’roll radio-active fallout of sheer GUITARMAGEDDON!!! And by the last song, the boys had generated more sweat than a limo full of virgins on prom night… No, they ain’t cool, but The Mooney Suzuki still deliver the power of a billion electrons colliding! And this DVD contains nothing but an orgy of sweat-drenched glory, swelling to a quivering fever-pitch, as you succumb to involuntary loss of muscle control…awash in a thrashing current of feral rock’n’roll, finally arriving in a ball on the floor, shaking, panting, and begging for more! But SHIT! Don’t take my word for it! You’re the one holding the damn DVD! Well what are you waiting for? Put that shit in!!! Love, Big Momma Doo