Unabashed shitkicker rock and roll from Boston. LAMONT are one of those bands that's rattling around the country in a bombed-out van at any given moment, en route to a gig for 26 people at a broke-dick bar in Nowheresville, living that particularly no-hope strain of the rock and roll dream, sleeping on floors, fueled by cheap PBR cans and the kindness (and drugs) of strangers. As the checklist on the back of "Muscle, Guts and Luck" reads, "beer – coke – wiskey [sic] – weed – let's go."
LAMONT's "on and on till the break of dawn" party-all-night philosophy helps keep these six cheap and tawdry rockers going. Though they'll never be accused of blatant originality, excessive hookiness, or even ace riffing, the whole thing is sort of an agreeable, drunken blosh, grooved-out stoner jams with a bunch of low-watt MOUNTAIN and AEROSMITH (the good AEROSMITH, when they did drugs like LAMONT) riffs rattling around, and some of those don't-give-a-shit stoner vox (see FU MANCHU) where it sounds like the singer is yelling through his bong.
It all works better live, which is why this sorta band spends years slogging away at it, only to rack up CD sales in the hundreds. But LAMONT are out there living the life, working the day jobs and tilting at the windmills of rock in a day and age where such an activity is charmingly futile, at best. Give 'em some credit for that, and go see them live — as the song goes, they'll come into your town, and they definitely will help you party down.