Guilty

I never felt like this at A cover by The Swingin' Bricks originally done by Jack Scott

Tainted Love at Our version of the Gloria Jones classic

Stuck in the middle at Our version

Maybellene at Chuck Berrys classic as done by The Swingin Bricks

Sharp dressed man at ZZ Top classic as done by The Swingin ' Bricks

Cover version of Johnny Cash's Classic Folsom Prison Blues

Folsom Prison Blues

Thats Alright Mama

Down This Road

Zombie Girl

I first encountered Keith Thompson, the oft bearded and moustachioed long before it was fashionable producer, singer, guitar razing Scouse as they come nimble footed dandy showman and frontperson of The Swingin’ Bricks, almost a decade ago when he left a rambling voicemail inviting my band, The Cubical, up to his studio to make some demos for an American label at the request of ScouseYank in exile, Jason Reposar. He then disappeared for 6 months.


Upon reappearing (he’d been travelling round the States staying with hobos, native Americans and dead mad boss fit birds), it seemed not only could he twiddle buttons, but this cat could play… and sing… and write. He eventually got his tunes together with longtime collaborator and all round double bass maniac, Darryl ? and the ever reliable Luther of the drums, George ? and formed what became known as The Swingin’ Bricks…A firestorm of fuzzed up Mersey rock n roll, double bass and blues thunder. They quickly established themselves as one of Liverpool’s hardest working and most popular bands playing alongside the likes of Crazy Cavan, The Last Train to San Fernando, Us, and La’s co-founder Mike Badger (who has made them a regular at his packed out Rockabilly shindigs). But, to call them Rockabilly is too easy, they’re more than that. To call them Psychobilly is daft, no Halloween zombies and reverb nonsense for these fellas (although they DO like reverb). What The Swingin’ Brick are is a good old fashioned rock n roll band with a singer who wails the Scouse blues with the best of them and a rhythm section who thwack away likes every gig’s their last.  On their night, they’ll tear your legs, ears, minds, souls and throats to pieces and you’ll thank them for it. 


In a musical landscape dominated by trite beardy mandolined posers, cherry picked half talents and contrived off kilter femi-kooks, The Swingin’ Bricks are the real deal. When the band plead “Lord won’t you help me?” and scream about “walking down the line”, they mean it.         

The Swingin Bricks

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