The carving knives are sharp, waiting to slice into the raspy hide of the pig soon to be sausage. The smell of sauerkraut is there. You want to bite into a piece, starting with the tail, curly by nature and quivering, like the five Pigs with their dark glasses and their felt hats who transpose their sty into the cellars and clubs: their bazaar makes the ardent vegetarian tremble.
To pay tribute to greasy charcuterie � slice into the fat of the blues with a sober, yet sometimes brutal, motion that stains the slab of the �academic� style with blood.
The �Intellectual Blues� of their CD is an eloquent hors d�oeuvre: a feverish guitar, a grating harmonica, and vocal cords after a hangover. A suburban Blues, boiled in hops and buttered with sweat. Guitar on the knee and the boys in a circle, Pigs don�t Lie don�t put on airs: they draw on the authentic, wallow in adrenaline, but know how to play acoustic, and even tenderly. Their rebel nature re-emerges with a six-chord guitar rocked by the southern winds, like some latin guerilleros, before the slide-guitar pushes its snout in the direction of the American highways, dusty and lonely, where the best of blues thrive. Trust the Pigs? Certainly, those who do not lie.