Beaten By Hippies Sidetracked in El Paso CD Review
Sometimes the universe kicks open the door to your psyche, throws a dirty denim-clad stranger on your couch, and that stranger lights a joint, cranks your stereo, and changes your life. That’s what happened when “Sidetracked in El Paso” by Beaten By Hippies crash-landed in my inbox like a meteor stuffed with fuzz pedals and peyote.
Let me be clear: I get sent a lot of albums. Most of them are the musical equivalent of a microwave burrito, technically filling, occasionally scalding, but mostly just sad. But this, this just isn’t music. This is an experience. This is crawling through the desert at 3AM in cowboy boots and a tank top with nothing but a half-melted tape deck and a six-pack of Schlitz to keep you company.
Beaten By Hippies, a Stoner/Desert Rock band out of Belgium have managed to distill the entire spirit of outlaw rock into a record that sounds like it was forged in the exhaust pipe of a ‘73 Dodge Charger. It’s heavy, yes. Riff-laden, absolutely. But it’s also catchy in a way that feels borderline illegal. It has no business being this accessible, this fun. There are melodies in here that could sweet talk your mom out of her pants and still knock your teeth in.
Every song oozes with a kind of vintage soul-funk-rock hybrid that would make Neil Fallon nervous and make the ghost of Jim Morrison rise from the grave for one more spin around the block. It’s Stoner Rock, but it’s been dipped in Pop brilliance and grilled over hot coals made of broken rules and shredded expectations.
The vocals, Oh baby. One minute it's whiskey-soaked howling from the edge of sanity, the next it’s clean and smooth like it’s trying to seduce your record player. No one has any business singing this well over riffs this dirty. It’s not fair. It’s not right. But here we are.
Production-wise, it’s dialed the hell in. Everything is clear without sounding sterile. The fuzz is rich enough to marinate in. It doesn’t just fill the room, it possesses it. There are no weak spots, no filler tracks, just a relentless barrage of songs that feel like they’ve been riding shotgun with you your whole damn life.
I tried to pick favorites but gave up halfway through and just let the whole thing play on repeat while I stared into the middle distance questioning my life choices. But for the sake of formality: “Born in the 80s,” “Sidetracked in El Paso,” “The Fall,” “Easily,” and “The Long Way” are all straight-up spiritual events. You don’t listen to them; you experience a ritual with every spin.
If you don’t buy this album, I can only assume you’ve been lobotomized by mainstream radio or you’ve never truly sinned. This is the kind of record that you drop the needle on, roll something questionable, and let the music peel back your brain like an orange.
“Sidetracked in El Paso” is filthy, beautiful, unreasonably catchy, and absolutely essential. It doesn’t just belong in your collection, it belongs in a shrine, surrounded by empty beer cans, incense ash, and a single, flickering lava lamp.