If the five members of Sweden's The Hellacopters own an album that wasn't made by either the Stooges or the MC5, they're not letting on. They're attracted to Detroit's bucketfuls of cosmic slop, swallowed up by feedback, screams, and wild proclamations. The rage and noise they produce with one, two, three chords sustains itself over one, two, 13 songs, from the rabid, terse screed of "Bore Me" to the closing "Spock in My Rocket," which squeals out so many whirlpools of red-level feedback it almost qualifies as avant-garde jazz. The record's real strength is in the hooks: the way that Dregen's and Nicke's guitars interlock throughout, and the way Robban's drumming so flexibly impersonates a perpetual motion machine. They're not imitating Iggy Pop so much as they're desperate to outsludge him.

Supershitty to the Max is alcohol and adrenilen fueled rock at its best. Everyone of their albums is original sounding, and anyone who apreciates good old rock and roll will dig them.

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