A comic-horror indulgence somewhere between Sam Raimi and Arthur Brown, this is in fact the work of Wiltshire-based James Closs, recording the whole thing in the spare room on a Powerbook 'when all the children were in their beds'. Obsessed with an American West steeped in gothic myth, Jones' debut smack of contrivance - and he overdoes the treated vocals - but is still a hoot, teeming with crack whores and bugs on the wall. 'Truckstop Funeral' is 'The Black Angel's Death Song' gone psychbilly, 'Concrete Swamp' is demented deep twang, 'So Long, Mary Jones' a schizoid waltz. Even Johnny Dowd would keep his distance.