If Hendrix had lived, he probably would have ended up recording Black Pussy's On Blonde in 1971 as a kerosine-soaked hard rock warning against the commercial, pretentious pop overkill to come. Black Pussy is the sound of a dirty, immense engine coming down a two-lane blacktop; a trip fueled by the roar of a 1967-purchased bong in the back of a 1972 Nova ("Marijuana"), listening to the cars surrounding, heading into the sunset ("Indiana"). For a long, lovely, midnight desert ride, it makes a stunning companion, jaw-grindingly full of dangerous ideas snug in cigarette-burned red leather car seats. "I got death on my shoulder / and the girl with the sweetest ass," Hill melodically boasts in the chugger "Blow Some Steam Off." "She's my high heeled cocaine . I got my switchblade suitcase." You want to fly down the road alongside him, just lit up by the blunt you're sharing. On the bold as love, big beat "Ain't Talkin' About Love," the serpentine, sensual come on feels as threatening as it is intoxicating (Madeline sounds like Stevie Nicks if she was anxiously swooning for a grimy biker boyfriend, not Lindsay Buckingham). Using some form of time travel, "Indiana" chops up dusky minimalism to its long, sinister tale of a restless beer run in a crumbling town. "Is it any wonder that I'm lonely / Twisting and turning above my head." It's like a Springsteen epic deconstructed and set on fire outside a Mexican garage. "An authentic and daring album." - Rockstar Weekly