Cowboy Hunters: Epeepee
(Self-released)
DL | Streaming
Out 20th March2026
Saddle up, Glasgow’s Cowboy Hunters are leaving town to prove punk’s infinite capacity for relevance and reinvention, right now.
On a punk rock bingo card, if attitude is a full house, then immediacy, being in the moment, has got to be top of the shop. Forget academic wordathons and posh prog calls for active listening reminiscent of calls to do your homework. Get swept up in the maelstrom of the instant hit that the five breathtaking cuts on this Epeepee deliver.
The duo who make up the Cowboy Hunters, Megan Pollock and Desmond Johnston, play drums and bass on what seems like the basis of who gets to which first. They achieve the holy grail of looking like pop stars, while sounding possessed and demonstrating a sardonic recklessness often absent from modern guitar bands.
Exhibit one is Have A Pint’s declaration of intent, which delivers the sort of Celtic twenty-first-century jolt to the system that a pre Buddhist Beastie Boys via the criminally underrated Death Set would have tried to programme into their Commodore computer. The sound and lyrics’ insistent call to clubbing perhaps highlight the duo’s role in Glasgow nightlife, while the gleeful “you get we get all get cunted” introduces a barrage of targeted profanity and puerile potty-mouth button pushing. If the part celebration, part desperation dynamic in gung-ho hedonism is an undercurrent when humanity stares over the edge, howling right back in its face seems like the most reasonable response, and if you’re triggered by this sort of language, it might be best to look away, if it isn’t already a bit late.
As next up is Shag Slags Not Flags. Now, being a man of a certain age, I wasn’t sure certain words were acceptable, and I’m not setting this up for flags to be the punchline. But Shag Slags Not Flags it is, and a more adrenaline-pumping combination of vocal interplay and righteous fury, employed in the service of a spot on characterisation of the desperate divorcee demographic that drives the flag flying, I can’t imagine. Indeed, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that this is a much more vital and invigorating soundtrack than plaintive strumming or John Lennon. Ideal, as the number of people at the anti-far right demo in London at the end of the month dwarves Yaxley-Lennon’s festival of servility and scapegoating.
Following them into the gutter is Cuntry Girl. A dirty rock swing giving way to the sort of synth squelching which features on other tracks and may provide a route to explore their music and idiosyncrasies if they so desired. It moves further outside of the traditional punk and independent scene which few but the converted hear, without hiring the Philharmonic Orchestra. With the band box fresh from dates with the Sleaford Mods, whose guests the last couple of times I’ve seen them were the Viagra Boys and Big Special, it suggests the sort of potential we’re talking about. Or if they really don’t care, then that is admirable too.
Money For Drugs then somehow ups the urgency levels of this particular listen. What sounds like a fairly ambivalent attitude to stealing stuff for the next high producing lines like, “It’s now and now is now”, which crackle as though wired to the mains poetry. It generates in 90 seconds what should run at the beginning of whatever prequel to the sequel we are at with Trainspotting, and a sentiment that some might sound irresponsible in a country with Scotland’s level of drug use. Except the real cause is maybe a society where it seems like there is nothing more exciting,are and self-destruction is your only choice in life.
The Cowboy Hunters doing their bit to rectify this by demonstrating otherwise, as while songs, like films, aren’t instruction manuals, Dust Caps brings the Epeepee joy ride to a screeching halt in exemplary fashion. It starts like the Flying Lizards on Mogadon before erupting into the big riffs and screams of rebuke for the Scottish Enlightenment and it’s property.
And in case it still isn’t clear, get involved soon, because there is as much chance of the Cowboy Hunters being on the front of Classic Rock in 30 years as there is of the magazine still existing. Which is a bit of a shame, as up until recently, their insistence during interviews on having murderous intentions towards cowboys seemed to have convinced AI of vigilante raids on ranchers’ campfires. This, in an attempt to redress the balance and mess with the algorithm, means we will round up the posse to abduct people in Stetsons line dancing at the Grand Ol Opry in Glasgow at the weekend.
Now That’s What I Call Music.
Facebook | Instagram | YouTube | Bandcamp
~
All words by Steve John – Author profile here. You can also find Steve online at his website & Facebook
A Plea From Louder Than War
Louder Than War is run by a small but dedicated independent team, and we rely on the small amount of money we generate to keep the site running smoothly. Any money we do get is not lining the pockets of oligarchs or mad-cap billionaires dictating what our journalists are allowed to think and write, or hungry shareholders. We know times are tough, and we want to continue bringing you news on the most interesting releases, the latest gigs and anything else that tickles our fancy. We are not driven by profit, just pure enthusiasm for a scene that each and every one of us is passionate about.
To us, music and culture are eveything, without them, our very souls shrivel and die. We do not charge artists for the exposure we give them and to many, what we do is absolutely vital. Subscribing to one of our paid tiers takes just a minute, and each sign-up makes a huge impact, helping to keep the flame of independent music burning! Please click the button below to help.
John Robb – Editor in Chief
