“…a band that combines ridiculously heavy guitar riffage by way of Maiden, AC/DC, and Black Flag with the number-one soul/metal drummer in the area and tops it off with gang-warfare-style live shows.” New Times, circa 2005
Articles written about AC Cobra:
“When you think of local music, you can’t help but imagine a group of session musicians banging out watered-down Matchbox 20 covers to a crowd of indifferent onlookers and one drunk guy who can’t stop howling and raising his Budweiser in a perennial toast. But a rebirth of sorts in South Florida’s music scene in the past year has washed over the C-list pap with a potent combination of tight musicianship and pure rock ‘n’ roll swagger. It’s only fitting that a band like AC Cobra would be one of the glaring few on a short list that has raised eyebrows in recent months. Even though it has no recorded material to its credit, the band has garnered a rabid, devoted fan base in a short span of time built solely on its quick, no-frills live shows.
Think Stooges and AC/DC in a head-on collision, bandaged in T-Rex glam and punk vitriol, and perhaps you’ve nailed AC Cobra’s tunes on the proverbial head. The quartet keeps an ever-expanding set list, even though the shows still last barely a half hour, and it’s the presentation that promises continued success. These guys have matured from doing Ramones covers to creating uncompromising balls-to-the-wall rock you rarely witness in our humid neck of the woods. Tim, Rus, Tyson, and Chris (vocals, guitar, bass, and drums, respectively — no surnames necessary) thrive on inciting rowdiness for the sake of a good time, which usually includes most of the band ending up rolling on the floor with its equally raucous audience. “The more people move, the better,” lead screamer Tim explains. “I can’t stand it when people just stand there and look at their shoes. Rock ‘n’ roll is a contact sport.” They’ve already shared bills with such national notables as L.A.’s The Bronx and various local heroes including the Heatseekers, Trapped by Mormons, and the Creepy T’s. Beware of flying singers and wet floors when AC Cobra plays the Poor House with Another Day Ruined. — Kiran Aditham, New Times, circa 2003
“Hey, there. Why so glum? What’s that? You say music’s not fun anymore; it lacks the chutzpah and rebellion that made rock ‘n’ roll so trashy? And you wish someone would, just once, take you forcibly by the shirt collar and shake you, screaming “YEEOORRGGGGHH” into one ear while punching you in the other? Interesting. And you also wonder what would have happened if Ozzy Osbourne and Lemmy Kilmister were two badass outlaw cops being chased by cute, frantic, teenaged girls with shotguns while riding in one of those foppish motorcycles with a sidecar and driving off a cliff, then landing in a nuclear power plant, where their brains tragically melded into one? Weird! Because that’s kind of what listening to AC Cobra’s self-titled EP is like. The CD has only five songs, but in the span of about ten minutes, this Fort Lauderdale four-piece delivers a one-two punch of sludge and vitriolic fuzzed-out rock with a crotch kick of late ’70s metal. And guess what else? For a CD as straight-up dirty and raw as this one, it’s also damn catchy! Songs like “Gonzo,” “Hiss,” and “Jezebel” are guaranteed to get stuck in your head as easily as, say, “Invisible Touch” by Genesis or “Rio“ by Duran Duran. Yeah. Just try to get those songs out of your head now.” — Audra Schroeder, New Times, circa 2004
“So the Galapagos of the music world (i.e., the bottom three counties of Florida, gentle readers) produces a band that combines ridiculously heavy guitar riffage by way of Maiden, AC/DC, and Black Flag with the number-one soul/metal drummer in the area and tops it off with gang-warfare-style live shows. Good God, yes! Tim Moffatt, Tyson Griffin, Chris Maggio, and Russ Saunders go on a few tours and, after a few years of nearly constant gigging and even more constant drinking, promptly implode, never having produced a proper release. Oh Lord, no. Welcome to the South Florida music scene, Charles Darwin. We eat our young.” New Times, circa 2006