Imagine, for a moment, if ZZ Top were really good. Now imagine they were attuned to motorik, that mid-70s Teutonic tendency to drive a nagging groove on, and that they had the Rolling Stones' shaggiest guitars freewheeling alongside. That's the appeal of Endless Boogie: aptly named, Brooklyn-based, but inhabiting a parallel world where it is forever 1974 and psychedelic rock is not some cerebral affectation but a louche and humid pleasure. Full House Head, Endless Boogie's second album, is low on words and solos, and very high indeed on its own degenerate momentum.