Sorry to the boys in the band, but I can’t listen to Atlas Shrugged without looking back in anger. Note: The following review has more to do with the reviewer than the reviewee. I remember when bands like this were everywhere in the Inland Empire, where I grew up. My friends would ask, “Hey, wanna go to a show tonight?” And I would say, “Cool, who’s playing?” And they would say, “[All male band with running shoes and basketball jerseys that screams a lot about friendship.]” Not wanting to be left at home alone on a Friday night, I would go, with my head down, looking out of place with my U.S. Bombs or Clash T-shirt on. No one at the show would talk to me, and I would probably get punched in the head while someone with ironed hair and a lip ring was “dancing.” That guy would like Atlas Shrugged. The singer sounds like a Beastie Boy. Now that my review is over, I am going to watch Beastie Boys videos on YouTube and try to get over this re-living of my late teens. Fuck the Inland Empire.
–John Mule (Trip Machine Laboratories)