This three-piece bring the trash, light it up on the porch, play with it, and watch it burn. The Blow Up hurl through stomping, red-line, pop the clutch and smash the Lambretta (an LI Series II if you’re gonna get technical and go by the cover) though the garage door mania. They seem to revel in eradicating the pus of splinters from broken soul, broken strings, broken melodies, and pierced eardrums. It’s one of those records where I’m always reaching for the volume knob and cranking it ‘til my teeth chatter and my ears ring. Yeah, it’s spazzy, but in the way that Scared of Chaka noise it up, upon returned listens, I had this revelation: “Holy fucking shit, there’s some songs in there, some actual songwriting capability, not just fuzz, racket, screaming, scramming, jamming, and cramming.” True Noise is like finding change in your pocket after laundry. It doesn’t stink and you feel unexpectedly a little bit richer.