Not as crazed as their last album, but that doesn’t mean that this isn’t up to its eyeballs in bad drug‑induced psychosis. As I listened to this, I pictured Black Randy fronting an early incarnation of the Flesh Eaters writing desperate love songs to The Reatards. Then again, I could be way off the mark with that description. It wouldn’t be the first time. Look, just send ’em your fuckin’ money. You won’t be disappointed.