Another thing that Hostage Records has an immaculate ear for is this: the first waves of English punk—Cock Sparrer, Sham 69, Sex Pistols, Clash, Damned, Cockney Rejects—seems to have generated from the Atlantic and crashed, undiluted on Southern California’s Pacific shore, drenching the brains and crashing into the instruments of so many of its punk bands. Santa Barbara’s Damaged Goods are a perfect example of that. Unaffected by greater trends that are mere ankle-sized ripples in music, they go right to punk’s initial driving forces: mid-tempo, hook-laden, snot-propelled great pop with snarl and bite. It’s always a puzzle as to what makes one band sound like clowns juggling fossilized dog turds of songs and another sound like a bunch of upstarts rifling through the knife drawer and come slashing out of the speakers like they just invented a new way to kill you with music. This is much better than it should be.