One major problem with digital is that it’s either there or it isn’t. Pure black or pure white. No storming sunsets with impossible oranges. No ice scraping at dawn through holes in gloves. And when there’s meaning to find behind the bash and crash and basement screams, it’s much more than just a shame that most people will never read the lyrics to this record, even if they hear it. Just bleeps and bloops yanked from one isolated place to another. And maybe that’s part of why people feel more and more lost; disconnected in the same room, staring at glowing screens, screaming on message boards, widening the distance between flesh and blood people sitting next to one another. And I may just be old fashioned and foolish that if I think a piece of paper with words that accompany noises twining off spinning pieces of vinyl is different—that it’s naïve or purist to say that I care about the contents of a band’s soul, no matter how good the band sounds. We all die. I want to die with some good ideas, awesome songs ringing in my ears, good friends, and tight family. Dead Mechanical play and sing day-to-day vignettes that give into politics reigning down on your shoulders like bombs, and soak into your shirt like tears and the sweat of a hard day. They aren’t crutching on platitudes or slogans. They’re heartbreaking and defiant and poetic and funny. They also just happen to be amazingly tight and fluid. I think they’re one of the best bands playing DIY punk in America today. This band means more to me at thirty-eight than Jawbreaker did to me at twenty-one. Pack up your nostalgia, quit huddling under a shelter of past memories lived or pined for, and join a roaring band in the ascent… or continue bleep blooping to the newest whatever, biding time before everything goes black again.

 –todd (LP on Toxic Pop,, CD on Traffic Street)