It’s a rare thing indeed when I go see a band almost cold, with only the slightest of expectations and recommendations, and I have to wipe the concrete dust off my jacket from getting blown through the back of the club by the first song and remaining there for the rest of the set. That was the case with The Drips when I caught them at the Doll Hut last year. Monstrously catchy (and not in easy ways that I’m well prepared for), anthemic (in the “we’re all sick and we’re all in this together” way: “More pills! More wine!”), headed by a spazz (and he’s in a much better known band. Dig a little and you’ll find out), armed with one of the most powerful drum punishers I’ve seen in ages. I can’t quite put my finger on what makes The Drips get my pulse all erratic and makes me listen to each song twice before I flip the record over. They’ve got the x-factor in spades. The charisma that although you’ve heard all the pieces scattered about, they glued that fucker tight and you find out that it’s got more missiles to deploy than you first thought possible. Much like how the GC5 updated street punk without betraying it or being a slave to it, The Drips take a shit-ton of OC punk and do a fine bit recreation, then decimation. My prediction: if the band doesn’t annihilate itself in the next year, they’ll be constantly drilling to your cranium, like those oil wells spread out through the residential neighborhoods of Huntington Beach. Mark it, dude. This one’s a bonafide punk rock master stroke.