Is it wrong that I look at splits as competitions? Is it unfair that, when I listen to them, I picture each of the bands in a separate cage, hovering over a bottomless pit? Is it maybe a little egotistical that I imagine myself on a giant throne of skulls with two buttons in front of me—buttons that can send the band of my choice into an endless screaming descent? The bands have to play for their lives. The Golden Helmets have to pound on that Hammond organ and stomp like they never have in their lives, making certain their wild garage rock leaves an impression. Jizzlobbers are forced to demonstrate their mastery of heartfelt leather jacket rock’n’roll in two songs, drilling the chorus of “Dead Trousers Killed Johnny Thunders” into my head with all their might. How can I possibly choose between two bands that play each of these songs like it’s the last song they’ll ever play? I’ll just have to kill them both. Just kidding. They can live for now, as long as they keep the energy up.