The Junk make me think of rat bikes and choppers. Knowledgeable miscreants who take limited resources, cut off all the unnecessaries—all the gingerbread and fenders and guitar solos—to pure, quick-shifting, tire-spinning function. True rat bikes focus on the inward beauty and mechanical soundness, not bolt-on chrome or dentist-and-lawyer-approved paint jobs, not bright cartoons puffed up as motorcycles. The Junk are loud, running straight pipes, there’s no back seat, and the only chrome-like substance is the fillings in their teeth, exposed as they point and laugh in joy as they tear ass down the freeway when the straights and squares are stuck in traffic. Pure punk played well, with a sense of swagger and fun. Is true OC punk peeking its head back up again? I hope so.