Goosebumps. Leatherface’s Mush is a masterpiece. One of the top ten punk records ever recorded. Listening to it is one experience. Listening to it and reading along to the lyrics: goosebumps. I can’t think of another band that combines torn literacy, drenched passion, spilled pints, and stained carpets together so well in songs. Leatherface is sneaky, too. I know barely one of their rabid fans that dug them on the first couple of listens. This isn’t the musical equivalent to pornography – not everything’s lit up like neon with the tasty bits readily exposed for consumption. It’s careful listening to Frankie Norman Warsaw Stubb’s ragged and burlap voice, which sounds a lot like Lemmy Kilmister’s. It’s realizing that the bass and guitar, although they’re playing the exact same song, aren’t. They’re in near-constant counterpoint. Interlocked, sure, but always stalking, revolving, and shimmering around one another. It’s hearing a drummer never stop, never get too loose, never get lazy, never showboat. I like it how when I read along to Leatherface, the world seems as containable as a small yellow chair or as massive and mysterious as the sea floor of a high and mighty ocean. Dog Disco’s different from their latest, Horsebox. It’s more content. The wanderer has found some solace, partnership, and stability. It’s also more from the chest – growled and mouthed instead of yelled and rupturing. I’m not talking a toothless mellowing, but an unqualified grace, the vitality of being fully aware of your situation, and exploring the good bits that have come your way. As of this writing, I’ve listened to this over fifty times, and, with all Leatherface, it gets better with each spin, releasing its power slowly. Unqualified recommendation.