When I get a burned CD with a band’s name scribbled on it in ballpoint pen, wrapped in a Xeroxed piece of paper instead of a traditional jewel case, I make some assumptions: I assume I’m going to be listening to music that the band barely gave a shit about and that nobody else is going to give a shit about either. I love being reminded that it’s stupid to make assumptions. This CD is epic. So much ground is covered in its seventy minutes that it’s a challenge to sum it all up. Psych industrial soundscapes bleed into straight-forward punk. Surf guitars hump the sound of heart monitors over heavy breathing. Fuzz buries metal in dust before being intercepted by sound bites from unrecognizable films. All of this is held together by the gritty voice of a lunatic whispering into your ear that you can’t stop listening, whatever you do, don’t stop listening.

 –mp (Self released,