Marked Men: C’mon, really? If you haven’t at least checked out the Marked Men, just put this zine down and go find some recordings. Shit, dude or lady, if you’re standing in a record store, don’t buy this zine if there’s some Marked Men vinyl to be had in the vicinity and you can’t afford to buy both. What else do you need as an endorsement? How many publications will entirely supplicate to a band, encouraging you to just go and listen to the music? As always, the Marked Men are pitch perfect, no-genre-can-pigeon-hole them music that’s accurate and reasonable to call punk, but it’s so much more. This Is My Fist: Putting this in the “mental health versus making great punk songs” algorithm, part of me wishes that Annie of TIMF finds solace and happiness because, man, she’s been mistreated time and time again if we’re to take her lyrics literally. The other part of me—perhaps the selfish, dick part—keeps being impressed by her output and how much gas is left in TIMF’s tank, especially after all the personnel changes. Perhaps sadness is her ghost, her fire, her muse.

 –todd (NO IDEA)