One reason to keep searching out new music and doing reviews is the hope you find the mother lode, that golden slice of money amidst all the trash. As music becomes more commercial and easier to replicate and remake, it becomes harder to find the true vein: the purity. The cocaine you sniff at the party has been cut with fucking rat poison and baking soda; all the way from Columbia to your fucking dorm room. Imagine hiking through the jungle and getting your white-bread nostrils into some pure shit. One hundred percent uncut, straight from the cooker shit. Well, fuck ya’ll I’ve found it. This one-sided 7” turns up on my doorstep as a white label, white sleeved 7” with a hand-drawn picture over the dust sleeve and inner circle. The two songs bring to mind a more unhinged Jay Reatard back in his teenage days. The internet superhighway shows almost nothing, literally Bermuda triangle shit. Wisconsin maybe? Sometimes I think that music can hit a perfect frequency for one person’s ears. Pure noise to one is perfection to another. Thanks Todd, I needed that.
–Tim Brooks (No address listed)