Picture, if you will, that sneaky, slippery, spazzy, downtrodden holes-in-sneakers punk of bands like Sexy, ADD/C, and Dead Things. Got the headspace? Then overlay that with a love of Slayer—not too much, just a thin layer of butter on top. Then, at the edges, like the corner of a room where there’s a little rat hole, some acceptable meanness of Assholeparade. What does that all mean? Totally energetic, tight, trashy, catchy music that is coming from a fucked-up place (geographical, mental, you take a pick; maybe both). What’s exciting is that they’ve taken all the aforementioned bands, and instead of daintily offering you a cup right off of their keg of fancy ale, the keg’s been shooken—dropped off the back of a pickup—someone’s peed into the pitcher that’s being passed around, and no cares because, man, this band’s piss and vinegar is what makes the whole party on a platter fun.
–todd (Twenty Fifth Hour)