I plopped this puppy on, fully expecting it to be great—I’ve made it no secret that I’ve dug pretty much everything I’ve heard from the Denton-based collective of musicians with which this band is affiliated, starting with the Reds—and fully expecting to wax poetic about its inevitable awesomeness once it was done. Sure, the Marked Men would be a point referenced, along with Potential Johns and maybe Mind Spiders if they decided to get a bit “weird” in places. Lazy reviewin’? Yeah, maybe, but a musical thread one can easily defend referencing, ‘cause truth be told, those aforementioned Denton punkers have eked a strain of punk/pop/garage/wave that, good or ill, is all theirs, and it can be heard/felt throughout their oeuvre. Anyway, the point is that I already had this badass muthafucka sussed out and I hadn’t even put the needle to wax yet. Then I did. Hooooo-doggy. They’ve done what some would’ve considered impossible: they’ve rendered my blustery, pontificating ass utterly speechless. Are all the above referenced pre-judgment points true? Absolutely, and then some. This, friends, is perfection embodied, a distillation of all that’s come before it, honed into a juggernaut of punk precision and pop hooks and delivered with an anyone-can-do-this-but-not-really sort of unassuming brilliance. Those who whine about there not being any good punk bands anymore need to shut the fuck up and just listen.