I remember reading an issue of Creem at the library when I was a kid and a reviewer raped the hell out of the Saints’ first record, saying that it sounded like it was recorded in a cavern of tin foil. And I remember getting that record years later and thinking, “Man, you’re a fucking snob. That record sounds great.” I’m not a fidelity whore by any stretch of the imagination. Give me Supercharger on a barely working tape deck over Rush on a an audiophile’s hard-on stereo system any day. That said, this record made me almost go deaf. It’s incredibly tinny and recorded so hot it makes me cringe. We’re talking physiology—the body’s natural reaction to stimuli—not the music. The music, from what I can tell, is pretty damn great. Manic, pure breed energy that reminds me of a mix between the Saints and the Kill-a-Watts. Lightning bolts, cars with dire exhaust problems, thrown pint glasses with bloody fingerprints, close hugs with bad breath and shitty amps. That type of thing. In a good way. I wish my ears would stop ringing, though.