Whenever I get a new Smogtown CD I go through four distinct phases: 1) Denial. I pop it in give it a listen and think “nope, it’s not as good as the last one.” 2) Infiltration. I keep listening. A hook, the ferocity of the rhythm section, a bit of lyrics infested with sneering sarcasm worms its way into my subconscious, forcing me to listen to same disc, the same songs, the same section of a song over an over again. I memorize the lyrics. I make sure my disc player goes with me everywhere I go. 3) Conversion. I accept the error of my ways, and am fulfilled by the truth: this is the best fucking record I’ve ever heard. I anticipate the next one, in this case the full length, the way a four-year-old awaits Christmas. 4) Thanksgiving. I’m glad Smogtown is only a punk rock band and not a cult, otherwise I’d probably be down at LAX right now, passing out pamphlets, hustling for jack.