I just got done taking a shit while reading the Maximum Rock ‘n’ Roll issue focusing on Steve Ignorant’s tour with a Crass cover band. All the punks are up in arms, “Oh my god, the legacy of Crass! What does this say about the heroes we worship, blah, blah, blah.” The whole thing reminded me how laughably flawed this whole punk rock thing is. Hell, I even bought the issue to see how the mess would unfold. I ended up just having a laugh, but, I, myself, am guilty. After reading, I played Songs for Nobody again. Out of my speakers came the ugly, alienated, discordant punk that brings it all back home. It reminds me of a time when a sellout was shrugged off as a sellout and the punks had better things to do, like cut themselves and put their fists through glass. Punks had real stuff to deal with like crippling depression and self-doubt. Alienation and hatred of their surroundings. This was before they were old enough to recognize that these feelings would always be there and found better ways of dealing with them. Before they were so easily distracted by trivia like the justifications of some smug, old fart anarcho wanker from England. On the record, Johny’s voice is ugly, sounding like he hasn’t slept for weeks. It sounds like he drank black coffee and stared at the wall for weeks. The guitar sounds like a buzzsaw, raw and ripping through the songs. These are songs for nobody. They shout into a void. Each song, a raw, furious soul grenade. It’s wretched, anti-melodic and the core of what punk is about. Or what punk was about... before the scene got too big, too comfortable, and made time for bullshit.
–Craven (Cannibal Friends)