The Starvations have been able to cinch the dark heart of so many styles of music, to squeeze it, have it languidly bleed down their arms and meander deep under their skin. Stains, that with no amount of scrubbing, will never come out. Equal parts sickness, celebration, and the macabre. The Starvations, immediately upon listening, have so much figured out: chemistry, alchemy, fermentation. The playing is too assured, too other-worldly realized. Possessed. There’s a vision that doesn’t have to stoop to the past in a constant bow of reverence, but to scoop it up by the ladle and have it violently sizzle over the glassy shards of the present. Yes, it’s punk, but, thankfully, in the widest dilation. Touchstones are merely that – starting points: early Gun Club, The Blasters, fiery Nick Cave and I also hear distant echoes of Bauhaus. Not in sound, but in intent, they’re also akin to what Throw Rag’s all about. Then it’s all boiled and shantied up with occasional piano, accordion, harmonica, and congas in a way that makes it seem more stripped down and closer to what I’ve always thought true roots music should sound like. True gothic, (in the original definition of the word) before it was attached to a genre of music – highlighting decay amongst the decadence.