STITCHES, THE: Automatic: 7”

Fuckups of the highest order rarely can play worth a shit. The Stitches, against all reason, keep getting better. Most miscreants of this caliber just become class-A drug users and lose the ability to play (not to mention losing their apartments and all touches to sanity), but The Stitches somehow get better and better. Hell if I know how. They should be dead by their own hands by now. Perhaps they’ve got special organs in their bodies? Perhaps the phrase, “What won’t kill me can only make me stronger” applies to them in this scientific equation: “snorting so much cocaine off a hooker’s ass (I’ve seen the pictures) that would kill a baby rhino = the superhuman ability to steal a classic punk riff and make it sound like you came up with it.” The weapons they use are blunt. The music’s simple as slapping a homeless person. Yet, it’s perfect. No moves wasted. No dumb arty shit. Is this a classic punk slab that nods to but doesn’t bow down and suck 1977’s dick? Yeah, I’m beginning to think so.

 –todd (Vinyl Dog)