OC’s favorite fuckups, who half the time can’t figure what type of line to do (pool line, coke line, guitar line), break their too-long vinyl silence with four as-close-to-perfect cuts of mid-tempo punk as you can get. Iggy, Pistols, Clash – are all broken and mashed and chipped and pock marked – then wrung out like a bar towel and distilled. The result is that they dish out instantly catchy songs (“hey, I know that riff… sorta”) but you don’t get any the wank or fluf or solos that usually runs in tandem with hedonism. I was skating at a park when Mike, the singer, showed up. He slapped on a helmet and skated the hell out of the place. He was obvious – tattoos, older, distinctive, slashy style. I was standing next to a couple of fat-panted, suburban-doughy kids, who looked at one another and said, “Dude, that guy rips. What the hell was that move? And his pants are so tight.” That pretty much sums up the Stitches. The packaging on this 12” is immaculate. Faux Japanese printing with corner promo thing on one side, full color sleeve with tons of great photos, and lookie, my vinyl’s white.