When I was younger and hadn’t put together large pieces of the punk puzzle together, I listened to a lot of Crass—I only had about ten records, listening to them constantly—and learned a lot. Say what you will about the band, there were times in almost every record that it got downright pretty. Eve Libertine had a haunting, cavernous—even sweet—lilt to her voice that seemed like a freshly released dove above the bulldozed, skree-filled, vulture-pecked carnage that Crass is usually remembered for. Plus, Crass were smart. Enter Surrender. They take that five to ten percent of Crass that was unnervingly beautiful and make a record with those types of elements, tension, and iconography as the taking-off point. Instead of slogans that tend to wear down like tire treads over time, Surrender relies on open-ended questions and statements: “What if,” “What now?” “Pay no more” and “Surrender Is.” Surrender’s smart, too, and questions basic human assumptions while providing a soundtrack to some rump shaking. This is some great stuff.