SWITCH-UPS, THE: Self-titled: CD

What the devil is this? On the cover of this thing you have a Sick Of It All’s Blood, Sweat and No Tears-style montage showing all these tuff-guy skinhead types swigging beers and flipping everyone the bird, but when you actually play the CD, it sounds like Clay Aiken fronting an emo street punk band. Egads, can this possibly be? Is this the American Idol punk record I never heard about because I’m a bad person who doesn’t watch “must see” TV? It actually hurts to listen to this… I can feel my testicles crawling up into my body to get away from the hideous vibrations. The tuneless voice and the dorky lounge lizard delivery falls somewhere between a bad Michale Graves impersonator whose tights are too tight and a Tupperware container of cold green beans. This whole band has all the fiery charisma of a black plastic pocket comb. Ugh. Ahhhh, but I don’t buy it. Nice try. You almost had me going this time. But I know when performance art comes up and drops a clown turd in my lap. Ha! You really had me going there. I kinda feel stupid now. Good one, though.

 –aphid (Reality Clash)