It’s really too bad that brilliant (or at least marginally clever) song titles don’t make a good record. If I were to judge this record based on song titles like “Never Let Your Girlfriend Go Camping with That Guy She Met in Pottery Class… Trust Me” or “It’s Not a Party Unless You’re Doing It with Someone Else in the Bathroom,” I’d swear it was the greatest thing since Paul Westerberg … or at least Type O Negative. If, on the other hand, I were to judge this by the title (which is the single most off-putting title I’ve been exposed to in years, solely because it makes this band sound like they didn’t take enough beatings over the years), I’d conclude that it was music made by people who really needed to put down their instruments (permanent, like) and get a hug. And I’d be right on the first part. Probably right on the second. And I would have also been right on the third because I would have put this thing back on the shelf and left it to rot at the record store. If you really can’t get enough of bad college rock bands playing dissonant, disjointed, fragmented, angular music to accompany vocals that sound like cats fucking, then you might find this appealing. If, on the other hand, you realize that this whole thing has been done to death and that chaotic screamo shit really isn’t that interesting, you’re probably better off skipping to the next review. Which is exactly what I’m doing.