Do you want to be cool? Badass? Totally irresistible? Of course you do, Poindexter! I confess that before I held this held this double LP in my hands, I was a drooling, slack-jawed Cro-Magnon incapable of anything remotely hip. Now I preach the gospel of Sonny Vincent atop a soap box and swing a tuna can from my neck like the miscreant that I am. If this sounds rad (which I know it does) just follow these four easy rules. Rule one: Give zero fucks. Rule two: A fuck-all attitude will take you to most any place. Rule three: Your fashion accessories can never—I repeat—never be too ridiculous. Rule four: If you’re actually following these rules, then you’re doing it all wrong, ding-dong. In all seriousness, Todd Killings, from his introduction, puts it best: “For a band that was left out of almost all of the history books on New York Punk in the 1970s, these guys really recorded a lot of material…” No kidding. Testors don’t slack off. I suspect that Sonny Vincent is a vampire as each song hasn’t aged a day, much like his jet-black, razor straight hair. Every tune is a garage punk, power pop behemoth of confident rock’n’roll melodies and gleeful degeneration. I would be shocked if after listening to all thirty-seven songs you are unwilling to convert to The Cult of Sonny Vincent.
–Sean Arenas (Alien Snatch, aliensnatch.com)