There’s something traceable to this being from the middle of America, a little up north of the beltline right around the gut, where rust, self-abuse, and unemployment commingle with the DNA of the Stooges, New Bomb Turks, and Chargers Street Gang left in the cracks in the sidewalk, like blood spilled after a murder. The A-side is two short stabs. The B-side’s spit-dripping, fed directly from the six pack rock damage. Like I’ve previously surmised with The Feelers: the line drawn between hardcore and garage were drawn by dumb fuckers, and We March scuff and blur that arbitrary demarcation with every note they play. Nice.
–todd (Wicked Singles)