Ow. Ow. Argh. Rargh. Shouty bastard. NY. Disrespect. Distortion. Harmonicas. No track more than 2 minutes. Raw as fuck. John Dwyer. Providence, NI. Noise. Half-chord opuses. Dirt. Wiped in rust. Crass. Class. Perfect. Punk. Punch. Ferocious. Harmonica. Blues. Of Sorts. Animalistic. Abuse. For sure. Feet-frying. Synapse-smashing. Rash-inducing. Wild. With a megaphone. Fastfuckfrenzied. Sonic. Assault. Insult. Eyeball-biting. Ow. Ow. Rargh.
Explosions of love burst outa my sizzled, crisped, incinerated pores and the redrawbabysoft skin underneath is set to bubbling with a hideous kiss of vinegar, brine and hydrochlorix hasslemusik. Produced by Weasel Walter. This is the soundtrack to Hunter S. Thompson's nightmares. As illustrated by Ralph Steadman. Catering by Dr. Crippen. Ably Assisted by Dr. And The Crippens. And it's fucking brilliant.