by J. Lianna Ness
If Henry Rollins sang for White Zombie, and they were less industrial, it would sound like this. If I were a beer-drinking, reefer-toking, headbanging, suburban 18-year-old male with long hair and a tight jean-wearing, gum-snapping, bleach-blonde barfly girlfriend, I’d crank this while driving around in my blue Camaro on Saturday nights looking for parties and screaming “Yaaaah dude!” out the window at other cars passing by. But I’m not; so I won’t. There’s a song on here called “Stoned In Car.” Need I say more?