It’s a return to the fast’n’furious punk roots, the kinda thing that made Boston a place that could release This is Boston, Not L.A. and not get laughed at.
No catchy tunes here, but the songs are constructed to afford the rather massive guitar riffs maximum physical impact. This rocks, it slams, it bludgeons.
22 songs totaling almost an hour is a lot of any band, especially if it’s a collection of early mistakes, covers, and other things most woulda taped over.
The grooves are hotter, the solos are much tastier, and the period-flavored production is the final masterstroke, pushing the pedal through the floorboard.
Swingin’ Utters ooze authenticity. This San Francisco band has been touring and doing it right for so long for so little, ya really oughtta buy ’em drinks.
Though not at the top of the hierarchy, Sunday’s Best does a fine job of holding their own in the genre of “sometimes Knapsack, sometimes emo new wave.”