by Brian Varney
Post-Nuggets garage punk, the kinda thing you mighta seen on Estrus pre-Hellacopters, chock fulla two-minute screechers, the resulting desperately-needing-a-scrub racket all ?-esque one-note piano pounding, and guitars that sound like the band paid about five bucks for ’em, spent less than that on a rig, and spent even less recording ’em, the finished hunk of slime sheathed in artwork that looks like it was designed by a drowning alcoholic. The whole shebang’s a bit tuneless, really, but would it compel those who drool over such shit otherwise? Top-of-the-line/bottom-of-the-gutter (your pref) garbage-can rock for the discriminating Cheater Slicks fan in your wing of whatever rehab joint you’re in this month. There’s a picture of some guy’s butt on the back, too.
(PO Box 7112 Burbank, CA 91510)