The soundscapes do drag on at times, but it’s not a tedious drone. If you want angst played by guys with 1800’s medical fetishes, this is the disc for you.
Whitey puts on his Al Jolson act and kicks it, but substitutes the funk for Biohazardcore and Beastie-thrash and the raps go on about lawn-jobs and drugs.
As always, the thrill is in the very act of playing, not in the little details like “tuning” or “technique.” Roots-rock/country with a careless attitude.
Chrome combined the motion of the rock backbeat with an otherworldly array of treatments and effects to make a noise that bridged psychedelia and industrial.
A little bit of everything from horn-driven espresso-bongo-distorto schmutz to sampled-samba clean-and-jerk to a diatribe against Simins as a role model.
A few beats too many, making them stagger like a guy wearing two different shoes, and the guitars play notes that sound uncomfortable next to each other.