Air-raid sirens peal, the sky goes pink(o) with lividity, and these Bolsheviks of brutality stomp out crazed Red Square dances on the steps of the Atomic Café.
Their most obvious touchstone is the chattering punk haikus of the late, great Minutemen, and the poisoned surf guitar may bring back memories of Dead Kennedys.
Sweetness frosted with fuzz ‘n’ phase, multi-guitar pileups on top of blissed-out melodies, like an analogue to My Bloody Valentine’s gold-leaf glide-pop.
Meaty lo-fi punk. Screeching, scratchy vocals; thick and onerous rhythmic bass lines; lots of heavy guitar distortion and crashing percussion punctuate Side A.
The slickest, and possibly the trashiest, film ever made. We got the hair, the voice, the hip-shaking eathquake competitions between Elvis and Ann-Margret.