Here we have an unreasonably ugly, primitive album of ham-fisted, nihilistically funny garage noise, suitable for the brain-damaged and all you glass-is-half-empty types. As a wee lad I saw these people play, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, in a pitch-black ice cream parlor, illuminated only by the swirling red and blue lights of the cop cars outside. To me, that's what this album sounds like still: a wall of tinny fuzz radiating out of the darkness, poisoning your ears and making your hair fall out. Iron Curtain Rock
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