If there’s one thing I miss about the old daze of Reagan-era NY rock’n’roll it’s the scuzz: the mildewy layers of scum, pus and crust that infected noiseniks like White Zombie and Pussy Galore. Well, I’m happy to report that these unruly hairballs from Brooklyn are so authentically NYC death-rattle scuzzy that Gorbachev oughta drop a nuclear bomb on ’em.
It’s surf music for dudes who’ve never seen sunlight, never mind the beach. It’s psychedelic garbage rock for harsh times, like Monster Magnet if they never graduated rock’n’roll high school and just live in the basement now, eating discarded baloney sandwiches and worshipping at the temple of Fonzie. You should know they wear lab coats covered in sweat and grease stains, and that the dopest jam on deck is called Shit Hawks At Blood Beach, but otherwise you get the picture.