This Brooklyn-by-way-of-Atlanta foursome has released singles and EPs since 2005, but finally make an LP -- one as strange as its title. Not strange as in we've never heard post-punk anti-pop before, let alone coming out of Bushwick. But there's an extra element of unpredictability, despite their tightly wound, super ball energy. Like the more obtuse Mission of Burma or many bands Steve Albini records, they don't disdain song structure or tuneful singing per se; it's more they flirt with pop configurations than they lust after them. Mostly we get bursting spirit, chops, speed (are they on speed?), quirky arrangements, and shifts in mood and temperament, from hammering darts ("Pattern Mill," "Roc, Wraith, Harpe") to light, languid looming placidness ("The Continental Divide," "The Rack"). The vocals are equally peculiar, like spawn of early Meat Puppets, Ween, and Isaac Brock. This is gloriously screwed-up and so oddly intriguing.
Share this page
AllMusic Review by Jack Rabid