A stupid name from a grumpy band of trash talking (if you can discern the lyrics from the string can brambling) garage rawkin’ bastids straight out of the Twin City ash can. A little on the gloomy end, perhaps, for the morning bourbon binge but the primal thump and big sister lick make this woeful dawn worth knowing if only until the shakes abate and you finally punch that miserable bastard in his smug, little pince-nezed face. [Pinpoint Music]

raging and aging hardcore from Minneapolis

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