Monday, February 16, 2009


Three-chords plus distortion divided by lo-fi static equals California beach punk in this disaster of an equation. The dingy noise plaguing this entire album will make your ears bleed if you forget to take a break every few songs. But do that and you might find yourself hearing a nice, and sometimes melodic, extension of 80's punk sock. I mean rock. Punk sock? I’m sick, forgive me. Physically sick, not mentally demented. The latter is yet to be proved.

But seriously, you could end up stabbing your grandmother’s eyes out with the dull end of a plastic spoon if you take too much in at once. So please BE CAREFUL!

I’d like to make a quick note about the labeling of music. Or rather propose a question about it. What the fuck is College Rock? Who decides what gets labeled what and on what criteria? Are those in college the only ones who can appreciate such music? And what if you’re an athlete that goes straight to the NBA after high school because of a gifted set of calves? Do you bypass this music altogether like some type of music time machine? That seems really unfair. I mean just because I can jump really high doesn’t mean I don’t want to enjoy some quality sock rock. I’m just sayin’ maybe the powers that be should be more thoughtful when it comes to these sorts of things. You never know who’s gonna get hurt.

Never mind, I don’t care anymore.

See also No Age and Jay Reatard.

So Bored

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