“Hermetically sealed punk broadcast from a bunker. This guitar is untying a knot of wires; vocals like watching a fight where two men exchange tit-for-tat face blows. Surgical drums; bass grown under glass. The occasional synthesizer like you didn’t know you were thirsty till water crossed your lips. Wound tight, lock-jawed; no rust on these gears. Chilly production crystallizes these post-apocalyptic poems from San Francisco.” —John Dwyer
