Weirdo garage punk from Cincinnati, Ohio.
Like a desperate man twisting open a jar of some mystery fermentation left in a dusty cabinet for far too long and taking an ill-fated swig in an attempt to catch a buzz, this batch of botulism-tainted rock history probably should have never been pulled out and examined, much less unlatched. It probably should have stayed in the attic on a tape labeled "not for public consumption" until the building was torn down and the tape doomed to the fate of unsustainable plastic reincarnation in a Rumpke landfill bin, carted there alongside moldy coffee grounds, discarded covid test kits, spent nicorette gum packs, little gram baggies and thai carry-out refuse . But it was, and now you've been exposed.
Comprised of some names that have wrestled their way, ringworm and all, into the annals of some documented musical narrative of a city that too many people think they know these days, this band wrote about 15 times more songs than the number of shows they played. They weren't even so much a "band" as they were a loose set of criteria. They had a collective "abuse" of "substance" problem. They didn't interact with the world in any kind of meaningful way, outside of occasionally sharing an obtuse image of some primitive art form. Every song recorded here coincided with an empty bottle of the hard stuff and a filled-up recycle bin of crushed cans. Their first show was an abject disaster where they more than once attempted the same song twice, and lit the beard of the other band's singer on fire in some unholy attempt at an effigy. They weren't really enjoyed or tolerated in the community. When they quietly gave up the ghost, no one mourned. Still, they wrote songs that they felt like writing-- and much to the chagrin of the populace, they recorded them. And here they are.