'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