In a bleach blistered highscuzz of scorch-rattle garage, The C33s let out 3 minutes 30 of beautiful scratching and scrawl. No let up from open to end. No pause to look back ’til it’s done with. Veins throb and pulse to a pressure sustained by the purging of squalor and power.
“Every part of pop’s formulas fall into place and there’s barely a hint of intention. Accidents really can happen, and like here it sounds best when they do.”
Rats on the Run 