There´s a tantalising back-room vibe to this dark little smear of noise-drone-improv - a murky soup of primitive sounds, mixed together and fed through a mystifying veil of tape-hiss and obfuscation that ends up sounding like someone´s rerecorded Sun Ra´s Cosmic Tones for Mental Therapy forty-three years later, in the dark, by accident.
The Punks seem somehow to have got hold of the last two drums in the world, using them to bash out some pounding, Neanderthal stomp-grooves, over which they´ve splurged a noxious mix of bleeding electrical hum, reverbed spook-squeaks, unhinged glossolalia and tightly muzzled feedback snarls just straining to get off the leash and bite your throat out. There´s potentially infinite fun, too, in the lock groove that sits in the middle of each side of the vinyl - in both instances setting up a hypnotic screech-loop that you´ll leave running for far too long.
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