Every so often a band finds a way to squeeze stunningly higher horsepower from the basic guitar-bass-drums engine of rock and roll. Metallica. Nirvana. And now, in their raw, tortured way, these four scruffy alumni of various New York City punk bands.
Murderous guitars and the blistering vocals of Walter Schreifels drive the band. The album isn’t big on variety, but who needs variety when you’re unleashing, in effect, some rough, lumbering beast—bellowing in rage and despair—trampling even thing in its path? (Polydor)