Guitar riffs arrive bent at curious angles in unusual places on "The Shape Of Grunge To Come"; pieces of music getting slapped around the face. Cheap mics and a throaty singalong bravado. I'm not sure if the grunge that will be, but I could imagine it taking that direction straight from Mudhoney had Kurt not turned up. "Banger & Yos" gets even more mathematical and syncho-ma-pated. The bass tentatively struts, if that's possible, after an opening funk grunt and everything reaches out in its own direction. "Chain Link" is a bit more straightforward, but they're committed and before long its collapsed into a brackish, elephantine bounce.
There's grunting about having sex on "City Limits" as robots replicate rock music with the failing final seconds of their battery life and flailing synth-limbs.Big cavernous spaces up under "Mr Black" and echo their excitement like kids bombing at the municipal baths. "100 Mile" swoops in from everywhere. I'm definitely getting the image of movement to and from multiple places: that's how imaginative I am. It makes me think of flocks of birds, and I'm always thinking of those fuckers. I think it must be a model I have for how my mind works. By the time "Force Field" is chugging along nicely to close the album, the mono-belch vocals is pushing my tedium buttons; but I still like the fucked-up-PA-ness of it all.
I can definitely see me losing some brain cells an inner ear usefulness to these delicious clowns some time soon.
Rating: Angular Birds out of Flailing Synth-Limbs