Most of you probably own this one, or at least have played it to death. Some benighted souls may, however, still be ignorant of the illuminated crudity that was Jay Reatard & his minions.
In any case, this is the Reatards' first, majestically moronic release. All the elements we love in the Reatards are here: Jay's trashed howl; pitter-pat paintbucket drumming; and two-note guitar rumbling that barely makes it to 3 chords the entire EP. It's nice when song titles adequately encompass the emotional range they express, and boy is that the case here. "You Ain't No Fun No More": Man, you ain't no fun no mo'! Other target-topics include fashion victims, Chuck Taylors, and so on.
Really there's no point in prattling on here. Either you love the Reatards or you haven't heard them. In the unlikely event that someone reading this actively dislikes the Reatards, that's cool, check back in when I post more cold wave.That's all for now. Get it here.
Then go see if Goner Records ever re-released this thing. I think they dropped a shitload of Reatards re-issues last year, so buy those if you can't find the 7" per se.
Leicester's Subtitles go straight for the guts with barebones, unpretentious rock 'n' roll. Most bands in this genre focus on the "punk" in "garage punk." The Subtitles, however, inject some over-the-counter Dexadrine into the mellifluous sound of Carl Perkins and start frothing at the mouth.
Not like an epileptic fit, though, more like "holy shit! I just kissed a girl for the first time! Oh fuck!" frothing at the mouth, y'dig?
These songs shake, stagger, and bark their way through the high school prom dance routine in fine form. "High School Confidential" shoulda been around back when I was a wee lad so I coulda danced to it insteada Ace of Bass or whateverthefuck: wound-up vocals, twitchy guitar vamping, and a killer rhythm section specializing in simplicity. "I'm Gonna get Spooned by You," the debut single with a goofy video, is more of the same. "Gonna get wasted, gonna get high, gonna get spooned by you": with a chorus like that, it's hard to argue.
In short, Subtitles do a bangup job and have given us yet further proof that, while garage originated in musty American suburbs in the mid-'60s, the sound is evergreen if you have the great good sense to keep it simple, and keep it direct.
Put this on at the next co-ed mixer, or maybe the next time you wanna offend yr parents with raucous good fun. So give it a spin over at bandcamp, before Sam the Sham calls the truant officer on you, kiddies!
Franco was still in power when this sorta rock was peaking in the States, but it was worth the wait for the Spanish version. Wau y los Arrghs, unlike a lot of the total trash I review, can write real songs with identifiable segments that don't blur into each other. Hell, I bet this wasn't even recorded on garageband! Maybe in a real studio!
This LP is nothing but rave-up '60s garage bangers: one after another, they're the sorta jams American high school bands played at mixers before the fucking Beatles released that heaping pile of shit known as Sgt. Pepper's and convinced everyone that endless ragas are somehow pleasurable. High school bands shoulda stuck with this organ-and-guitar based melodic party music, man.
"Fruta Podrida" perfectly encapsulates the Wau sound: the singer howls in a controlled way, like Wolfman Jack. The guitarist busts out vamp after vamp, the organist trills away mightily, and the rhythm section strives to keep up. "Tres Cabezas" gets even nastier: nuthin' but a rat-voiced vocal line snarled above a manic organ cluster, with a weird lilting beat somewhere in the background.
If you've always liked the Nuggets collection more than anything the Beatles ever produced (like me), you'll love this. This woulda been on my Best-of-2013 lists if I had heard it last year.
Trashed noise is a staple in these parts, and Prag delivers on their demo. I know nothing about this band but the music speaks for itself (it also helps that their name is an Oz reference). This is nasty, brutish rock played by a buncha cretins who sobered up long enough to do their homework on what good garbage sounds like. Somewhere along the line-I'd place it around the emergence of all the bands that followed in the Reatards' wake-garage and punk diverged from each other. By now conditions have worsened so badly that my punk friends think I'm being too obscure when I rave about Heavy Times, and my garagescuzz friends don't bother listening to anything, like Criminal Damage, that's popular amongst hardcore types. This is, of course, despite the fact that bands like Crim Dam and the Times are sonically indistinguishable to folks who haven't devoted (wasted) their youth to this mess we call punk.
It's stupid, and someone should get to work healing the bridge between Punk and Garage (since at this point they deserve capitolization, given the sharp divergence). Prag may help us on that bridge over the River Kwai. Their sound is extremely simple, and thus effective: flailing morning star drumming, incoherently distorted gits, a bass that I'm sure is in there somewhere, and a singer who may or may not be singing in English-if it is, it's filtered through the raw Italish of bands like Negazione. "Concentrated Visuals" is the best track on this demo: a killer opening of brooding guitar and galloping bass drums, followed by vocals that sound like Tolkien's orcs. The song goes nowhere in particular; it just sorta swirls in and outta focus, like that hot girl/guy you just saw at the bar through whiskey-streaked eyes.
Prag's good at building a world of misery out of the crude instruments afforded by the garage punk sound. And fuck do those drums nail you in place, while you watch the Discharge-style guitars soar and swoop like Stukas outta da sky. Hell, the singer's so bored by the band's radness that he's whistling by song's end!
I just spent two 'graphs ranting about one song and I didn't even talk about the coolest part of the demo (it follows "Concentrated Visuals"). If I hadda name-drop, I'd say these doods passed out in the rainwater-choked gutter somewhere between early Crazy Spirit and the brazen, chest-thumping stupidity of Sick Thoughts.
Do your part in re-inventing the wheel and making peace between Punk and Garage by supporting Prag. You can do that HERE! Then do yourself a favor and BUY A COPY OF THIS TAPE!
Drums rarely set the tone for a band, at least in rock. Brisbane's Thee Hugs is an exception to that rule: this band's rhythm section careens, thunders, and clunks through this LP like a truck driver on crank. These ten songs manage to walk a thin line between Dick Dale surfrockisms and the more musically-adept end of first-wave L.A. punk (like dis crew).
The debut single, "She's My Girl," spurts jangled surf guitar before the drums set the pace: this is rave-up garage played right, by guys who prolly were at home playing along to Sham the Sham records while the rest of us were...at home, smoking weed. Again, though, the drums set the tone: mid-way through, they jerk the song to a halt and it closes on a crooning note. Helps that the singer ain't half-bad at sounding like a more frenetic, less controlled Jeffrey Lee. The guitar edges out the competition on "Sarsaparilla Shoes," putting in a memorable performance. My faverave track here though might be "Nazi Shooter," which is so charmingly juvenile in its faux-swagger that Legs McNeil himself couldn't'a done a better job. Holler-shouted vocals, needle-thin guitar notes, and rumble-in-the-jungle bangclang, although the rock-out-with-yr-cock-out bassline of "How Good Looking" is in a league of its own. Live it up.
In short, Thee Hugs are trafficking in an extremely formulaic and formalized genre, and manage to make it their own. That's no mean feat, given that most of the musicians and bands they reference here are at least thirty years old, if not going on fifty.
So in case you fuckers haven't heard or noticed, B-More's Sick Thoughts is the current toast of the null-node-garageville-scene (constituted by me, whatever bartender can stand my presence here in the Old Country, a rolling pouch of Vannelle tobacco, and a bottle of bottom-shelf gin). Monsieur Jay Reatard left a massive void in all uv ower hartss when he kciked the bucket awhile ago and, dare I say it, add two or three more years to his run than I envision him actually goin', and Sick Thoughts' Drew will (is, in fact) fill[ing] said void.
Yup, the I-don't-give-a-fuck-but-God-do-I-love-Rock vibe I always got from Jay's best shines, even spits and shouts,* through, on everything Sick Thoughts has shat out since its brilliantly moronic inception. Which is a lot, in fact-dood has thrown three or more proper releases at us since the beginning of 2013, in addition to the sickeningly-awesome collabo project he's got goin' with Nick from Kent State.
All of this makes for preemo-primeo noise, voidoids. "Need No One" has everything you need for a great Saturday night: throwaway guitar leads that Johnny Ramone woulda thought rude, drums that Tommy never bothered learning 'cause they're that crude, and vocal lines that, and I have it on good information straight from whatever Ramone is still alive, y'all, Joey himself wrote and then discarded in a dumpster in Queens ca. 1976 'cause the kids at CBGBs woulda laffed him outta da rooom for singin' 'em. This beautifully beshitted 7" is ample proof that dood behind the sleez, Sick Thoughts don't need no one, and neither should you!
Anyways, if you love crude rock and everything it entails, go buy yrself a pack of smokes, go home, blast this as you get blackout drunk, then start yr evening. I love you all, shitbirds.
*Especially given the blatant aesthetic rip-off-appeal of the cover aesthetics. JR LIVES, SHITBIRDS!
This band has a real knack for writing quirky, off-the-cuff garage tunes. Their Live Like Dragons EP had me jazzmatazzed and their second LP don't disappoint, neither. The sound is much the same, but there's more of it and the songs feel more focused than on said 3-song effort.
You get the feel, listening to this LP, that the Zoltars are playing more for their own enjoyment than 'cause they really wanna sell records or impress the girls. The production (recording? Same shit to me) gives it a hushed, almost subdued feeling that suits the lyrics well. Topics usually focus around lonely night trips, and wanting to get out of yr house simply 'cause it makes you feel alright. Sentiments I'm certainly familiar with, and the instruments are balanced just right on tunes like "Here in My Room," the opener. But let's take "Fear not Death" for a showpiece: constrained, restrained instrumental layouts, menacing guitar notes, and a singer gently, menacingly, repeating "fear not death." Ok, fucker, gimme that 6-shooter, the gin, and whatever pills you've got.
Make of that what you will, Zoltars are one of the few smash-it-up stellar reps of what passes for a garage rock scene in the States these days. Unlike most of the other groups in that category, they deserve garage star status because of their restraint: this band understands how much drama can be packed into build-up and the rising-action part of the story, and use the climax scenes very sparingly. They're best to blast when starting your evening. That means when you're on your 3rd drink of a 10-godknowshowmanynight, and you haven't done any (hard) drugs yet. Have fun, kids.
Teenagers wowed me pretty hard with their first demo, back in 2012. I still stand my by original, drunken assertion that it was one of the best albums of its kind last year. Crisp, clean, hyper-melodic garage about love, love and...love. I had them pegged as falling somewhere on the Beach Boys side of the Beach Boys/Troggs split as far as neo-60s pop goes. You know the difference: music you can play in the car with your parents when you're home for the holidays, vs. ugly, nasty, lewd tunes about premature ejaculation.
Well, on their second demo, Teenagers seem to be hopping the fence and sliding into the slime of the Troggs' turf. The basic sound is still the same: dirt-simple guitar lines, stutter-putter bum drums, a singer who's perfected the art of the "I'm so elegantly wasted I just don't give a damn" voice. But the band has popped a few pills, maybe had a few bad one night stands, and gotten dirtier, muddier. The guitar is fuzzier, and the mix overall got dragged through a few backalleys and dive bars before winding up on bandcamp. "Sick and Tired," the demo's closer, is their best tune yet: a riff nasty and heavy enough that they mighta stolen from The Gits.
Hopefully Teenagers will record a proper EP or LP soon and the great mystery of whether they're Troggs fans or Beach Boys fans will be clarified. In the meantime, check out this demo.
Without getting enmired in cheap nostalgia for the '90s or some sort of "authentic" urban experience that has never existed, I'm still suspicious of recent cultural products coming from Brooklyn. Up until recently I associated Btown with the fiercer end of NYC hip-hop: Black Moon, for example. NOT garage, noise, and such. 1990s-era Brooklyn was a violent, squalid place by all accounts, but urban renewal could have benefited the original inhabitants instead of displacing them. Instead, Giuliani's stormtroopers paved the way for Bloomberg-era gentrification and the result is a tinseltown, suburbanized borough that doesn't even seem worth visiting. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check out Crown Heights or Red Hook or any other neighborhood mentioned by Biggie, Gang Starr, etc. etc.
That said, Sharkmuffin's second EP is good clean fun if you dissociate it from the gentrification it's inevitably a part of, if only in a tangential way. This is high-quality trash pop falling somewhere between Vivian Girls-style rave up and Piresian Beachesque scuzz. The retarded piss take of a guitar solo at the end of "Femebot" is glorious in and of itself. A minimal 4'4 beat, yowled vocals, and trashy guitars are the end all of Sharkmuffin's sound, and as I always say, simpler is better when it comes to rock 'n roll. This isn't music you think about, it's music you simply respond to. My favored reactions to it are: dancing, drinking, and fucking. All seem appropriate responses to SM's raunch garage, so get yr ass in gear and go have some fun.
You can listen to the EP, and should then buy it, here.
Silkies is a fun band, a good band. Partly 'cause I dig their music, partly 'cause they keep dropping single songs instead of albums. That spares your humble narrator from sitting through two sides' worth of music, giving him more time to leer at Florence's fashionistas while out for a tipple. Commendable, truly commendable.
"Walk at Midnight" finds Silkies straddling the line between garage and post-punk that Grass Widow successfully bridged. Silkies' singer sorta resembles GW's vocal section, too: she has the stoic holler of a ghost passing through yr favorite bar. Dirt-simple instrumentation, insistent and repetitive vocals: where can ya go wrong? Silkies ain't reinventing the wheel, but if you dig the Supremes as much as snide, gritty garage rock, this is up yr alley.
Silkies is playin' the NYC Popfest this Saturday, June 1st. Find a significant other, take him/her to the movies and for ice cream, then take 'em to Silkies and get yr makeout on to their tunes.
Check out their tunes here. They also do a mean pisstake on Andrea Carrol!
Yet another review I have to start by apologizing to the band for taking so long to review. This is the sort of twitchy garage rock perfect for getting wasted on a Wednesday afternoon. Crude, single-note guitar riffs, holler-yawled vocals, and drums so primitive that "ramshackle" is pretty complementary.
If you've been reading DrugPunk for any length of time, you know that's just the sort of sound we go for in these here parts. This is clearly a bunch of friends getting trashed and playing music they love: crude, stumble-bum at times, but fucking fun. And who gives a shit about the rest of it, really?-rock 'n' roll has always been about being brash enough to make a lotta noise, technical proficiency be damned.
Which is to say, Ugly Motors will be the soundtrack to many a bender around here. The wanna-be-menacing riff of "Is That a Knife in your Pocket?" is particularly appealing, especially since it dissolves into hollered dissonance every time it runs the risk of becoming something other than a, well, wanna-be-menacing riff. "My Dead Asian Brother" manages to hold it together long enough to be a well-conceived exercise in crude pop songwriting: squalling yet tuneful guitars, barely-melodic singing, and a rhythm section that discretely keeps charging ahead despite it all.
Like I said, perfect for a Wednesday afternoon bender. Start yours here!
Of course this band is from Austin. There’s a certain
something-not a sound, but a vibe perceptible even from this distance-unique to
Austin bands. Maybe it’s the Roky-esque guitar chug or the dead-insect
vocals (reminds me of ? & The Mysterians, I know they weren’t from
Austin but you get the idea), or the slight country shadings of the production, but yeah these are Texans
from the good part (good city) of that beshitted Lone Star Republic.
As soon as I heard the nullnode talk-singing and scratchy,
thin guitar sound on “All my Friends”, I knew this was a winner. Or at least a
winner by DrugPUnk standards. Which is a loser by most peoples’. If you’re a
frequent reader of this fine e-publication, you’re gonna dig the Zoltars, if'n you don't already. It’s got
what we all love. A crude, minimal-by-design garage sound that plays like Roky
getting fucked on gin and hanging out with Johnny Thunders; a subtle note of
country menace giving the EP more presence than it would otherwise possess;
andgreat song titles like “Heroin
Thunder.” What’s not to love? In fact, “Heroin Thunder” is the real winner
here. The guitarist chugs along like a slow-moving Greyhound to Odessa, Texass, and the singer
doesn’t bother finding a melody (harmony? I was too busy hitting on this really
cute J.A.P. in high school music class to learn the difference) appropriate for the riff, he just
talks, neutrally, over the noise. The bassist and drummer hold the whole fuckup
of a tune together in a sorta understated way. This is the song that shoulda
been the theme song for “That ‘70s Show” but never was, since it’s less flashy
than said show’s theme song, while catching the apathetic boredom of being a
teenager in a perversely enjoyable sorta way.
The Zoltars is on the same label that gave us the Bad
Indians LP, but I like this thing more. It has all the promise of the Indians’
early work and none of the burdensomely front-forward psychedelic flair of their
LP.Visit mom for dinner, smoke some
dope in her basement, and listne to this EP. Also look for it on my best-of
list in December.
You can listen to the EP here. Then go buy it at the same page. Keep up with what the Zoltars are doing here.
This washed up on my pile of submissions quite awhile ago and, with due apologies to the band for taking so long etc., this here is a fuckin' fun LP. Building on and progressing from the scuzz-fi-mired EP No Fun, Shape Breaker has carved out a warm, feedback-soaked little niche for themselves somewhere between the Stooges and MBV.
The former reference is due to the singer. He does a knockdown splendid job of sounding like Iggy at his soberest (is/was Iggy ever sober? The gods know). That means that he sounds like the lewd, crude, quite rude drunk leering at you as you feebly pass out in a puddle of your own puke on another wasted Saturday night. He only has the right to jeer at you because he's able to stand on two feet, and you, well, you're a feeble no-legged cripple at this particular moment.
Shape Breaker decided on a guitar sound for this LP, and followed it out to the absolute limit. Instrumentally, the record sounds like a mine shaft: it's all sorta the same, rocks 'n' dirts 'n' sounds like The Band in Heaven 'n' whatnot, but each level you bore into yields more weirdo enjoyment.
Holy hell, boppers, am I blasted outta my mind on this good Chianti red I've been guzzling like Night Train. So I'll sign off by demanding that you get yr ass over to Shape Breaker's bandcamp page and check this 'un out for yerselves.
It's a safe bet that the Flesh Lite guys spend a lot of time doing bong rips and throwing beer cans at each other in someone's parents' basement in suburban Winnipeg. While blasting "Bleach" and Big Black at unhealthy volumes. Their demo finds Flesh Lite deploying the full panoply of blunt instruments to clobber the listener into numb acquiescence: bricks, clubs, baseball bats, even mattocks!
"Bed Bore" is a slow-building wrecker that just gurgles a savage, shaggy riff over and over again as the singer, Bret, gurgle-burbles something that may or may not be English. "Phlegm" falls somewhere between Nirvana's sludgiest efforts and outright noise: if I was a Hessian I could totally headbang to this tune, but it's a bit too clever in a knuckle-dragging sorta way to be anything truly metal(lic). Mid-way through, a stray note of clean guitar wafts out from under the resin-encrusted wreckage, only to quickly submerge in a shower of distortion. "Fresh Baggage" strays dangerously close to "well-written song" territory, but veers away again for more burbleburblepisshiss crunching noise. I spent a lot of my youth drinking bad beer and listening to Nirvana, and if that activity is part of your past, present, or sounds like a fun idea, you'll probably dig Flesh Lite.
*p.s.-I've been told that there's at least one straight edge member of Flesh Lite, so apparently pepsi cans are involved in the can-throwing contest. Regardless, these guys are fun as hell.*
My best guess is that the other side referred to in the title is the other side of an 8-day acid-and-speed trip, 'cause Bad Indians display all the focused psychosis of the above allusion on their debut LP.
Granted, they rehash the songs from their 2012 debut EP, "The Path Home," which threw me for a loop-how hard is it to write new garage psych songs, seriously?-but they fit the pattern so well that I forgive 'em for it. If you dug that debut EP, you'll dig the LP. Bad Indians develops nothing surprising but digs deeper into the big-beat-meets-fucked-psych-vibes sound they perfected on the EP. I keep wanting to say that this is something hippies would like, but then again, I live with a hippy (long story), and she would HATE THIS. That's an endorsement if you couldn't tell, you putz.
Whatever, point is, if you enjoy loud, obvious, heavily mediated psych-rock that sounds like it was made in 1966 but on better equipment, you'll like this. Bad Indians continue to thrive off the shared male (loud, howling, idiotically endearing) and female (coy, clever, throwaway-lazy) vocals. Present throughout are the big beat and occasional organ vamps that bewitched me with "Path Home."
You can listen to the whole thing over at CQ Records. Then BUY IT from the same good folks.
[yeah I know I've been out of the loop for awhile, shit is real here at DrugPunk headquarters, y'dig? No? Whatever.]
New from Budapest, Summer Schatzies write songs in five minutes, and it shows. No, wait, don't take that as a diss! The instantly disposable, trash aesthetic is part of what makes this EP so much fun.
Featuring Zsofia from Piresian Beach on vocals, the Schatzies are, simply, a surf-garage band: gone are the weird warblings, tripped out guitars and druggy vibes of PB, in favor of crude-to-the-point-of-parody guitar and drumming. The closest "Final Solution" gets to complexity is the counterpoised vocals and drumbeat. "Take me to Bohemia" sounds like a punk song your favorite bar band would play if it was 1976, the Ramones LP had just come out, and this band's only other reference point for "punk" was the Ventures: it has a crude, thudding beat with suitably trashed surf guitar.
I'm guessing "Spooks in Love" took ten minutes, not five, to write, and anyway, they made a video for it! "Spooks" slows things down a bit, with no distortion, and has a certain whimsical charm to it. "Fall in Love in Naples" is more garageslop, with male vox, giving it a slightly sleazier vibe than the other tracks. Needless to say, it works.
Summer Schatzies is great for acting like it's a lot warmer than it should be in the Northern Hemisphere, given that it's November: spin it here, then buy the fucker.
Denton, Texass' The Marked Men are one of the best garage punk bands of the last ten years. If you haven't heard them yet (what's wrong with ya? Seriously.), this is as good an introduction as any.
"Lost it All" opens with a sick, chugging guitar riff to introduce a tale of, well, losing it all, apparently in a fight. The bouncy rhythm will keep you either dancing or shuffling in place, depending on your hangover level this fine Saturday morning. Marked Men have been playing together for years, and it's amazing how focused the instruments are: no excess notes, no errant snares, nothin' but trebly, nervous hooks. "Oh My Pretty Face" slows it down a bit; it almost sounds like a pisstake on a Buzzcocks song.
Minneapolis' Birthday Suits contribute two songs to their side, "Jarrasha Be" and "It's About Time." "Jarrasha Be" could be a Go-Gos outtake: it has that big, boisterous beat I associate with Benatar & CO., but the guitar and vocals are all snarling, razor-wire punk nastiness. "It's About Time" is more contorted garage punk.
The EP is sold out, but check out Nice & Neat Records for other cool stuff. Blow yr eardrums out with Marked Men & Birthday Suits HERE.
St. Petersburg's Sonic Death is one of my favorite new bands, so I resume frequent blogging with a writeup of their recent B-sides, live tracks, and rarities LP.
I'm surprised that they already have enough material for a collection like this, but I'm not complaining: in addition to the rambamthankyamam garage stomp you know and love from their Gothic Sessions EP, there's hidden gems like "untitled" and the pounding slow burn of the live track "Temnota."
The LP confirms the impression I got from the "Gothic Sessions" EP: Sonic Death pretty much has the market cornered on tight garage with a heart of gold. There's a tenderness in the singer's voice that's rare in this genre, and Sonic Death's subdued, brooding interludes ("Son", "Boyfriend") are just as enjoyable as their more straightforwardly garagepunk numbers. Hell, I didn't even cringe at the guitar-'n'-banjo tune "Boyfriend," and I hate banjos! "Zmeya" is the best track here, though: a propulsive, atmospheric drumbeat digs out a rhythmic trench that blurs together guitar and drums.
Anyways, Sonic Death does it again on this LP. The only vice, implicit in the nature of the album, is its uneveness: there's no flow to the songs, but whatever. Look for more madness from these demented fellas soon.
Listen to "Uncomplete Sessions," then BUY IT, HERE.
I haven't showered in days and I can't recall what kind of or which drugs I've been doing for the last four days, so it seems like it's appropriate to feature Kitchen's Floor, finally, on Drug Punk.
KF is one of my favorite recent bands, combining an ear for harmonies with an offhandedly snarling, apathetic aesthetic. This, their debut EP, is ramshackle even by Matt Kennedy standards: three tracks of dirtbag, ultra-lo fi garage misery. The drummer sounds like Mo Tucker on percosets, Kennedy howls, hollers, and shouts over the guitar squall, and yr misery has its new favorite company.
"Still Night" is the surprise here: a slightly psychedelic, plodding concoction much slower than most KF songs, it really sticks in yr head. HERE.
Turn this on, drug out, and remember that loneliness is a dirty matress. This EP is long out of print, but you can still pick up copies of their two LPs at Siltbreeze Records.
This barely counts as a demo, since it's only one song. So take this entry as a "new band to watch" post.
Austin, Texass' Silkies do a note-perfect take on mid-'60s girl groups with "Like One." The recording showcases the surf guitar and chant-shouted vocals. They list riot grrrl as an influence as much as groups like the Standells, so it makes sense that the singer comes close to Kathleen Hanna's bratty howl at times.
Anyways, "Like One" is a great mid-August song: get into yr bathing suit, pop a beer, and hang out pool- or beachside with the Silkies.
Listen to Silkies here. They have an EP coming out soon, so stay tuned, folks.
