Torn up fragments of feral rock n’ roll spit, snarl and leer their way through this corking full-length release, cutting rational thought to ribbons with a ceaseless array of broken, trebly jags and sneering cackles. It’s like a blitzed-out, drug-damaged version of Crime who’ve dragged their way through a year of art school with Flipper on their busted headphones before flunking out, collapsing in a puke-spattered tangle and dreaming up this whole tormented concoction while some grim-faced nurse pumps their stomach and wipes drool from their chin.