Folded Shirt are stupid fucking twerps and have gone and created an album’s worth of stuff that’s the audio equivalent of trying to pull the congealed strings of last night’s pizza from your greasy pubes. Herein you’ll encounter crumpled bass farts, turkey-gobble vocals and more chimp-on-a-xylophone merriment than any human should ever have to bear; but while the whole silly mess is objectionable in just about every sense there’s a strange, numinous edge to proceedings that peppers all the craven, crainium-needling annoyance with weird glints of genius that are more than enough to warrant repeated attempts to try to figure out just what makes this big daft bastard tick.
