After three albums, it’s pretty clear, if it wasn’t already, that this Madison, WI foursome led by singer Shane O’Neil*l and guitarist *Cynthia Burnson have no intention of taking this whole thing seriously—not themselves, not life, not musical conventions, not societal mores, not you, not me, and not anything else you care to name. The lyrics are outrageously nutty, often embarrassingly frankly funny, and the post-punk attack is as herky-jerky, unpredictable, and sometimes as outright insane as the words. Burnson’s guitars concurrently lurch around like a drunk managing to walk a straight line, if precariously. The rhythm section manages to follow her zigzagging careening, keeping it simple and dirty. And O’Neill (with acerbic shouted, nicely pitch-challenged backing vocals from Burnson) sounds like the most acerbic, caustic, nasty wit at a bad party—only instead of lambasting everything from the safety of a quiet coach, he shakes beer and bourbon all over everybody until somebody calls the cops. I mean, what to make of lines such as “Yabba dabba I don’t want to be friends/’Cause when I think about you [I] think I ought to wear Depends.” Or on the ska-funk-accented “Wowee Zowee,” where O’Neill sounds like a demented Dr. Seuss character, enjoying post-breakup life: “I can pick out really awesome clothes/I can wipe my ass and blow my nose” and “I can scrub the mold out of the sink/I can pour myself another drink.” If you like music with a touch of the irreverent who gives a shite crazies (I often do), this album will piss all over our well behaved, societal approved indie rock, and good on ‘em for that. (crustaceanrecords.com)
