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Deep in the graveyard of San Francisco, a young hand with black and cracked nails is pushing up through a broken pile of e-slag. Bitter teeth tear through server cables and motherboards, desperate to be free from the ever-deepening sludge of tech waste… the iPhone is the new styrofoam cup. Stepping over them—eyes glazed, feet dragging, blank face aglow in the eerie luminescence of smart phones—is the inspiration for these songs. San Francisco has long attracted newcomers… but now the city faces the most dangerous, the most egregious and blandest of them all—people with lots of money. In the vacuum that is now expanding, there is a ragged, determined sound vibrating out of the dirty underground. This is POW! Deep ’80s synth bass percolates under the circuit-swamp-fried-egg guitar. The drums, a teenage tiger’s heartbeat, underpin vocals delivered like a deadpan face-slap from a kid half your age. The recording is simple and dense, and it has a natural Doppler effect on headphones. It’s perfectly poppy and rough at the same time, and it has a message, so dig in, ear-wise. Heed the warning bells echoing down the streets of San Francisco clogged with the cholesterol of normals. Next they could be knocking at your door… —John Dwyer