This record didn’t mean to happen. On borrowed equipment, in a reggae studio off Clairmont Mesa Blvd, probably on no sleep, and on the heels of drastic member sweeps and some Tijuana gigs, the South Bay fooz shred up on the one, ala Dead & Gone, or Filth. Mind-stopping tight for how they rolled according to lyrics: “Wake up every single day, fucked up world staring in my face, forty ounces the first thought on my mind, stuck with a system that I can’t change, and you fucking wonder why I drink” might follow some dirty blues riff. Not here, kids. Soundtrack to streets on fire. Walls to dust, bars to rust. Cathartic pummeling the trauma of abuse that no one understood, making this 7” record a more bewildering and nuanced undertaking than could ever be expected on a shoestring diet of pills and swills.
(Limited version of the bands 1997 self-titled EP, limited to 50)
1.Run For Your Fucking Life
2.The Life Of The Party