The smearing of vital fluids that New Zealand's Bloodbags do all over this glob of wax is not for the chicken-livered.
Burly and brusque, slashes of jagged guitars flail and flash like a craggy blade in front of broken down drums that sound like their being beaten with the firewood logs on "Elder Statesmen." Thoughts of Wire's Pink Flag come to mind but there is more of a feeling of having your head held down in an old metal barrel full of tiger milk. The howl of desperation in Andrew Tolley's voice does not sound like it is going to break into a dissertation of Barnett Newman's work or something of the sort either.
The ride that's "Dark Room Dick" is one on a rigid suspension, down some rocky roads that the ilk of the Honeymoon Killers and the Scientists trudged across using only the distant sound of war drums and the scent of death in the air as road maps.
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