Woke up one day and realised that my head had fallen off. When I say fallen off, I mean it got kicked off by the deranged brutality of Gropetown. That howling coming from the speakers isn't some political prisoner begging for his gonads after a serious human rights violation involving a car battery but instead the combined guttural moaning and shouting of Julia Scott and Kenneth Love.
Once you get used to the subversion of melody into fragmented guitar riffs then this sort of makes sense in the way that all noise punk makes sense. "Breast Culture" doesn't so much segue into "German and Blue" as accidentally trip over it and any attempt to create a song in the conventional sense, such as "Rabs Under The Bed", is soon redirected into a repetition based post hypnotic suggestion. I would imagine that if you've been drinking coffee and eating strawberry jam all day then there is a good chance that your mind will be (just about) able to follow this sonic thunderstorm.
It goes without saying that this is a maximum volume, mind assaulting listening experience and that, my courageous comrades, is a good thing.