Beneath a squalling mesh of treble-to-the-max guitar, there’s a bassline half-nabbed from Suicide’s ‘Ghostrider’ and a snare drum that sounds like bombs detonating. With the top-end EQ cranked to the max and everything pitched up to speaker-shredding volume, there might be a song buried beneath this quivering wall of distortion, or there might not. That’s not really the point.
It’s a piercing blast of noise, a complete rush of adrenaline and there’s no way in the world you could accuse APTBS of selling out. After all, singles are usually the most commercial cuts from an album: this dissolves in an atomic fizz through which I watch the smithereens of my cranium slowly descend. Explosive.
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