TIGERBOMBERS

Welcome to that wonderful little corner of the cultural wasteland where hip flasks are passed between drifters and prom queens, where 'Heartattack and Vine' meets 'In Utero' and a demented preacher bounces between spitting out a smoke-damaged growl and a riot grrrl's siren song. One hand raises a picture of the late, great Lux Interior yellowed with age and the other, balled into a trembling, white-knuckled fist, slams down on a stack of Rocket from the Crypt seven-inches. But rather than lounging in the primordial cacophony, this mutated strain of castaway DNA pushes to evolve. The louds get louder, the beats get more persistent and every lyrical whim and perversion framing this bastard of a noise gets sharpened into a deadly weapon.