I don’t know who has been behind my eardrum steering wheel recently, but I cant seem to subdue this minimalist rock binge I’ve been on, so here we go. As much as I like calling anything I can’t define with an olde-timey tinge, Rock n’ Roll, I’m pretty sure all that shit died when Buddy Hollies plane crashed. Thee Fine Lines are about as close as anybody can get in this post-industrial age. Simple Keg-standin’, lip splitin’, dive bar party anthems that’ll be the perfect soundtrack for the next time you decide to whip out ‘chore butterfly knife and stab that shoeless, old guy, wearing a kilt, with ketchup smeared all over his wife beater, waving a bottle of Canadian Hunter in your face and verbally assaulting you about how you’re too young to like The Dead Kennedy’s, because you weren’t ‘there.’ Fuck East Oakland. The garage punk thang is always hit-or-miss, it can fail miserably if it’s all formula and no heart, these three cats HIT it in a big way here, delivering trashy, infectious, and most of all fun, no-fi grooves. The lyrical content is cynical consisting mainly of the cruelties of young lust and the revenge of the misunderstood (completely expected for anybody angry and drunk… or maybe just one of those, but the combination don’t hurt.) Though they may not take a profoundly advanced or unfamiliar approach to the likes of hard-core garage purists everywhere, their slick meandering bass lines and smoldering guitar riffs will make you have drunken, unprotected sex in the back of your Lincoln Continental. Although there is nothing revolutionary here, it is Pure, and should be listened to by any human who provides a special place in their heart for guitars, anger, or speedballing.