On "Song for a Working Man" the follow-up to last year's excellent Stupf 7", the Necropolis quintet solidify their presence as the nerviest band on the beach -- it's altogether hyper-kinetic, hyper-atmospheric, stabbing through speakers, plenty of gray nail on bleach white bone. Not proverbial nails on chalkboard, but iron screeching while digging into skin. Before the song comes to a blackout ending Bo and Emily Davis' yelps morse-code out a tinny, addictive din resembling tuneful pop mangled and frayed.The b-side "Cocksuckerbastardmotherfucker" however, turns the dials backwards, mutating through innovative regression. There are circuits bursting and imploding, guitars strangled, casio-blurts stretched to amorphous lifeforms of their own, all dragged to bear witness to this sludgy punk (beautiful) mess.
Basically, anything stamped with the CDR imprint is vital stuff these days.
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