A trio, two guitars and drums. The little brother band to Readymaid, upcoming. Mallory played instrumentals, were their own scene within the scene. They had a different palette. These guys had seen some shit. Some had products of sociobiology harassing them in a formative streetlined way of thinking. This music was after something, like the punishment doled out to others. Songs were lookin for somebody at the roller rink and wanted everyone to know. The music was a patter which was fine until it was the only kind around. These riffs were for the old grandmasters of gone countries. The music locked into a united front with burning tires stacked up in the street. The city’s fine from other cities, thank you very much, in the valley in the border to the South, whose inhabitants considered themselves Mid-Western, when they clearly were the last burb before it turned into the lingering Confederacy. Something hideous gets trapped there in the wattage.