Concrete Lawn Aggregate LP

The plan is in place. Full destruction, full rejection. CONCRETE LAWN are the children of the “I wasn’t even alive back then why should I care?” generation, ready to invert that fucked logic til the blood rushes to your head, figuring out the cogs and wires not too far beneath the surface, jamming them up with piss, snot, vinegar, all in real time. No shit they don’t like it. This is far from a one-note group: Once I watched them murder (in a good way) a TALKING HEADS cover while an old man got me in a headlock and tried to kiss my neck. Maddison recently finished high school and was, I believe, sixteen when this group began. In fact none of them have burnt up much of their early twenties yet, but to be sure none of that shit matters and they certainly do not care for your creepy overtures either. Not going graciously. With furious posture and cavernous echo, this LP is a wicked, expansive progression from their quick ’n’ dirty demo. New young boots on that timeworn twist we know from the best of LA’s Dangerhouse groups they’ve been compared to already, lurching violently towards the gothic without any of the histrionics, from a GERMS-y buzz to screeching nighttime howls. There’s scheming outrage at Australia-as-a-façade, of course, railing against the climbing death toll of a colony gone forever berserk. Look, if we have to go with “snotty” here, like everyone else, then OK, sure, but only because snot is highly concentrated, a little bit naughty, gross but delicious. Put this on your tongue when everybody is looking.