Cassette-tape chaos, sweat, screams, riffs and disobedience. A sick rock show: simple as that.
Get lost in properly loud guitar jams, bass that cracks sidewalks and drums with broken brake lines.
Clamm are barreling down the riff highway, but the squalls of guitar are too much for the windscreen wipers—angular punk, always moving forward. Jumping from pockets of fuzz, with one-minute bouts of mania, is Brick Head—like someone yelling through a green and gold dish scourer. And Voice Imitator’s champing at the bit—bleak humour, noise rock and white-hot propulsive energy.
Howl into the void.