Whatever yours Stuly's musings on Joy Divisions veritably unverifiable merits they really did scruffle out of punk's dying embers. It's no inestimable stretch to state these Midlands nightmare breeding mood massacrists, masochists and slouched-laden sadists do similar in being about the only band of these easy over-Order referencing times to take the doleful lumber-lunges and bleed new life into the bronchioles even as they die nonchalantly on razorwire in no mans land, their atonal decapitatory incants recalling Aussie tragedians The Drones and Sidewalk Regrets in the process, with touches of Boces era Mercury Rev, Paul Westerberg and even that rare early glimpse of Hole's caustic skin-stripping promise on Drown Soda. Similarly setting the literate against the grenade-rigged gateposts of existential lo-fi and harsh-insight this starts fairly effusively, ragged-right? yet raging, seeething, on the sardonic scabrosity. Jagged rib-scrapes of drastically dislocated country-cloaked sludge follow like an unremitting lava-flow until the whole creaking shack suddenly splits asunder and shatters gloriously under the straining shackles of the era-eradicating, titanic title-track as the bag of broiling blues that ebbs and spurts in sweltering cascades from some fissure, spluttering spastic cockroach crawl where volcanic feedback scratches scathing shards that erupt like colossal forest fires in fields of Fenders. Magnificently portentous and tumultuously potent with scant evidence of And The Band Used The Bad Seeds As A Bible - though perhaps where anything spaghetti western began being labelled Tarantino-esque and Cave and Bad Seed Warren Ellis score movies like The Assassination Of Jesse James and The Road, this wouldn't be out of place soundtracking Cormac's crestfallen, bleak, blasted worldviews. As defiantly dislocated as dour, die-hard deviance should be.