Fred’s got slacks on the boulevard.
Fred’s got slacks on the boulevard.
Anger: hostility towards the opposition.
It’s a holiday in Cambodia. It’s tough, kid, but it’s life.
This crowd is tight, tight. Gonna party all night, night.
I wanna be stereotyped, I wanna be classified, I wanna be a clone – I want a suburban home.
If growing up means being like you, then I don’t want to be like you.
Graffin’ up in L.A. you can’t act stupid and play, striking up in the hood could mean your last day.
In this world today, there ain’t nobody to thank. Just blame it on the kids and toss ‘em in the tank.
I don’t want to hear it – all you do is talk about you. I don’t want to hear it, ‘cause I know that none of it’s true.
We are tired of your excuse. Try to stop us – it’s no use!
Don’t suffer the fools who refuse to get enough-er of this construct of musical performances.
A sprawl of 43 eclectic gems add up to a greater whole, and that price is right on.
Points to the future of aggressive music generally in some small but important way.
Listen to this on a battered cassette player for maximum effect.
Houston, we have a problem indeed. But not with this record.
You (and you) might be able to survive without this album, but why (and why)?
So much that is so great (and so right) about punk rock.
Spooky cool carnivalesque organ against Misfits-ish dirty, fast-paced hardcore punk? Uh, yes please.
Variety and range, from hardcore punk to an acoustic jam that you could almost imagine being on a 1980s-era Midnight Oil record.
It’s fresh, indie, passionate, and punk, all the more remarkable for an album produced some four decades ago