Well, they look like hardcore kids, so I was all primed to have my head peeled back by the ensuing onslaught of noise I was expecting, but the music that’s coming outta my speakers is some lame college/indie rock crap. What a fucking disappointment.

Hmm…. A punk band that actually sounds punk. How novel a concept in this, the era of weepy James Taylor clones calling their drivel emo and poopy poppunk bands who think fart jokes and whiny nasal attempts at singing are witty and cutting edge. These guys sound like they crossed the space-time continuum in a machine that left Texas circa 1982 and made a beeline for the new millennium to show these “new school” pretenders what fuckin’ time it is. Sloppy in all the right ways, snotty in all the right places, up to its eyeballs in seething attitude, aggressiveness that isn’t achieved solely by playing atone thousand mph and LOUD, this, my fine-feathered friends, is one ass-kicking release. Prepare to be bitch-slapped and love every second of it. You’d have to be a complete moron not to pick this up.

These guys outta Canada play basic pogo punk anthems with melodic leads and pissed off working class lyrics. While definitely not bad, there wasn't much that grabbed me. The production on this CD was a bit lacking, which definitely did them no favors. So so. –Mike Dunn

Apparently, the atomic clock in some people’s world is forever stuck on 4:20. Is the wave after wave after wave of stoner bands another of bin Laden’s treacherous terrorist ploys like the clouds of West Nile mosquitoes he sent rolling across our country this past summer? I mean, fuck: how much obstructed-bowel bong music can a person listen to? Just like all the other stoner bands stamped out of the same giant cake of brontosaurus excrement, Weedeater’s music oozes like an overturned cement truck full of pus. You and Frank Kozik might like that, but I’ve been bored with it since Man’s Ruin started cranking out little bastard Sabbath babies like Ding-Dongs off the Hostess conveyor belt a few years back. These bud-worshipping rednecks have simply had a few too many pans of hash brownies and a few too many hours staring and giggling at their own turds floating in the toilet. It still seems funny to me that a so-called “mind -expanding” drug can beget such plodding, one-dimensional hippo music. Stoner-metal zen koan: what’s the sound of a waterheaded Tony Iommi in a wheelchair?

“How come every record I’m on ends up in the 99 cent bin?”

Dear Josh,

Good question and thanks for asking. If you had asked it sooner and not had to record and release a record to get the question to me (you know, I have a PO Box, a website, an email address, you probably could have gotten my phone number through one of the few degrees of separation that exist between us), I could have saved all of us a lot of work and suffering. The answer is easy, dude. This album will wind up in 99 cent bins because:

You play in Coheed And Cambria and you’re rapping.

No self-esteem set to beats doesn’t fly very well. I won’t argue that all rap has to be boasting or conscious (not every motherfucker can be Slick Rick or Sage Francis), but self-deprecation gets boring quickly, regardless of genre. If you want to keep your records out of the cheapo bins, may I suggest playing an acoustic guitar? Conor Oberst and Chris Carrabba seem to have done okay with that instrument.

While you touch on similar topics, your name isn’t Eminem and you didn’t come from 8 Mile. Your name is Josh and you came from Kingston, which is about halfway between Albany and New York. Sure, you can rap about anything, but rhymes about being a bored suburban cracker from New York state really aren’t that interesting.

A second helping of rarities and such from this, arguably LA’s first (and in the top three of the “best” category) official punk rock band. While it is easy to start complaining about what is included (yet another, albeit differently mixed, version of “Neutron Bomb,” and a rehearsal take of “I’m Not Like You,” a studio version of which was included on Volume One) and what isn’t (“Why Do You Exist” is conspicuously absent, making it the only remaining track from the Destroy All Music 7-inch on neither volume of this series; their take on the Door’s “Break on Through” or any versions of live favorites “Do the Dance” or “I’m a Mole”), there are more than enough goodies to keep fans’ appetites sated, such as Denny Brothers’ “solo” work like “Skateboards from Hell” and a track or two from their Warhead 12-inch, an early rehearsal with Dave Trout in tow for a run-through of “I Want What I Want,” alternate takes of previously released tuneage and unreleased live songs that appear nowhere else in any form. Plus, it’s the Weirdos, for chrissake, so you know going in that, no matter what, the proceedings are gonna be at worst top notch. I’m not gonna rip into you about what utter wannabes you’re gonna look like if you don’t soon have a copy of this in your collection, ‘cause I think that little fact is glaringly obvious.

I’ve heard armless deaf kids with more talent.

Dear Aaron,

Received you CD for review. Damned relieved to hear some good, energetic punk rock. Immediately liked your gritty vocals (“BWWUUUGH!!!”) and a visit to your myspace page confirms my suspicion (from the lack of collaborators listed on your CD) that you are a one-man band. (Backup vocals too? Nice). I have to tell you that the sound gets a bit muddled in places (“Trouble”), but considering the fact that you play each instrument with speed and flair—and that you do it all yourself—I’m still impressed. If you do someday expand into a full-fledged band, I hope you retain your position as bass-player and singer (the freshest aspects of your music) and that the rest of the band can keep up with your frenetic energy.

Yours truly,