It's like Arab on Radar in your ears. While they've successfully nudged the guitar a few steps closer to dentistry tools, Arab on Radar pound on the same bathroom-stall joke for 19 minutes on Soak the Saddle . The opening track chugs away like a Brainiac knock-off in a combine, only it's recorded with microphones made of a tin cans and yarn. The result is neither menacing or powerful. Crusty drums jackhammer.
Guitars whistle like tea is ready.
It's shrill and calculated. Though it may be considered punk in some circles to aggravate the listener, it's pretty unpunk to charge people money for it. This relentless grind and screech could suffice as passable garage scrape-core if coupled with an intelligent, provoking singer. Sadly, the enigmatic Arab on Radar seemingly employs a congested Jon Lovitz reading the men's room graffiti in Bard's student union. Hard-ons are unamerican.