Wedged in between mania and what amounts to crippling hopelessness, is the frosted pavement from which SUIR’s sound reverberates. The worn cliche of post-punk imagined as a grid, the faceless brutalist facade doesn’t quite account for the cold, sexual inertia rolling SUIR forward. Creeping like ink or blood, hot on the cold roads. It’s not so much faceless as it is anonymous, lost but lurching. Punk like a pulse, clinically primal. Violent as the rhythm that’s all too familiar.
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