If you make it all the way through to track 21 (of 23), to “Sweet, Sweet Sickly Music”, you’ll hear a tortured guitar unspool against a beat obscured by fuzz. These are hooky songs rotted to phosphorescence, but plodding on nonetheless. The Drin’s tunes live furtively in fetid underground bunkers, where their ear-wormy melodies bounce off muck and concrete . . .
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