Jon Read called himself the Wiggins before you graduated beauty school.
He only showboats onstage; he never rings his own bell. He stays ahead of the game for one simple reason, he works harder than everyone else.
This record took a long time coming. Each song here is a model of deformed rock and roll. Fucked-up white noise surf-rock and rusty nail salt-in-the-wound folk ballads. All delivered with the pill-drunk unsteadiness of Gene Vincent after the crash. Imagine the Monks gone electro, or a Jesus and Mary Chain rap album recorded on a fisher-price boombox.- TEX KERSCHEN, Indian Jewelry