For all the ten-minute drone fests one might know and love, there’s nothing quite like a track that cuts the crap and gets its business done in a minute thirty. The Sticks crash out this crude beauty in less than forty minutes and leave you slightly dazed but twenty songs happier – have that, you proggy three-hour five-trackers. Boisterous and a bit boozy, this is an album of cymbal-driven, crunchy garage punk, prickling with reverb-drenched vocals, manic, metallic surf guitars and a distinct lack of bass lines. There is the occasional woozy punk waltz (‘In The Sea’) or bass-heavy psych moment (‘Nothing Song’) but for the most part this is a thrashy, abrupt, clattering record – if violently emptying a cutlery drawer was an art form, it would sound like The Sticks. That’s a compliment.

By Polly Rappaport

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