Deep in the graveyard of San Francisco, a young hand with black and cracked nails is pushing up through a broken pile of e-slag. Bitter teeth tear through server cables and motherboards, desperate to be free from the ever-deepening sludge of tech waste. the iPhone is the new styrofoam cup. Stepping over them-eyes glazed, feet dragging, blank face aglow in the eerie luminescence of smart phones-is the inspiration for these songs. San Francisco has long attracted newcomers. but now the city faces the most dangerous, the most egregious and blandest of them all-people with lots of money. In the vacuum that is now expanding, there is a ragged, determined sound vibrating out of the dirty underground. This is POW! Deep '80s synth bass percolates under the circuit-swamp-fried-egg guitar. The drums, a teenage tiger's heartbeat, underpin vocals delivered like a deadpan face-slap from a kid half your age. The recording is simple and dense, and it has a natural Doppler effect on headphones. It's perfectly poppy and rough at the same time, and it has a message, so dig in, ear-wise. Heed the warning bells echoing down the streets of San Francisco clogged with the cholesterol of normals. Next they could be knocking at your door...