The Locust

What did you think, summer cesspool sleeper, English wasn't a language conceived for business? Allow me, please, to introduce New Erections, the third full-length from the Southern California decade-plus young endeavor, The Locust, as a post-futurist to primitive again strangled tongue-shearer just 'cause the business is lickin' pretty bad. Circumstances prohibiting, if the Locust could've soundtracked the previous two World War's they probably would've. Fortunate for ears and unfortunate for Earth, this procession leader of an album is a hell of a charm with New Erections clocking in at twenty-three minutes proving a potent and primal alarm that sludges along peach hairs before this breaking levy. Here is New Erections, eleven tracks deep and somehow totally anthemic, throbbing in the void of those past limps crumbled by planes and bleak brains, blanketed by soft skulls with electric socket glory holes for eyes that worship the steel wool pulled over them. New Erections, a celebratory prost! to the old photos of you, mid-twenties, with friends pi***ng on GG's shallow grave now under-exposed by the current you, over-miserable hollow white-collar power-slave.