Holy Casey Royer, punk man, D.I. is back! Well, Ok, maybe it's just their smack-sodden spirit, but here it is, the music of my formative years played enthusiastically and with great vigor by four young dudes from, wait, that can't be right- New York? I could have sworn this came straight outta Huntington, what with the apocalyptic nuclear annihilation lyrics and the wannabe ghoulish guitar that sounds like a Fullerton mini-mall and those singalong background vocals on the choruses and Johnny's got a problem and he's outta control and note the poor punctuation as we swing back on the pendulum to the dumbass music of our youth that gave us so much pleasure and led to so many bad decisions (dagger earring, I still love you) and no matter how hard we feign maturity by putting unplayed jazz records on the shelves, that old bitch hippocampus speaks to good buddy amygdala and sense memory meets emotion and here come the images of the PCH at night, stopping for twelve-packs of Schaeffer and a slice on the way to some horrible venue where Social Distortion, The Adolescents, Doggy Style, Youth Brigade, and fourteen other crop-haired young bands would get on stage and snarl and prowl and otherwise act all punky and we in our deep intoxication would smash into one another at high speeds and fall down and then wallow in the brotherhood of that outstretched hand and up we'd pop for the next tour and boy did I have to fake any connection to these people but release sweet release and sometimes the band would find it and by miracle they'd be in tune and, well, memory lane can be a funny old street. Any band that delivers a time machine to that video arcade where the pock-marked acid dealer offered 14 hours of reality variety is a band worth keeping in the keep pile.
