Final Body - Sick Quitter
This is the Seattle that shakes and conquers the old scribe: two hundred and six seconds of gunpowder under the blanket of Post-Punk that, having emigrated from Germany and glided to the United States, performs a miracle of gothic intensity, with neurotic drops of multiple needs, to become a rosary to be recited in continuous adoration. The singing is an intense refugee prayer from the land inhabited by Robert Smith in the Pornography period. Yes, of course, the guitars also have something of the Cure about them, but there are other sound and reference houses one could look to. However: what is important is to be subjected to this running torrent of melancholy, so abundant and pleasant...