oof. peaced is not a cure for the synapsefucker of a headache i have today (like the kind got jeff tweedy hooked on painkillers, like the kind got max cohen drilling brains out in pi). sounds like the result of a three a.m. jagermeister binge, armed to the green teeth with a young lady of questionable sexual hygiene, a rusted geetar, damaged tape recorder and some goofy/bad vibes. y’know when yr lips go numb and yr tongue swells and you can’t quite tell why yr knuckles are bleeding or whose blood it is and someone called evil dick keeps phoning and you know if you answer it all manner of things are gonna be explained that you don’t want explained. pretty much that kinda ambiance. it’s a throat-torn incantation, a plea to the swirling swollen heavens for some hiss-filled day-glo fog to smother us all. not so much played as disgorged, not so much recorded as acid scorched, not so much listened to as shouted at, wildly with spittledrenched foamflecked glee. like if someone smashed john dwyer’s noodlesack open on a table corner and recorded the ooze spilling out. like if flipper moved to texas and gangbanged don walsh. first thing you’ll notice, this is not roxy music. first thing you’ll notice, this is not well-heeled and girlish. rattling through five songs, each one stupider and uglier than the last, each one stupider and uglier than josef fritzl. they might well rehearse in some incestuous hell-cellar for all i know. remove the puns and it lacks any semblance of intelligence. i dropped iq points on first spin. starting with the first fingered discordia of fuzz, this is nothing more or less than a lolloping mess, a bellowed into and out of broken things mulch of religiously absurd babble, a gibberish paraphilia of nonsense car crash no-wave psych(e) guff. would i tell you to buy this? sure. if you have a spare seventeen minutes and enjoy a spot of ear-rape.