Remember the excitement of the first time you wrote a song. Sure, it was likely just a couple of chords played loudly but that exuberance cut through you. VU may be the root of rock and roll but there’s nothing as crucial as self-exploration that tickles all the senses. That’s the bedroom enthusiasm of Greymouth, two man-children leaving the home nest of New Zealand for Tokyo, marrying their old pound-and-ground days with the kinetic fever of Japanese garage and noise. This cassette is all careless din; the unrelenting strums of punks trying to break strings. They’re going to out-punk the old farts still declaring what can be given such a holy bequeathing. To hell with it all, this is the crash course in what exists outside of rock and roll. Punk is dead, but Greymouth survives. The basement is gone, by the cramped apartment lives.