Firstly, introduce me to the vamp on the cover. Secondly, stuff me in your cramped garage and play me a tune. Thirdly, let me rediscover the coolness of a brick-and-mortar record store making records and selling them. This is the world I wanted in the mid-90s, all covered in large flannel, sweaters and baggy jeans on a scrawny 5’ 7”, 28-inch waist. Gals with pink hair, a rebel band, and a store in which to loiter. But this ain’t no flashback. [It ain’t no disco either]. It’s grungy garage rock with none of the sentimental attachments, just hard-hitting, come-and-go action that bounces off the walls. If I trip the light fantastic back in time, it’s to my own lousy high school band who filled parents’ basements and Fraternal Order of Police lodges with four-sided din. Jensen Serf Company is far more adept and cool than I ever was, so it’s why I want to hang out with Electric Sister over and over again. Or at least be a hanger-on. It’s coolness by proxy. I won’t ever land a girl with pink hair and the ability to play satisfying garage rock, but by knowing her, I’m seemingly cooler. Ah, who am I kidding? I’m just writing about this, not playing it. I’ll never be cool, no matter how ill-fitting the clothing, how floppy the hair, or whatever narcotic or liquor bottle I sneak. At least JSC will comfort me, and so will my modern white bred suburban broke lifestyle without the cirrhosis.