Dads attempt to prop up punk by kicking its legs out from under it. Relieved of any instinct toward civilized thought, Invisible Blouse thrives on what many bands would deem scraps. A lick here, some stick-clickin’, another lick or two… Where’s this all going? Then about 50 seconds in a build-up beckons the arrival of the drummer; a pounding section ensues wherein the singer shrieks like a stranded sailor (believe me, they shriek somethin’ fierce) and moans all snotty-like. “Homo Concentration” is much, much grittier, almost akin to that old Random Victim song “Killing a Pretty Girl” or maybe Dead & Gone. Flailing, beyond-regret vocals enable a relatively simple procession of toms, loose high-hats, and soft-electric guitar strums to stretch out and do some damage. When they’re done, it’s like a slow-motion tornado hit the room. Quite a contrast from track-to-track on this one, like Dads are doing a split with themselves. Thick pressing to match the mood, and we’re off to see the wizard.
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