Chicago's punk underworld has reimagined itself several times over the past twenty years, from the cavorting slime punk damage of the early 2000s, through the fracturing of styles and directions a few years later, it's all been simmering salaciously for generations now, and for the last few years, only a few really noteworthy band have grasped the raw agitation as well as The Sueves. Rearing their ugliness up through the tropes of plastic flowers and goofy sunglasses, these brave young ravagers are not content to sit idly by as the stench of indifference passes over the masses, always the "least chill" band at the rock'n roll party and that is really a good thing.
You can't just sit still when The Sueves are wielding their wares, both in person and on record, the aggression has to burst out somehow, and although it's far, far easier to just appeal to the low-hanging fruit dangling at the bottom of the rock'n roll food chain, it's far more respectable to be the ones who are bleeding and bruised, flipping over the tables & chairs with reckless abandon, every single time. The Sueves' core sound echoes back to a time not long ago when you really had to try hard to make your band stand out, pushing the boundaries of the tired "garage rock" trappings into a mutated stump of unpredictable punk splatter.
The guitar tone sits somewhere between sadistically strangulated and blisteringly complicated, an ominous bonafide shredding sound that leaves you beaten and beleaguered and gasping for more, even with such serrated hooks dug in so deep. And while their less-than-shocking appearance keeps them hidden within their surroundings, it's this visceral noise emanating from their sizzling weapons of choice that clearly sets them apart, constantly reminding you of the danger that lies within true rock'n roll savagery. The nuances are sickening, the delivery desperate, and that oh-so-impossible tension all tie together with The Sueves on this debut LP to level your expectations and decimate your dreams of a low-key existence.