This has that wonderfully amateurish ‘60s garage sound that I love—the kind of recording that sounds like it was tracked in a one-car garage between lawnmower repairs. Is it the definitive example of the genre? Not even close. But I’m an archivist at heart. I collect the weird stuff, the lost stuff, the “why does this exist?” stuff. If it makes my ear perk up like a confused terrier, I’m saving it.
Was this comped? Honestly, I have no earthly idea. It might have been comped, or it might have simply materialized one night like a cursed object in a folklore story. But it’s now officially part of the Noize universe, and once something enters the Noize universe, it’s like being bitten by a radioactive spider—there’s no undoing it.
Now, the sharp‑eyed among you may notice this is Side 2, and that Side 1 is mysteriously absent. The explanation is simple: the A‑side was catastrophically, heroically bad. We’re talking the kind of bad that makes dogs howl, milk curdle, and grown adults stare into the middle distance reconsidering every decision that led them to this moment. A true audio crime scene. CSI: Turntable. That’s seriously sad considering the cosmic level of hope their name promised. I mean, with a name like that, I was fully prepared—no, spiritually primed—for a psychedelic flip‑out so intense it would rearrange my furniture, open a wormhole in the laundry room, and cause at least one neighbor to report “strange shimmering lights” to Homeland Security. Instead, the A‑side just sat there like a damp sponge, radiating disappointment and the faint smell of old carpet.
In fact, this 45 is the perfect lesson in why you should always flip a record over before deciding whether it belongs in the keeper box or the donation pile. Sometimes the good stuff is hiding on the back. And sometimes the front side is doing its absolute best to keep you from ever finding it.
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