Review Summary: The reign of bottom feeders will come to an end.
1 of 2 thought this review was well writtenWhat’s it like to be a cynical bastard fed up with those sorry excuses in the human populace that have to be tolerated on a daily basis? The question alone can resonate a sickening contempt of a beaten down spirit, which Terry Malts conveys all to well on their last nerve. It’s in the lo-fi post-punk temperament contained throughout
Killing Time where a smug disposition is the status quo. The accepted motion to distance oneself from conforming into despised routines is to bask in nihilism.
The San Francisco three-piece exposes the muddling ideals, created by brainwashed obedience, thriving on materialistic consumption. In mimicking robotic slaves to the grind, drowsy croons lambast over abrasive production, forming an upheaval towards the garage instrumentation. The bi-polar tempo accelerations strong-arm a moody atmosphere, paying homage to inventive outsiders that were dedicated to the obliteration of the fascist decree. It’s a complacent tendency, illustrated in a wide portion of the running time, and might’ve been reviled if not so charismatic.
In light of the alienated favoritism, heavily marketed at deriving much pleasure in sarcastic behavior,
Killing Time ironically reveals it posses a sensitive side. While it seems implausible, even a debbie downer that has a masters in skepticism is capable of being smitten. Terry Malts, for this very reason, has such realness in their demeanor, which unabashedly apologizes for nothing. Then again, when a track list of this magnitude oozes as much coolness as those they emulate, why even bother?
