‘…Burn, Piano Island, Burn’ deserves to be flushed into every corner of our nation’s pop sensibility. Now. It warrants the destruction of every single describable notion that you may have for a record produced by the big mister I am, Ross Robinson. It is still screaming at me and I haven’t listened to it in days. In fact I locked it in the soundproof cupboard to stop myself humming its non-linear pop tuneage.

‘Do you remember us? We wrapped our corvette in cellophane and set it aflame. Raise a glass to the guitarmy.’

Suburban punk rock mall moshers turned fully endorsed screamo gods. The Blood Brothers have half inched all the crazy, out of sync noises that At The Drive In and Drive Like Jehu took for granted and have taken them for a journey through the backstreets of their arty, DIY squatted, 24 hour taxi driver, scabby underworld. You will not enjoy this record if you want the demons in your head to go away, you will not enjoy it if you are looking for a way to burn your caffeine induced headaches away. You will merely suffer at the hands of a bunch of psychopathic, semi-schizophrenic scenesters.

Repeated murmurs lie in tandem with duel bawls of glory. The lyrics alone are worthy of festering in a beat novel, riddled with 21st Century horrors. The production is to be met with cherishment rather than the consternation that is likely. The Blood Brothers have a story to tell, and the best way to listen is with your ears stapled to the ground and blood pouring out of your mouth.

The End.