This record is gonna end up in bruised flesh and battered brains, no doubt about it. Don't worry, man, probably not YOURS, but somebody's gonna get their ass handed to 'em, believe me. See, this Stu Walker cat is one of the shadowy side-men in Boston's pre-eminent entertainment machine, the gutter-disco sleaze-lounge catastrophe collectively known as COKE DEALER, an insular cabal of freaks and perverts and dope eaters and troublemakers. The king of this Scumdom is one Harlem Greenwood, a snake-eyed violence junkie with an ego that could topple skyscrapers. Harlem don't know that one of his charges has been surreptitiously fussin' around in the studio behind his back, constructing this wildly deviant collection of ass-fuck blues and slacker-dustrial broken-necked stagger dances. Until now, that is. My guess is, this here's gonna be the LAST and ONLY Stu Walker album, never mind the first, so y'all better scoop it up before the rest of 'em are melted down into ashtrays and Walker's gangly body is found floating in the Chelsea river with all the identifiable bits removed. Now, I understand if it makes ya nervous, listening to music conceived, performed, and produced by an outright criminal goon, but, as always, there are rewards for bravery. In this case, it's a rekkid chockablock with sizzle and flash, a wide and sweeping arc of styles and moods ranging from grinding machine rock to death waltzes to narcotic song n' dance numbers. 'Yeah', I hear ya say, 'But what's it SOUND like?' Well, Cap'n Obvious, ya like the frizzle-fry jazzmataz and machinegun blues of Foetus and Cop Shoot Cop, dontcha? Well, at least yr daddy does, and I bet yr grandpa really went for that boogie-woogie-bugleboy shit too, and there's a whole greasy slew o' that stuff here, too. And believe me, those surly ol' bastards had WAY more taste than a television sucker like'well, I'm not here to insult ya, bub, but you really COULD use some culture. Even if it is Apocalypse Culture. And it is. So, who, really, is this Stu Walker? Where's he come from, and where's he been? Does he have a steady girl? What's his sign? Does he spit or swallow? Those are all good questions, Jack, but if there's one thing I've learned out here in the trenches, it's this: snitches get stitches. So stop being so nosy and wrap yr ears around the most poetic punch in the face you'll ever hear. Oh, and if anybody asks you, you didn't hear it from me. -Sleazegrinder