Sonic fissures sizzle the bacon they ain't faking "Blow your zip code". A subterranean world of street wisdom and Cosmo-ghettology. Sensational spits grit over the grit, keep them swaying as they stagger from grey luminous fog coming in off the Atlantic. A cohesive nugget of rolling energy "My presidential Rolex". Kruton whips up jagged shards of rhythm into the air. Elaborate thought processes conveyed through instinctive vocal responses "Cake!". Weapons grade Prana, hooks and bass.