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Born from the sonic wreckage of Ohio's industrial decay, a psychedelic spacepunk assault that refuses to grow up from the '90s—and that's exactly the point. For over a decade, we've been brewing a toxic stew of drugged-out noise that gets brutally honest when you least expect it.

Imagine Butthole Surfers and The Ventures getting into a bar fight with D.O.A., The Exploited, and Minor Threat—then waking up in a demolished studio with 10,000 watts of sonic fury and a serious attitude problem. 

One witness described their music as "riot fuel"—a perfect distillation of America's seedy underbelly served with a side of existential rage and dark humor.

Part social commentary, part spiritual awakening, part middle finger to everything sacred. Turn off your water for 24 hours to see what real America looks like beyond your comfort zone, to wake up and witness the beautiful disaster we're all living in. From Dayton's intersection of highways and human trafficking to the fentanyl epidemic ravaging the heartland, we transform personal tragedy into sonic catharsis. When life burns down around you, when the FBI raids your studio and methheads steal your demos, you keep making noise. Because in a world this broken, silence isn't an option.

Still breathing, still screaming, still making everyone's rebellion commercially unacceptable since the last millennium refused to die.

"God bless this mess."