Like a jerkier, dirtier version of avant-rockers Clinic, California's the Intelligence hijacks indie rock with an arsenal of skin-peeling distortion, jackhammer repetition and oxymoronic moronism. And that's a good thing: On its latest full-length, this summer's Fake Surfers, the group accordingly mutilates reverb-slathered surf riffs using post-punk nihilism, garage-rock rawness and what sounds like some kind of malfunctioning vacuum cleaner. It's not a pretty sound, nor is it as brainlessly aggressive as it might seem at first; after prolonged exposure to its skull-drilling chants and downward spiraling rhythms, you might just want to give yourself an ad-hoc lobotomy with a coat hanger in an attempt to more clearly tune in to the Intelligence's sick, shit-stained wavelength.
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