Portland's the Thermals, however, know full well the power of sounding like a broken record. Fuckin A is the followup to last year's dark-horse success, More Parts Per Million, and it's more or less a clone of its predecessor. While brisk, prickly riffs spread and rankle like a rash, singer/guitarist Hutch Harris hacks up clipped couplets of vaguely solipsistic gibberish such as "We're self mending/We're self cleansing/Our slate is clean/Say what you mean." At first glance, Fuckin A is a just wad of geeky, repetitive pop punk in sore need of some antihistamine. Lean closer, though, and you'll notice a chaotic splay of soul, thought and emotion wherein Minor Threat drops acid with Robert Pollard and armed revolution swaps spit with drunken heartache. Yeah, the second verse is the same as the first is the same as the thirty-third; Harris himself admits as much in "End to Begin" ("Repeat/Repeat/Repeat/Ride to me/Right through me"). But in its relentless recursion, Fuckin A hammers a Morse code of lust, life and every possible combination thereof straight into the bull's-eye of your gray matter. Tautology? More like a mantra.