The bunkered, light-starved claustrophobia of the mise-en-scene hits you almost as potently as the kinetic energy it can’t possibly contain: Chrome-cum-Index guitar scorch; bonehead drum clatter that sounds like some poor soul they’ve been keeping prisoner in the basement banging his shackles against the radiator; and maniacal half-shouted, half-sung vocals that hector and gabble and murmur and howl and effortlessly communicate the essence of the English Disease…LOOK BUSY!!!