Sure, this music has its qualities, though they’re pretty hard to detect after the first listen, and maybe even harder after a further ten listens. This is the kind of music you spent your early teens pogoing to—smashed off your face in the middle of the trashy, grim-fuelled rock club of your hometown. So drunk, that you no longer care, can no longer dance, or even see straight for that matter. And of course, you have no interest in good music. You just want to get wasted! If it serves no other purpose, this is a great album to have a sweaty work-out to. As in, work out the sweat, work out that deep lurking primal angst and work out those god damn demons while you’re at it. King of Jeans is your archetypal dark, grunge rock album. You’ll barely be able to hear the lyrics, but you’ll be too busy thrashing and doing high kicks off your couch to actually notice. When the singer isn’t droning and making little to no sense with his tuneless reverbing wails, he occasionally sounds a little like Nick Cave doing a soliloquy for Grinderman. At other high points, one might think they detect the alcohol imbibed vocals of Mark E. Smith. Big swooping rock guitars, combined with thrashing cymbals and banging, crashing drums. All this topped off with a singer who sounds like he’s half drunk, half dead, or perhaps, like he’s pissed his jeans and he’s super mad.