The Freshkills mostly recall the Volcano Suns, and they may end up just as forgotten as those late-'80s clown princes of pound, since these five Austin residents have little regard for any current movement. No bedroom-laptop simpering, emo hair gel, or trust-fund metal here. Only rolling, wave-crashing drums, a dark sense of lyrical humor, and anxious, hole-boring yelps that originate somewhere in the singer's lower digestive tract and end up leaping out the back of your noggin.
Guitars sometimes stretch out like horns ("If Things Don't Change"), desperately lurch like a tyrannosaurus looking for lunch ("Hot Ex-wife Action"), fuzz and skitter into catchy choruses ("Creeps and Lovers"), and sometimes chime away into a future that might be much more epic and strolling ("Hands Up," "Taste of Metal"). There's a lot to love when a band like this comes around, slugging out a genetically astute crunch that resists pigeonholing.