The H H H on the CD liner notes are collapsed together so that they look suspiciously like the stitches on an autopsied body’s chest and abdomen. The home-burnt CD itself sports a hand-drawn series of stitch marks: H H H H H. You get my drift? Already one has flashes of strange people hanging around the intake room of the local embalmer’s college, and the songs, screams, rants themselves do not–on the whole change the impression. For $5.00 or a trade one can hear some of the most imaginative musics out there in post-post-modern Baltimore, where John Waters looms Large and Divine and Eadie the Egg Lady are not mere names gliding past on the credits of a late-night cult film drive-in binge of a college weekend. The cuts that grabbed me most were: The Gush, Death is a Lonely Boy’s Voice, Here Come the Heat Makers, and the insane blues Armitage Shanks. Contact Ric Royer at www.RICROYER.com for more information. I mean, we’re absolutely not talking Garth Brooks here.