Just as the harrowing chill of summer's slow death drifts across the land, the skin-crawling death-punk masterpiece debut LP from Alabama's confederate glue-wave goth 'tards, Wizzard Sleeve hits the shelves and drags all the sinister vibrations from the ugly side of psychedelia right up front where it belongs. As their influences have cited, and the self-described trinity of Chrome, Crime and Creedence settles into place in your chemically-damaged skull, and the unexpectedly danceable hits from their string of vile, self-depreciating 7-inch singles are reborn with a devastatingly murky effect that will drag you down into a hole faster than any over-the-counter anti-anxiety cocktail you've ever ingested. Like Peter Murphy sucking on a tailpipe, Wizzard Sleeve are the end of the line for your happy good times and the start of a new atrocious standard in head-expanding, zooed-out and shut-in true punk weirdness that won't be getting many brownie points with mom, dad, church leaders, or parole officers anytime soon.