"I don’t know if there’s any correlation between the title of this album and “Russia’s Finest” vodka, but I can definitely extract some comparison: This shit burns. It’s seriously nasty. It’s going to fuck you up.
Poacher turns the key and side A ignites with the clatter of a dozen rarely serviced Model T Fords. Churning, mechanical grinding lays the foundation. Power drills pierce through these iron-cored bombinating blocks. Explosions sound underground. Someone left the car door open. Molten wasps dive bomb and penetrate straight through your numbed cranium. They crash and explode like firecrackers and then fizzle out.
The tempo changes for a moment. Interjections of breaking glass and clanging sheet metal take center stage. But this fades, as quickly as it started, and gives way to an electromagnetic symphony. Microprocessors rhythmically crunch numbers, amplified times a million through failing antique transducers. But it all succumbs to a tidal wave of noise, leaving you drowning in a looped groan of agony.
Side B commences with the whine of fluorescent lights and a digital trashcan fire. A squeal of feedback cues an exponentially intensifying onslaught of distorted disparate sounds, broken only by a helicopter flyby. A pause for a scraping breath of cold damp air, and then a chance encounter with a circular saw between the eyes.
Finally, chirps of radio-wave crickets fill a suddenly barren soundscape. An impromptu demolition derby of a dozen or more semi-trucks takes place, obliterating the stillness. Engines roar and collide, a cacophony more powerful than the busiest salvage yard incinerators. But when the dust settles, the crickets reclaim their space and stillness prevails. There’s a quiet scurry of an unknown form. Thunder can be heard in the distance, hinting at storms to come."