They sound like Napalm Death, with a drum machine.

I scratch in your sound with a stylus of distant horns and angry doors.

BODY PAINT, NO TATTOOS BY HR HARPER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 89

I listen to a band of kids in a room with no windows. I am perpetuated with the adolescent eternity in their skin (painted in second-thought colors). They sound like Napalm Death, with a drum machine. As always, holdi…