Pitchfork

What if Henry Rollins was suddenly engorged with so much muscle bursting from his neck that he was as big as Mothra, pissed off and headed to trample Los Angeles? Dwarfing the rockies behind him as the setting sun gives his tattoos a golden glow, one would surely know and feel the music that simply belongs in just such a situation. It would be the music that still belongs in every small hardcore club in the nation. Sweaty, cigarette- butt- gulping, elbows raking into your stomach crunch.

...Boom...Boom... Henry's feet would remind us of his approach and Helmet's Aftertaste would soundtrack the event with the reminder that there is still life in music; that the focused energy that Rollins was so absorbed with in The End of the Silence is still alive and well with these guys. Pleasurably powerful, well-written music and lyrics that don't dissapoint. Worth getting if you like your truths told in the guise of heavy tunes. Remember.