Liars' first record, They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top released by Gern Blandsten in October 2001, is viewed as a holy grail for young twilight artists and twinkle-eyed admirers. The heroic commitment to audio architecture by this trio of Cal Arts dropouts is quantified by their deathless threshold of experimentation, a steadfast mission to puncture the tangible realm of sonic possibilities like barrier breaker Chuck flippin Yeager.

After "They Threw Us," my relationship with Liars reached the same tear-jerking climax as singer Angus Andrew and Karen-O. Liars joined the Mute crew and held up in a wood cabin once used as a safe house for Mafioso Joes just outside of the smell good sector of New Jersey to record They Were Wrong, So We Drowned which after all of the hype hype hype, died slower and quicker than Saddam Hussein. When the country of Germany graciously opened their arms and allowed Liars to use their devilish city of Berlin to configure Drum's Not Dead, the result hardly stirred a rumble in this fat belly of mine. Our thing had ended, Liars and me. Whatever originally brought us together had now subsided, time had flown by and we all moved our foul lives forward, for good or ill.

Liars, the fourth offering from this continent bouncing trio of modulation masochists currently operating outta the city of angels, is a major heater like a mitt scorching pitch from the hand of my man Sandy Koufax, Fernando Valenzuela, Orel Hershiser, or any Dodger ace. It desperately illustrates a withered image of whatever Reid brother was doing Hope Sandoval, Jim I think, puking on a collapsing wooden porch of a tremendous castle overlooking the lush green countryside of Scotland, as he drunkenly re-arranges clip snippets from Pyschocandy, fiendishly splicing in snip clippings from Honey's Dead.

"Plaster Casts Of Everything" is hardcore Nirvana, repetitive screaming of a sadistic chorus over infinite miles of stretching sound. The punch packed at the start of this stereo incinerator is beyond maniacal, trans-hysterical, this lopsided peal of magnitude hits as tough as Refused, before they were fucking dead.

"Houseclouds" is straight up from the hidden depths of The Life Aquatic, kinky synthesizer and falsetto voice bubbling to the surface of a quirky sea of insanity.

"Leather Prowler" is scary shit. This is the soundtrack spinning endlessly inside the sickest killing machines of our time. The Hitlers and the Bundys and the Rumsfelds. The granular droning may cause severe damage to already enflamed eardrums. As spectacular as "This Dust Makes That Mud" on the Liars debut document.

"Sailing To Byzantium" is the blitzed aftermath of a 24-hour bout with pills, booze, and unprotected ass sex on an unknown peninsula in a galaxy far far away.

"What Would They Know" is guitar city sweetheart where every apartment complex is developed with rich walls that act as inoculators of future filth, gritty ceilings drip with animal bile and the floor is soaked in vermin. This is what degenerative decaying of the human body sounds like, the erosion of energy by the vicious serenading of lucid guitars.

"You touched my head and that's when I was born" grinds out of the tip of "Cycle Time" which like "Plaster Casts" is a nitro torch of unequivocal supremacy.

One of the brightest sparks emanating from the blank face of this supernova is "Freak Out," an anti-war song that segues into "Pure Unevil," recently covered by Liars fanatics Deerhunter, which is the sound equivalent of a sharp object Richie Manic would use to carve "4 Real" into his arm.

"Clear Island" is far more dangerous than that crazy fuck from North Korea with that crazy fucking hairdo and them crazy fucking glasses, far more dangerous. This elephantine monster is far superior in terms of brute strength than the 1971 Miami Dolphins, who are the only football team in NFL history to win a championship with a perfect season. Dippy haters could try, but why would they even want to front on "Clear Island" unless they truly wanted a face smashing beat down? This song is tougher than a Governator bowel movement.

"The Dumb And The Rain" isn't close to damaging fertile lands like the horrific monsoons in India or river rapids in England and hardly compares to the soppy magnitude of "Nine Million Rainy Days," but this sleepy treat does continue Liars' erratic then sedated train of incurable velocity.

After eating a handful of blotter acid and putting Pink Floyd's "Learning To Fly" on the stereo hi-fi, Liars plunge back onto a hazy trip that personifies the sexiness of Buffalo Bill tucked up and dancing naked in front of the mirror to the disturbing sound of Q Lazarus' "Goodbye Horses" in Silence Of The Lambs. "I'd fuck me."

This inflamed mother from Liars is either the greatest fucking album on the planet or the biggest fucking vat of collected sounds under the sun.

"Plaster Casts Of Everything"