Drums. Guitar. Panache. Guts. Glory. A lack of fashion sense. These elements united together in April 2004 in a haphazard fashion that would become ’soaf’. Actually sons to no one, these two un-crustacean-like individuals create a (un)holy racket that is possibly unlike a poor man’s Lightning Bolt or a sane man’s Harry Pussy. Typically entirely improvised and always without tact, these Boston boys ain’t scenesters; they’re scene outcasts, preferring to revel in their own sludge, piss around the point and, finally, beat volume-tastic quasi-riffs into the proverbial s**tcan.
