If albums were people, Dirty Lungs would have dissociative identity disorder. It sounds like a bad thing, but when you think of the lovability factor that makes the relationship between Tyler Durden and the narrator of Fight Club so great, it almost sounds like a badge of honor. It’s an unpredictable album, but never once leaves the listener wondering, “What the hell?” The record does a good job of making sense of itself, no matter how erratic it is at times.
“I Suck In Bed” begins the album with a pure modern garage punk intro that suddenly switches over to a dry, surf-ish tone. The acoustic first half of “All My Cats” has an Americana vibe, but the second half evolves into a very different beast, like an edgier version of the outro solo from “The Gold It’s In The…” Think of it as the Pink Floyd song sped up and injected with grunge. “Don’t Fucking Remind Me” is very much a surf rock jam, and “Space, Man” is an ever-evolving monster that, by its finish, demands fast highway driving to complete the mood.
On one hand, Dirty Lungs’ sound displays a gear-like meshing that could only stem from their eight years as a band, but on the other, there is a rawness to their music that can be likened to the early experiments of teenagers in a basement. That sort of youthful energy comes mixed with classic rock ‘n’ roll trends and modern irreverence, all in a half-hour long package, making Dirty Lungs simply a quick and overwhelmingly fun listen.
In A Word: Rad
