There’s a new best band in San Francisco. And this band plays a beautiful cacophony of raw, frenetic guitars, fiercely pounded drums, and jerky yet oddly melodic vocals. Perfect timing and guitar damage reminiscent of the Proletariat underscores a vocal delievery not dissimilar to the Observers but less operatic and more desperate. Synthetic ID sound like Greg Sage, D. Boone, and Colin Newman fabricating the house band for the International Space Station. Or better yet, spending three days in close quarters on an uncharted trek to the Sea of Tranquility. Anxious paranoia dripping from the walls. It's jerky, derailed, and draws heavily from early post-punk, but chugs along at a classic punk tempo, blasting out totally agitated lyrics the whole time. Space madness? Or just a need to escape the surface of this planet, even if it just be through the act of playing two minute punk jams? Either way, it's exciting and different. This record is a tight, fuzzy underground treasure in the waiting.
