F-Minus
Suburban Blight
(Hellcat)

In this corporate world of ours, self-esteem can be bought with $. Or, alternatively, it can be propped up by booze. The sad irony is that booze costs $. Water, of course, is free. Beware watered-down booze. It is a waste of $. To maximize your booze-to-$ ratio, drink only hard booze—without water.

The same logic can be applied to punk rock. Punks have very few $. Watered-down punk rock is a waste of limited $. But $ spent on this F-Minus album is $ well-spent. For two hours of training wage (thanks for nothing, Gordon Campbell—you cocksucker!), a punk gets: a) twenty 100-proof songs b) played by two angry men and two angry-but-lovely ladies c) railing against the many evils of this corporate world (white-collar crime, globalism, materialism, organized religion), and d) directions on how to build Molotov cocktails and homemade grenades. Literally, good bang for your $.

So, forget Coors Light and Millencolin—blow your $ on a ‘sixer of rye and this F-Minus CD. Your self-esteem will soar. You will revel in your drunken brokedness. You will hate The Man. You will experience something $ can’t buy: the pure, high-octane buzz of alcoholic destitution and angry righteousness.

Jamie Maclaren