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"So I'm sitting here wading through some bottom-of-the-barrel reject discs I've been putting off reviewing for this issue and I come upon this buried in the crap I've scooped up. Depressed and more than a little punchy, thanks to the long line of affected college boys who have vented their politically correct rage into my ear over the course of the previous fifteen releases I've listened to today, I look at the cover, grunt, place the disc in the stereo and hit "play," bracing myself for the pop punk onslaught that will no doubt come belching forth from my speakers. Much to my surprise, what came from said speakers is some prime-rate punk rock that sent my depression scampering for the hills. "Man, I needed this," I say to myself as I crank it up to eleven. Fuck comparisons, this is just one of them discs that just rocks and nothing more need be said about it. A glance at the "thank you" notes on the inside reveals a Razorcake mention and I think how symbiotic that is - we Razorcakers only dig the finest in music and, in turn, are thanked by only the finest of bands.""
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"How straight-forward do you want it? Through and through Fat Ass delivers what I would expect from Diaphragm Records and Fort Wayne, Indiana: drunken, obnoxious, rowdy punk rock that will have you cracking a 40 oz, celebrating the end of the work week and the beginning of the weekend!""
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"FAT ASS highlights Salsa Dave's drumming versatility as they plow through styles from NEW YORK DOLLS to ZEKE. I love that name... FAT ASS! FAT ASS rocks!" (HM)"
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like a punked-up George Thorogood. This is a disc that you will want to keep in your disc player for a while." - (MK)
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"This rocked me so hard that it not only knocked me on my fat ass, but on someone else's as well... and I liked that!"
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"In calling forth the specters of a number of mid-1980s punk bands such as Black Flag and Dead Kennedys, Fat Ass successfully meshes the aforementioned bands with Matt Freeman-style bass lines to create something fairly forward-thinking."
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"Fat Ass write odes to drinking and drugging that could only be birthed in the grizzled flatlands of Ft. Wayne, Indiana. Titles like “Rub One Out” and “Betty Ford” do most of the explaining, but try and imagine Fear blindsided by the Supersuckers for an approximation of their sound."
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"Blistering, balls-out
rock 'n' roll thunder at its trashiest and most wrathful!"
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." No apologies for the
fired-up sounds they bring. Four tunes begging to be cranked."
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"Fort Wayne, Indiana
has hardened these guys, helping them to create this sweat-drenched music."
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"I hate to sound like
a complete bastard, but I hate it when I get records like this. I hate
writing rotten reviews. Really, I don't enjoy doing this, but in this
case, I must."
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"This sort of sound calls
for lots of beer, motorcycles and sawdust on the floor."
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