Five albums deep, newly crowned hit maker for hire Jonathan Smith’s drum machined moshpit hooliganism, repetitive call-n-response Tourette’s Syndrome drilled into the pack of baying elbow throwers, is a movement home listening doesn’t do justice to. Because the rigidly regimented shrieking from the South is all about that moment in the club, being amongst that sweaty throng of liquor swillers all at the Juice’s mercy, grinding themselves to a standstill. LJ inexplicably burns himself out about two-thirds through, but by this time colours have been nailed to the mast – you’re either in or you’re out.
3 Out Of 5
Reviewed By: Matt Oliver