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Poison Rites serve up some crazed, twoaccelerators-and-nobrakes speed rock from Denver that makes Motörhead sound like Sabbath. It’s like the Dead Boys hurtling off the tracks on a bullet train, or like a stack of NWOBHM singles melted into a ball of flaming murder and shot out of a cannon. Wear leather, rock hard, repeat until your neck breaks.

Came from the sky like a 747. Classic Rock’s least-reputable byline-grabber since 2003. Several decades deep into the music industry. Got fired from an early incarnation of Anal C**t after one show. 30 years later, got fired from the New York Times after one week. Likes rock and hates everything else. Still believes in Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, against all better judgment.

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