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Sorta surf, sorta punk, sorta horror rock, sorta sleazy late-night cable-access freakshow, Milwaukee’s The Pukes serve up a second helping of their spooky, glammy, hook-heavy weirdo rock. Imagine if Danzig-era Misfits were actually cartoon rats from Rockaway Beach. And wrote songs about murder and slurping buckets of blood. Surprisingly upbeat for a bunch of lunatics.

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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