Chest-beating, pop-stained, hyper-melodic, finger-in-your-eye ROCK-n-ROLL
Imagine taking all four of The Donnas -- KISS-off kitsch and metal queen mannerism intact -- distilling them down to one 98-pound weakling of a fellow who could somehow still manage to furiously wrestle a guitar and pile drive it into the mat. Now envision that fellow being something of a vaudevillian impresario with a penchant for sonic oddity, a flea-circus ringleader with a raging migraine, a misfit literate with a mile-wide libido.
“What are you looking at?” asks Jon. “This is a record album, not a picture show."
"Besides, you had me at, ‘taking all four of The Donnas.’”
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