The long playing record splayed out in front of you is the third strike of the Retail Simps’ iron claw. In baseball a strike out is a loathsome outcome, in bowling it’s gold. I ask you, dear listener to sift through these delicate poles of meaning and experience these 16 toons free from the qualitative chains that burden your ear in favour of the openness and exploratory liberation of a child. This one landed the Simps in W.B.A. (world builders anonymous) after total and utter detachment from reality ensued. After copious amounts of blind encouragement from their label boss and his peers (all victims of half-Zheimers) and trace amounts of measurable success (money? no sir), the groups’ egos were operating at a loss, or at least a state of confusion. Faced with the pitfalls of modern drudgery and the music industry’s impending and unrelenting judgement, their perseverance was yet again tested.

Through the magical transportive inspiration of rock n roll, our unequivocally handsome protagonists found salvation thrice. R n B stimulation, ponk agitation and slop rock demonstration saved them from themselves, from the downcast stares of detractors, from the cruelness of the everyday. Art as therapy for the clinically insane. A functional state of illness is the bottom line of this cultural achievement. Herein, the band exercises the democratic tools they learnt in their formative years as craftsmen and apply them broadly to a new swath of material. The crucial pin prick guitar, exasperated (ing) vocal maelstrom and beatific pounding of the previous 2 slabs carry over, but new strategies in expounding are implicated for varied and freewheeling results. The spotlight has been flayed, with every simp performing dutifully on the microphone, every simp sitting behind the drumthrone, every simp penning refrains, every simp trading high end for low and visa versa. They have triggered an uncanny singularity. If you have followed the band up to this point, or even happened upon them begrudgingly, with the raw and open ear these savants require, this will truly be YOUR version of the band. With their service weapons cocked, Total Punk brings you, THINE RETAIL SIMPS!" —someone who cares