So, this package shows up at Sleazegrinder HQ, and it's rattling around like a sack full diamonds. Now, I know better than to trust rock and rollers, but Betty's Trash look more like Parker Posey and her attorney than they do punk rock terrorists, so I foolishly rip it open and stick my hand inside. It feels like I've been bitten by 15 baby snakes, and I quickly yank my hand out to find my fingers studded with broken glass. What the fuck kind of madness is this? What have I ever done to Betty's Trash to deserve this kind of treatment? After the wife bandages me up, I dump the package out over the trash to see what the hell is going on. Out slides a framed photo of Betty and her trashman. The frame's glass had shattered somewhere between New Jersey and here, and the mailman just chose to ignore the clinking. You'd figure after all the blood and tweezers, I'd just leave "More Broken Dishes" in the, uh, trash. Yeah, I know there's an ironic pun in there, but my hand hurts. However, I have a job to do, and I'm not gonna let the reckless behavior of a couple of over-ambitious hipsters stop me. Good thing, too, because I would have missed this deranged little slice of trashy new wave weirdness. "More Broken Dishes" is a free-flowing collection of songs and snippets that is heavy on the quirk and creep and kink, and light on reality and common sense. Although I hardly think they're influences, there are a few handy comparisons to make- the zombie pop of Alien Sex Fiend, the synth-punk alien landscapes of Chrome, the skinny tie herky-jerk of Suicide, and the pill-eating delirium of Big Stick. Not that Betty's Trash actually sound like any of the aforementioned, but that's about as close to any earth-bound bands as I can get. What they actually sound like is a disco inferno blazing away deep in the circuitry of a vintage Space Invaders game. They are not of this world, this Betty's Trash, they are Tron Rock, they are dance music for broken dolls, they are either art school ironists who have concocted an epic cosmic joke that's impenetrable to everyone but themselves, or they are just very well-dressed crazy people. Either way, I salute them, both for trying to kill me, and for making an album that literally defies description.