Got a late night e-mail from Mr. Superbad himself, Dale from Saw Tran, telling me I had to check out Geraldine immediately, because they were delivering the Rock in almost criminal doses. It's my policy to never doubt an amped -up Texan, and brothers and sisters, he did not deceive. These rock and roll bastards are chicken wire savages, with every plug jammed into the right socket- screaming mouth organ like a testosterone fried Caged Heat, Stooges one-fingered piano plink, a snake handler on the megaphone, and sleazy razor fingered guitars that have one foot in Chuck Berry's grave and one middle finger raised to the heavens. Stacey said, "They all sound like they're playing a different song." Well, that's because they're crazy, baby, driven to madness by the sweet fever of their blues drenched, country swamped, trash rocking commotion. And it all comes together in the end, like lovers on a high speed leatherette, so who cares how they got there? Geraldine are so authentic, my hands came up greasy after I cracked open the jewel case. Seriously serpentine slop rawk action. Now, who's gonna clean up this mess?