What do you get when you cross a wiry, tattoo-covered Vincent-Gallo-look-alike batshit frontman, slashed-speaker Stooges-style power chord freakouts, and gigs at places such as adults-only female wrestling events? Pure fucking rock and roll, that's what. Mad Martigan can't even be bothered to put up a song sample on its MySpace page, but if you hit the local circuit enough, you will encounter the group. And if you're weak, the band's raw power will send you running back to the baby's corner where you belong. More room for those of us who are ready to hail the homecoming of balls-to-the-wall, whiskey-fueled madness.