There's a chance Tyvek's Nothing Fits is a painstakingly assembled second record. Perhaps every player utilized great precision and grace when performing each note. The resulting album, however, sounds like a glorious mess.
The Motor City band spits out its lo-fi, garage-y punk rock with such urgency it seems as if every member is dying for a bathroom break. Kicking off the action, "4312" is a chant-along song made for a sweaty, friendly mosh in some decrepit, low-lying Midwestern basement. And subsequent moments, including the entirety of "Future Junk," test how hurriedly a crew can play before its amps collapse from confusion and exhaustion.
Leading the disorder is vocalist-guitarist Kevin Boyer, whose spastic shouts are mostly rendered unintelligible by distortion and haste. Still, there are occasional moments to catch your breath in the chaos. On "Potato," for example, you can actually understand Boyer's come-on of a chorus ("I want to make it/I want to make it with you") while "Underwater 2" is sort of sonorous.
Even rabble rousers need to rest sometime.
