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‘White Punks on E’ is the taste of bike chains rubbing against black leather. Heavy cast iron forged across studs and hot-wired organs. The howls from blazed skull hordes jacked up to distortion engines broadcasting into neglected cellar units. It s shrill echoes from the parking lot carried along the financial district, overturning lobotomised business lunches, attache cases and $50 slick-backs. Nasty club rock fed through biohazard cassettes, doom arcades, sabres and scorpion tattoos - new blood to rock the neighbourhood and a pleasure to welcome Stratton into the fold.