'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.