One of the reasons Pissed Jeans is a great band that (whether you know it or not) has released its best record (which has happened with the last four out of five albums since its formation in 2004) is its arsenal of sublime dichotomies. Snuggled in its nook like a noise-punk AC/DC but adept at pushing the boundaries at hand, the band retains a visceral, even below-the-belt, punch sonically and especially as one of the better live outfits of this era; and going against the usual grain by getting better with each record, if not each year, that passes. Utilizing a wicked sense of humor and having a surgeon’s hand at nuance so that both are applied in ways that ascend beyond afterthoughts or inside baseball. Subverting the testosterone-hemorrhaging tendencies of its chosen sub-genre, and doing the same with the all-too-common knuckle-dragging nature of its nihilism (see a band like WHORES.). And, most importantly, maintaining an honesty about its creative comfort-zone and overarching hyper-intelligence needed to organically wield everything mentioned so far.