It’s difficult to know what to make of a band who put the name of a terminal illness in their name, but it’s easy enough to overlook the mildly offensive moniker when the tunes a band has tunes as solid as this. Sans AIDS come from Canada, which is making it’s own waves in weirdo rock at the moment. Taking their notes from the mid-90’s slacker rock scene and specialising in making the pop equivalent of outsider art, downbeat and almost touching.
If, a few years ago, the reformation of Dinosaur Jr. seemed urgent and necessary, the swell of bands making distorted alternative rock worthy of their 1990’s heyday since has almost negated that. It’s not difficult to imagine Sans AIDS having spent their formative years repeatedly listening to without a sound and growing their hair long. Their tracks meander, sometimes aimlessly but whilst always remaining arresting. They muse that ‘my friends don’t use shampoo’, strum on distorted guitars and probably wrote angsty poems in their early teens, some of the themes of which run over into these efforts. This is the kind of stuff that needs sticking on an old-fashioned cassette mix tape, played loud with headphones on and hood up whilst you walk through your cold, boring city.