‘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.