Heads who pushed through the New Year's snowstorm, knew about the underground basement venue and didn't drop dead laughing at the gauntlet of hundreds of vintage Asian porn VHS tapes in the entranceway received a justified reward in the form of Pile. The trio's moonshine-soaked blues punk added to the lair's raunch, punching through the forgivable barrier of a mediocre PA and the eager gathering joyously ripping down ceiling tapestries and moshing in cloak.

Pile's got a shuffle thing going at times that induces head-nodding. The feel, topped by Matt Becker's despair-ridden twangy voice, is really doomsday shit. Tunes like "Mountain" are tough to bounce through and keep nasty - and evade stumbling into finger-snapping, gimmick territory - but Pile is on point. Forgive me for the dangerously loaded reference, but I wouldn't be surprised if Pile is the direction Kurt Cobain would have moved toward after he began incorporating his Americana influences toward the end of his career. Becker's drawl is irresistible and he has a talent for landing on just the right, tension-scarred pitch - sometimes delightfully flat - and dragging it the hell out, pulling you down with him.

In direct opposition to the country vibe that bubbles underneath the bands ferocity, "Simple" being a fine-picking example, Becker defers to a pitch shifter on his guitars at times. While it might not seem to fit at first, the extra tones became appropriate with their contribution to the chaos of the rampaging audience and the band's chugging forlornness. Follow that up with some of that perfect stoner riffage that starts high, drops down the fret and just pounds away like an MMA fighter who's got his victim pinned helpless, and you've got a formidable force. Check out their "#1 Hit Single" to be brutalized.