Fat Bicth (think of talking about large pens with a lisp) describe themselves as party rock. Superficially, they’re something like Trumans Water/ I’m Being Good/ ole’ timey skronk (thrown into a blender/ on acid/ from space/ [>goto: trite/ clichéd comparison]). More realistically, it’s a bit like a melting plastic Iron Maiden (the band and the torture device) thrown into cider-soused spring break parties and made to dance like penguins. But refusing. And I can’t put it more clearly than that.