Even for a garage-rock record, Slaughterhouse is especially sloppy and overeager. Every instrumental surface is coated with layers of rusty, cranky distortion. The San Francisco–based Segall (who, in an unusual move, is recording with his touring group instead of by his lonesome) sports a voice and pattern of speech that aggregates the Joker, Cookie Monster, George Thorogood, Fast Times at Ridgemont High's Jeff Spicoli, Bikini Kill's Kathleen Hanna, and that homeless dude you pass every day — the one who always insists on heckling you but is never coherent enough to make clear why. All of this should be terrible or grating, but because it kisses and licks every flaw and quirk with such purposeful gusto, the result is immensely entertaining and kind of magical. Destruction and dilapidation make up the thematic M.O. on all fronts, but Segall and crew constantly nail just-tender-enough notes of melody to suck you deeper into the scrappy, cynical squall. Slaughterhouse doesn't rewrite the fuzz-rock playbook and has its moments of indulgence (the bad kind), but no matter. Just come and hang out at the greatest barbecue/kegger en route to the depths of the abyss.