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Rick Froberg's co-workers have no idea how much he hates his office job and the people around him. He patiently abides his boring existence, supremely miserable, and too reserved to shank anyone over corrupted PDF attachments. But if his weekdays are silent torture, every Friday night he and three other miscreants descend into his unfinished basement and transform into an ornery garage-rock outfit called Obits. As frontman, Froberg is the crankiest beast, pouring his laments into metaphors and rants, keeping his words cryptic to cover his ass in case they're leaked to the aboveground. Spewing that bile offers him his only moments of relief. The aforementioned backstory is fantasy, I'm sorry to admit, but Froberg really has devoted a career to sounding off like an anxious office worker. Moody, Standard and Poor adheres to the template he honed in the defunct Hot Snakes and on Obits' 2009 debut, I Blame You. There's no shortage of loathing for both himself and others (opener "No Fly": "Motherfucker, titty sucker, two-balled bitch/Your mama's in the kitchen cooking red hot shit"), and Obits' riffs still roar toward 21st-century oblivion. Reliable cynicism, not artistic invention, is the band's forte (Moody blends into one big damaged canvas), but Froberg's vitriol is still intoxicating. Just keep working for the weekend, Rick.
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