The screech. The wail. The slanted-floor nausea. There's not a word for the signature cyclical howling that Chicago's Running have harnessed and tortured into submission. They play with their food before they eat…flay into a terse punk trance, a Kraut-beat psycho riff for ages, mesmerize or terrorize…but invariably they unleash The Sound upon us just when it seems most likely to bring back your lunch. That they've built such a mean, spare, and evil band around such chaos is to our benefit - the circular mayhem alone would be a fascinating stand-alone curiosity - but lucky for us, they've captured their cacophonous, rotten heart in the black glove of blank-stare punk.