G.B.H.'s world is best visualized as a dilapidated back alley covered in sewage, trash, soot, and other forms of grime you'd rather not get to know better. The Birmingham, England, outfit unleashes street-punk like it's meant to be unleashed, using uppercut-on-the-jaw tempos, gang chants, a serious sense of discontent, and thrashing guitars to incite relentless circle pits. The group rarely brightens its lyrics up either, writing about such pleasant subjects as Christian hypocrites, the cannibalistic consequences of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 (it's worth Googling), Vietnam War-induced PTSD, and rats in the city feasting on a baby. Blight and disaster are everywhere you go, and G.B.H. has insisted on staring deeper into the abyss since its founding in the late '70s.