In a town where the midsummer days reach into the triple digits and the debris of the dejected pollute the state of evolution comes the most recent addition to the blackened cult of Wands. No Funeral's music is riddled with anger and disgust for this plane of existence. The vocals are belted out of the depths of a self-defeating depressive urgency, a calling for death in its most vengeful form. There is an obvious harkening back to the more punk aesthetics of their forefathers that is ever present in the bass and drum approach that crashes head long into the mournful tremolo of the guitars. This is the overlooked harsh reality of the neglected souls that wade waist deep in the stomach of the beast.