This is what happens when trust fund kids with expendable bank accounts get their hands on keyboards and samplers: an album of weak dance tracks with sing-speak vocalists telling bad jokes about people they despise. I'm sure this is supposed to be a joke, but then there's some truth to it. These gentlemen thrive on bar and club culture. Imagine, if you can, a worse version of Chromeo or Cobra Starship. All Teeth and Knuckles probably shop exclusively at American Apparel and read too much Vice Magazine. A favor was owed somewhere; I can't think of any other reason why this album would be released.
