There's always a chance that Tyvek's Nothing Fits was a painstakingly assembled second record. In any case, the Motor City band spits its lo-fi garage/punk rock out so urgently that it sounds like one member really needs that bathroom break, and it rarely gives a damn about coming off anywhere close to dignified. "4312" kicks off the action with a chant-inflected song made for a sweaty, friendly mosh in some decrepit, low-lying Midwestern basement, and the rest of Nothing Fits' clatter follows suit.
Some subsequent moments, like the entirety of "Future Junk," sound like the band is testing to see how hurriedly it can play before its amps collapse from confusion and exhaustion. Leading the disorder is vocalist/guitarist Kevin Boyer, whose spastic shouts are rendered mostly unintelligible by distortion and haste. On "Potato," you can actually understand Boyer's come-on of a chorus ("I want to/Make it/I want to make it with you"). Even rabble-rousers need to rest sometime.
