The screech. The wall. The slanted-floor nausea. There’s not a word for the signature cyclical howling that Chicago’s RUNNING harnesses and tortures into submission. They play with their food before they eat; they flay into a terse punk trance, a Kraut-beat psycho riff for the 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. Corrosive, serrated, and billous, Running have conjured a lurking creeper of a record in Vaguely Ethnic. It’s nasty, it’s antisocial, and you’re gonna like it.