Part time filth. What does that mean? Is it the sordid fetor that rots underneath the pillars of respectability? The pervert teacher, the MAGA cop? Perhaps it’s the petty cruelties doled out by the guy who eats his boss’ shit Monday to Friday, waiting for his turn to hurl indignities at the weekend cashier not paid enough to keep from smashing the til through his skull?

From the Tennessean swamps of impotent rage and gnawing resentment lurks Part Time Filth. A 4-track, drum machine punk tantrum from Nashville, leather masked Tony Filth has been spewing a string of sludgy shit pop EP’s that bob up to the surface of a mosquito blighted bog, surrounded by police tape as if it were human remains. Hissing, lo-fi D.I.Y. excreta violated with fuzzed-out garage rock screamed into a cheap mic with the rage of a service worker inching ever so close to telling his boss to shove it. New EP 300 Pounds of Hate sees Filth lose the tape skits and sloppy sketches as heard on prior offerings for a distilled potent attack of hardcore, punk fury.

The title track is a chained, rabid dog with human blood around its salivating maw that’s so powerful you just know it’ll break free any minute. The drum machine pummels as Filth wrecks his guitar with such volatility it makes Lard seem understated. Little can be discerned from his primal howl, save “I’ve got a gun, I’ve got a knife”, speaking to the violent impulses of society where violence begets violence. Garage rock swag spikes the second track ‘Love and Meat’, the raw scuzz of The Sonics and a dose of Nirvana’s ‘Spank Thru’ onanism struts against the cavernous jackhammer beat that lands the killer blow, the track finishing before you’ve hit the floor.

You know 33 million Americans have quit their job since Spring ’21? How will the monsters who harangue and berate the coffee barista during their part-time filth satisfy their power trips now? Part Time Filth has delivered an expert cut of murky punk turbo which scores shoving the burger in the MAGA prick’s face, tossing your apron into the deep-fat fryer, and keying your boss’ car for extra measure.