Looking out over the cramped, cold offices of Pitchfork, I see most all of the reviewers are still here, bent over their arthritic typewriters.

There's Brent DiCrescenzo scamming another girl over the telephone instead of listening to the new U2 record piping through his headphones. Matt LeMay weeps softly to himself, convinced that no one can tell, despite the quiet sobs that so visibly shudder his body. Paul Cooper breaks to consume his refrigerated lunch, stale from sitting on the water cooler since his arrival at 5:30 a.m. Meanwhile, Mark Richard-San stands on his chair, ranting about the massive effect the supposedly underrated '70s prog band Utopia has had on modern music.

It's already 7:30 p.m., but Mr. Schreiber hasn't let us leave for the day yet. I can even hear him softly through the thin walls of his office, advising another reviewer: "Do you want to see me put the 'dead' back in deadline, you goddamned chimp?!" His shouting gives way to sounds of sewing machines, which drift up from the floor below, competing with the noise from the sheet metal factory audible through the building's broken windows. My breath frosts and I clap my mittens together to keep warm. Ryan-- I mean, Mr. Schreiber-- says we can't afford to run the heat all the time.

Because I'm one of the newest in the room, I'm probably the least jaded. In fact, I'm just happy to be here. DiCrescenzo says it's because I'm "an insipid moron." Why just the other day, Mr. Schreiber hurled a copy of Tinnitus by the No-No's at my chest and screamed, "Try not to fuck it up!"

Tinnitus reminds me of this place. It's harsh and unfriendly at first glance, yet manages to possess, and even convey, a naive joie de vivre. But don't get me wrong: no one in a million years would mistake the No-No's for the Go-Go's. Wrong "vivre."

The No-No's hail from the cold, rheumy Pacific Northwest-- Portland, actually-- and have been quietly and intermittently productive since the mid 1990s. Members' pedigrees include ties to Tiger Trap, the Feelings, the Halo Benders, and Built to Spill. Yet, Tinnitus seems somewhat anachronistic in 2000. They're a better fit for 1986, when post-punk was still somewhat wide-eyed and excited. Stylistically, they're only a first-generation dub away from bands like the Primitives and their inherited songcraft sensibilities. It's all been done before, but the No-No's persist, aware of this fact and eschewing the overrated virtue of "originality" in favor of "execution." And they do execute.

Songs like "Bigger and Bigger," "I Deserve Someone Nice," and "The Red Eye" are rabbit-punches of punk ethos and pathos, equally mixed and mastered. Frontwoman Robin Bowser's imperfect warble clangs on your wincing eardrums, but it's as unforgettable as it is unmistakable. It's the howl of the unappreciated, and it rings especially true in lyrics like, "Never want to be satisfied/ Always on the tip of my tongue/ Never at the top of my lungs," and, "Welcome the sound of indignation.../ Shout-out to the borrowed and the used.../ Turn me on to music I can yell to."

Tinnitus doesn't carry out the ambitious titular threat of literal aural destruction it suggests, but I doubt that was ever the intent. Rather, tinnitus occurs, but only as a result of the listener turning the dial, voluntarily and happily, all the way to the right.

Time to go. It's my turn to feed the news writers.

-John Dark