Trees started shrinking. Strip malls shrivelled into the soil as I sped down the suburban side- streets. Jelly bracelets and Swatches appeared with small pops up my forearms. 20 zippers snaked and branched like vericose veins up my pants. My legs began to sweat trapped under the new impermeable polyester parachute fabric. My chubby and smooth mid- '90s Honda Civic sloughed layers of paint until it finally resembled the boxy and sharp imports of the '80 that only hippies still drive. A slow grip tightened around my chest. At first I attributed this sensation to panic. Actually, my loose, silk Versace print (worn unbuttoned) had somehow undergone a profound metamorphosis into a constricting faded green tee with a worn "Repo Man" iron- on. It all happened in choppy stop- motion animation (a la a Peter Gabriel video) in about 11 seconds.

What the hell could have caused this? Perhaps Superman was losing a battle to an evil 10- year- old genius with a hypertrophic head and in a desperate attempt to win, Ol' Supes flew around the Earth faster than light, reversing the rotation and turning back time, so that he could fly into the backseat of whatever old sedan the mutant kid's mom had gotten knocked up in. There he could wipe the floor with the kid's father (who was undoubtedly much less of a fight, mid- coitus, than his telekenetic offspring) and thus preventing the freak kid from ever being born in that Wal-Mart fitting room. You know, like when Lois died in the movie. I checked the skies. No sign of the guy.

Then it all suddenly clicked. My world started its slip back into the 1980s precisely when I slid Monorchid's Who Put Out the Fire? into my stereo. I zoomed past a sign that read "Washington, D.C.: 30 Miles." Strangely, I'd been in a KFC drive- thru less than four minutes ago.

The Monorchid have regressed in every way since their 1997 debut LP, Let Them Eat The Monorchid. The production is more garage. The artwork is more kitchen- table. Which, naturally, is not to say that the Monorchid have gotten worse. They just released a prequel. Who Put Out the Fire? is a blast back into the late '80s D.C. post- hardcore scene. The songs are punchier, rawer, and built around a more typical pop- punk structure. They went from using stalwart producers J. Robbins and Don Zientara to an eight- track recorder.

The Monorchid frantically charge through busy firecrackers of songs with carnival energy. Guitarists Andy Cone and Chris Hamley punch-n-jab with quirky bursts as vocalist Chris Thomson stutters and barks his hyper- active rants. Those of you lamenting how you missed out on the glory days of punk should rejoice at the Monorchid's spirit. There's so much energy on this disc it comes drenched in sweat and reeking of tobacco smoke.

-Brent DiCrescenzo