Pigeon Religion plays three songs that are the aural equivalent of a demented wrong-turn mescaline trip, something akin to a wastoid blow-job in the bathroom of a bad hippy party with Jefferson Airplane playing at 15rpms on a broken turntable in the background. Sickly and hopelessly noisy, churning feedback laden guitars recall nights of miserable, unprotected sex and getting your ass beat by punk rockers only a quarter your age.