If garage-core were a legit genre, To Speak Of Wolves would be the godfathers. Much like the first 10 seconds of any song by Norma Jean during the Doolittle days, each song is a spastic, energy-to-the-max mayhem of testosterone and intensity that explodes over and over and over.
The problem, however, arises in depth. Hardcore should be a healthy mixture of madness and beauty. Sweeping guitars and full-throttle vocals are wonderful, but what about the slow, pretty parts?
Find Your Worth, Come Home is basically an 11 song breakdown. Each track begins, develops and ends with fast, monotone screaming, distorted guitar and poppy snare. How are you supposed to know when there's a climax? Or, in simpler terms, if every day of your life is the best day of your life, how do you know when you're having a good day?
To play devil's advocate, I can see the allure of an album like this -- It's a niche record for a niche crowd. The climax of any hardcore or metal song is the breakdown: it's what concerts revolve around. It's what fuels the mosh pit. And I'm sure there's a large group of people that say, "Man, I LOVE this breakdown, but I wish it'd just last for an entire record." Well, here you go. That's the entire record. If non-stop chaos is the name of the game, you just hit gold.