The Seattle quartet rarely takes a mop to its third album of sonic dive-bar filth and frenzy, preferring instead to writhe in a sloppy punk muck of fuzz 'n' screech guitars, sweaty rhythms, and front man Brian Standeford's collar-grabbing, broken-beer-bottle shrieks. It wouldn't be entirely inaccurate to call this collection 33 recklessly charging minutes of Mudhoney/Stooges/Stones appreciation, but the Catheters pull off their hero worship with sincerity, immediacy, and charisma to burn. And they pass the ultimate garage-rock litmus test -- making you feel as if you need to shower after listening -- with flying colors.