Buddy Wynkoop’s 9-5 Disease jerks and twitches like a busted machine trying to break free. Sharp, angular guitars slash against a taut, rubbery groove while the vocals spit sarcasm and disillusionment—like an office worker cracking under fluorescent lights. It’s danceable, but dangerous; robotic, but ready to snap. Think spreadsheets shredded into confetti, time clocks smashed with synths. This is DEVO-esque post punk panic at its finest: a nervous breakdown you can dance to, wired with irony and righteous frustration.
Clock in, freak out, and let the system short-circuit.
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