Sporting swagger copped from classic rock transmitters - pose, cocky strut, bravado - Suneaters, with a black belt in earnestness and buffoonery (The Idiot's Guide to Westerberg), are devotees to guitar and harmony. Much guitar. Cavernous guitar. Towering. Immediate. When coupled with a thump and a crack, some ethereal touches, slippery words, a jigger of pain, and a drop of fear, we see that, as the dude sings, it'll be all right. Some Dark Side here. A little Double Nickels there. This music happens when once disgruntled and perpetually buzzed teens go into debt, acknowledge death and face real life shit. The songs, a gaggle of filament twisted together, make a nicely frayed quilt. Climb under. Suneaters, squatting somewhere among the cracks between the Bags and Boston; residing in the dusty layers between Urinals and Uriah Heap; inserted sideways into the ether between Flipper and Phish, harvest all that hot stuff, flick the Bic, melt, plug in, clear throats, pedal tread, feel and sip it. But they haven't yet figured out how to measure darkness. They're open to suggestions. Let's start with unfathomable and go from there.