Tunes are rude, viscious. Some lumber ominously along, bare-fisting the downbeat through riffs risen from basements held in the odors of stale beer, mold, and want. Others stuff the song's shape with directional changes---tipping a cap to Trouble and Saint Vitus via Sabbath. All the dots are easily connected. There's no sport there. But, in lieu of refinement, we get an honest reckoning: Magic Circle is a band (quickly) becoming. Through the web of influence and itchy, artistic compulsion they've found savage and ultimately promising ways of reanimating long since taxidermied forms.