I recall closing my eyes to focus solely on the music and I jolted out of the darkness to look at them thinking, "What are you crazy? This isn't something you can close out!" It was a marvelous spectacle. What mugging; we laughed and hollered and hooted at Donald the singer and his henchmen - two guitar players squawking twangy abstraction from their amplifiers, nyurking and mrrowling about the stage like overstimulated monkeys in slow motion, contorting faces into comic grimaces of vexation, prowling footsteps exaggerated like goofy long jumpers; and drummer thumping bass drum small as a basketball, no hi-hat, no ride cymbal, just bapping snare and toms with Texan's madman rhythm, wearing cowboy hat and dark t-shirt and horn-rimmed glasses and detached drummer smile. Brently wore red wool hunting cap, flaps down over the ears, yellow polyester pants, and glasses, of course. Mr. Hungry's shorts were high riding, showed off long legs, platform shoes with red plastic flowers bow tie and glasses, or course. Donald is undeniably the frontman of this vision of chaotic geek solidarity and pride. He cavorts, he clowns, he talks between every song, he farts into the microphone, his nasally snake-like voice is the little boy who gave Mrs. Brigh, my second grade teacher, an apple every morning. The portrayal of his nerd vision is so dead on (Bozo the clown hair with question mark curl squiggled on forehead, orange socks dotted with black spiders, bow tie, high water polyester stretch pants, soft alligator skin shoes, and glasses, of course) his performance so energetically good-humored (our response seemed to elicit almost tearful gratitude) that I could only admire such evocative devotion to this depiction of pencil-necked geekdom. In fact it jogged my memory, put me back in the second grade, there I was, and I realized it's never changed, it's never been any different, we are still in the second grade in terms of the rawness of our emotions, how perilously close to the surface some people are, a breakdown could happen at any time. So I laughed, not out of superiority, no, out of recognition, and dug the angular jolt of the music, primal, loopy, like Beefheart of Pere Ubu, with great theatre no less. -- Snipehunt

On a long-term mission to confront, confuse and ultimately comfort its battle-scarred audience, Three Day Stubble combines the most eccentric extremes of Houston (the band's birthplace) and San Francisco (its adopted home). Dressed in garish, clashing polyester plaids, the group's self-actualization campaign has sometimes been hindered by the false impression that its music is a joke. In the long run, Stubble's aggressive lack of ego is more radically unsettling than all the razor blades and spiked dog collars in punkdom. -- The Trouser Press Guide to '90s Rock