A long time ago, the people of Sweden figured out something about crust-punk: It doesn't have to sound like ass. It's supposed to sound like ass, of course. It's practically encoded in the name of the subgenre. From Discharge on, crust bands have been recording their frantic, righteous, spartan form of tribalist hardcore on the fast-and-cheap -- figuring, perhaps, that muddy guitar sounds and hissy drums would only increase the urgency of the music they were playing. Plenty of times, they were right. When I was a teenager going to DIY punk shows in Baltimore, there was a whole universe of these bands, and they always sounded exciting as hell; it never occured to me to question their rigor. But in Sweden, where the crust tradition is all tied up with the country's triumphant and punk-informed take on death metal, things were different.