The last time we talked to White Hills, they were fresh off releasing one of our fave local releases of 2010, a self-titled slab we called "a schizophrenic trip through Acid Mothers Temple riff bludgeon, Boris chug, shaggy pseudo-grunge, and tender bursts of formless noise." With follow-up Hp-1 (Thrill Jockey), the band stretches out both literally (it's 72 minutes long!) and figuratively. They dip their toes into meaner, uglier waters, filling every song with buzz-harshing, acid-bathed noise, hissing and coiling in flickering agony. Their grooves have gotten moodier and krautier and their textures now boil with rage instead of pot-smoked hazedon't think floating in space, think dying in space. Guitarist Dave W blames a team-up of corporations and American government for his newly unleashed rage, and lead track "The Condition Of Nothing" lays it all out with a dead-eyed gaze, neon lasers of piercing cosmic goop and one especially demented guitar solo.