“Magazine Dirty plays dirty, filthy, disgusting punk’n’roll. They’re noisy. They’re abrasive. They’re raw. They’re everything rock’n’roll was before professional “producers,” commercial pandering, and, most recently, auto-tuning took rock out of the garage, out of the shadows, and into shiny, happy pop culture. Well, fuck that. Magazine Dirty would rather piss on shiny, happy pop culture, then drag it into the alley and stomp its ass.”
“There was a time when punk was rich with bands like Magazine Dirty, where the click-click-click of the drummer’s sticks got the songs started, a loud, shouted “ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!!!” count-off let you know something big was about to happen and, if you paid enough attention and jumped on in, you could most likely be a part of it. The Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Dead Boys, the Dictators, the Runaways...all bands that knew how to kick off a song and send it quickly into maximum overdrive. It’s been a while, but big, loud, brash and dirty rawk is back. This here new band we’ve got in town? Magazine Dirty? They get it. And now we get it too.”
“Curtis is the explosive heartthrob, while Cain channels the manic energy of Rancid frontman Tim Armstrong, Cherry maintains a stoic Zen-like calm and Nichol provides a steady beat...[Lead guitarist Hayley Thomas'] own alternate persona, “Manstomper,” is a fierce femme fatale whose domineering presence belies her slight height. ”
“Singing Magazine Dirty songs is a physical occupation for Campbell. He spins off into the crowd, clutching onto the microphone like a lifeline, bouncing off the people in the mosh pit while they frantically throw their arms and elbows. He knows the songs by braille, growling his way over every bump in the page.”
"San Luis Obispo's finest shit show."
"Someone’s going to get pregnant tonight."
"Magazine Dirty spit on my expectations and grinded a cigarette butt out on my face with a stiletto heel."