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Before my bros and I go out, we like to get pumped —PUMPED! — to prepare, because you’ve got to be jacked up if you’re going to score yourself a Snooki, or even better, a vixen like J-Woww.

Usually a little Creed or maybe some house music does the job but head-banging breakdowns were giving us whiplash and beating up the beat was totally making our arms sore.

In between looking at beautiful eye candy and sweet whips on the Internet, we stumbled across this indie band that were from an island or something.

Wait, their name was Fang Island — my mistake. All of that very expensive bottle service has left me hung over, but that’s the price of being a rock star at the clubs.

The band was totally sick, though, because they barely sang but their raucous instrumental tunes were even better than my old copies of “Jock Jams” for our pre-gaming.

At first we were skeptical — we didn’t see Fang Island listed on any of Pauly D’s set-lists — but we knew after hearing the screeching guitars and pounding drums of “Careful Crossers” that he would be cool with us blasting this while blowing out or spiking up our hair.

“Daisy” sounds best when it’s coming out of the bumping system in my 1998 BMW but the gang vocals would sound good anywhere and as they fade out, layered over a twinkling keyboard, it makes me feel all emotional inside — like an emo kid or something.

With summer coming up, we always throw the sickest pool parties and songs like “Sideswiper,” with its heavy start and subtle transition into a slow jam with a soaring guitar solo, should finally quiet the dude yelling “Freebird!

“The Illinois,” with its big gang vocals of “whoa-oh,” will be perfect to sing-along with after I’m buzzing hardcore.

The vibrant party feel that defines the album is sure to keep us pumped so we can dominate the beer pong table at every kickback, throw down, hoe-down, shin dig, get together or soiree that we come in and shut down. Plus, playing these guys will be way less embarrassing than that time “What A Girl Wants” came on my iPod during our last rager.

Fang Island doesn’t sing often on their album — in fact, we turned it into a drinking game; every time they sing, we do a shot of Jaeger — but when they do, it adds a depth to the tracks that gives them a large and surrounding feeling, sort of like my Tapout-themed Snuggie.

The brief vocal verses of “Treeton,” separated by big metal breakdowns, are straight up fun and the ooh-ing and ahh-ing on the slow and moody “Davy Crockett” gives us a chance to sober up before we attempt a simultaneous fist-bump and chest-bump during the fast and furious — namedrop of my favorite movie —“Welcome Wagon.”

Things get a little weird for my taste on the final track “Dorian.” All synthesizer squealing and soft piano, the track feels strange among the others — like an albino kid partying in the Jersey Shore house or something.

All in all, Fang Island is pretty sick. On a scale of skinny jeans — the lowest — to Ed Hardy — the highest, but you already knew that, right? — they’re a solid Affliction.

My bros and I have found our new jams for when we get our GTL on, but how long we turn to Fang Island to catalyze our testosterone remains to be seen.

For now though, we’re pumped and Fang Island is fueling us onward to our next situation.

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