In theory, A Tundra plays rock and roll music. The rock is usually there, but the roll sometimes gets tossed out in favor of cascading walls of rhythm and clusters of tones. The rock that’s left is jagged and interjective, abrupt and ominous, but once in a while even that is turned over to reveal the warm, all-encompassing earth beneath it. At its heart, A Tundra really just yearns to make rock in the classic sense, teeming with rawness, energy and self-importance. Their vocabulary doesn't always appear like it comes from the classic realm, but if you dig deep into their misshapen music, you'll realize it does. They're not re-inventing rock, they're just disorganizing it.

On Man or Woman, Laughing or Crying, A Tundra’s first full-length recording, the quartet’s individual influences—power pop, skewed punk, blues, minimalist composition—solidify into a singular, unified resonance. Stuttering rhythms and dissonance tumble into gentle pastorals of manipulated organic sound. Melodies spring forth and are quickly reinterpreted before fading into the texture of the music. The songs on Man or Woman, Laughing or Crying are serious about deconstructing the seriousness of rock music. Though A Tundra may not have set out to make a 'rock record', the end result is a rock record, through and through.