DAVES - I DRANK THE BEER

The art of putting on gigs for me is 'taking a punt'.  To put a band on one hasn't seen and get a surprise is the only way to operate and over the years I have had some real spellbinding treats that have come from bands who have been caught in their embryonic stage before flitting on to better things.  Daves are the latest in a long line of thrillers, they came to a show, kindly played for sweet FA so as to maximise the amount raised for some Nature-based causes.  Their set was incandescent, accomplished and full of great zest.  The 3 lads involved were ruddy nice guys too, something that counts more than the music and goes a long way with me as far as support goes.  I was duly given a CD, I promised to assess, here are my continuing efforts to combine honesty, support and a pathway to greener pastures.

'I Drank The Beer' captures the bands cultured elements and sees sonic flavours delivered with subtlety, artistry and with emphasis on contrast.  From the off the mix is complimentary to the crews delivery, there is an erudite quality on show, a blend of components thrown off the wrist with the talent of true wanking minstrels.  The bittersweet sparsity of the opening gambit resonates, the tiredness confessed is convincing, the nervous agitation easily related to.  From here a minor upsurge comes, a flexing of the musical muscles taken so as to try and alleviate some inner demonic stress.  This thrust is a joy to aurally behold, is a sweet repeat message that blossoms into a controlled billow of what is, ultimately, a need waiting to be fulfilled,   The back hollers accompany those at the fore with accuracy, the turmoil in the message in relayed perfectly - yes baby, yes.

'Mistakes' fuzz bumbles, rises from the 4-wired filth with sanguinity, hollers and admits and sets about blazing a trail of tempestuous intent laden with applications from minstrels in the groove.  The vocals are abrasive and taut, they percolate the attentive membrane with needy desire, the musical partners in confessional crime have a sub-accent of resonant weight that helps the song drill into the core and leave one wanting just one more 'buzz'.   The way this song segues into the tribal madness of 'Get Out' is sublime and this follow-on song is a real ill-tempered upchuck that I suppose in many ways encapsulates the self-containing mentality that is driving this world into the utter depths of selfishness.   The band have a bleeding thirst to vomit their disgust and spit forth the words here with a subdued underscore adding to the potential danger involved.   When the noise elevates into vistas clashings things becoming wonderfully exciting and with the last drum trip towards the final black silence I am left standing alone...excited.

Daves do it for me, they are a fuckin' good 3-piece, the first viewing was splendid, the first CD I have listened to here, a joy - oh fuck lads, it could be all downhill from here - what have you done?  For me, the band need to keep doing what they are doing, never get overly comfortable and keep the attitude.  They will make errors, make the odd crap song, make many stunners too - the key is - doing, enjoying, trying to make a difference - go get em' chaps.

7 DEAD SUNS - SCHADENFREUDE

I received this CD via a good mate who knows the lead lout in this band and asked me to duly assess.  I have dealt with the said frontman in the past during his days as a King of the Delmar - he is a terribly talented gent and a forthright bugger too - I have no gripes with that.  Here we have 3 tracks to get through, I crack on as I am an overworked, underpaid noodle who can't stop.

'It Don't Matter' contains elements of certain gothic-like facets in the sense that things are dark-edged, threatening and very, very moody.   The interaction between components and compartments is precise and mixed to an exacting tee that sees this first song soar to lofted heights and set a good standard.  The song is primarily constructed on a repeat roll chant of the title, escalates from a seething passion to a necessary release that sees the deliverer ease ones burden and cast many inner demons to the wayside.  The substrate is blown through and at times the upper detritus is whirled and swirled in a minor tornado of tuneful effect that really draws in the attention and keeps one...enthralled.  'World Calling' is the follow up effort and is another bold piece of wraparound sonica that pours in torrents from the off and never abates.  The cascade is hefty and the undercurrent of latent strength never far away.  The structure, when stripped to the bare bones, is simple and without idiot accoutrements so many techno obsessed pluckers are guilty of.  The output is gratifying, squeezes out a response of positivity and no matter how hard I struggle and squirm to put a critical boot into the carcass of the cacophony I can't help but feel that this is a job well done.

The closing track is, as time progresses, proven to be the best of the lot.  The bass drive is irresistible and ultimately commanding. The gob is given a freer rein, called upon to cover more tonal territory and as a result - fuckin' well thrives.  The coming together of all facets is only a matter of time and when this climactic copulation does indeed come, the dazzling incandescence emitted is a culmination of some very insightful, passionate and needy know-how.  Listen over and over folks, peel back the layers, examine the inner core, feel the travelling might - and maybe, just maybe...appreciate.  Don’t let this one be ‘Forgotten’ – think on!

3 tracks, 3 foundation setting pieces for what could be a very exciting journey.  I have been privileged to have a dabble at summing up the situation thus far, I hope I have captured the essence of what is going on and what may well happen - either way I have had a go, it is more than most!

GLUE EAR - SKATE PIZZA

Glue Ear - mmm - I have a T-Shirt, I have given the band gigs and then they disappeared - fuckin' bastards.  Suddenly, out of the blue, I get a request to review 2 tracks, it almost seems like a time-warp.  I am always curious and this little unexpected occurrence really piqued my interest.   The band are fairly local, they have brought me some good times in the past, I am hoping they can do the same again (and some).

'Mr Plastic' is aimed at most of the population if you ask me, in these times of affect, synthetic styling and behaviour based on a situation and an opportunity.  Too many actors parade on a stage and get one step ahead oblivious to the sell-out and lack of ethics.  Those who strive to be who they are are destined to struggle - point in case, this Fungalised bastard.  The song skips on skanky ill-temper, clears its chest, does do with an authority borne of fiddlers immersed.   From the intro that tumbles in we have a song laden with keen and eager kickback, a resistance to uniformity and regulation is an ethos I concur with, the zest in the application helps keep me magnetised.   Glue Ear offer up a distinct number here, I go into the second offering enthused.

'Hoax' drives, in, ups the ante and hollers out its point.   The bass rapidly ploughs away and creates the foundation on which skins can scamper and guitar strings can ride.  A zipping melee with the vocal style very recognisable to this old supporter of a good DIY band.  The pep in the product displays educated hands at work and though the flavour is not as easily acclimatised to as the first offering the song eventually charms and is a strong counterpunch to its neighbour.   The mix is exact, contains enough rawness to appeal and follows a route not particularly orthodox which of course, I like.  The end is abrupt, to the point - done.

2 songs that may signify a comeback - I am unsure.  Glue Ear came, played and did it well - alas many missed out as is the case and yet they may be lucky enough to get a second chance.  The first song here is my favourite - it encapsulates everything good about the band but, as a whole, this is a nice 2 tracker to reacquaint oneself with the crew - let us see what transpires!

EYE SCREAM MEN - SELF-TITLED

I put on a gig, a gig that went under the banner of The Blackpool Bastards Invasion.  Some of those bastards are deviants of the din, one such imp approached me and gave me a CD no-one else has heard - I promised to do my bit!   I did wonder about the offer, was in fact it a disc containing satanic womb music or perhaps if played backwards would reveal the whereabouts of Stan Ogden's dirty magazine collection.  I took the risk, what I uncovered was a maelstrom of crummy psychedelic garage played with an admirable recklessness and head-damaging intent, all the while straining to create rhythm and perverse arousal.

'Teenage Cannibal' is languid melody making, shot through with a tattoo of manky wankery that appeals to neurones of yore and DIY dirtiness I am blatantly unembarrassed by!  The opening tones de-escalate, find a lick and duly taste your response before spilling the lyrical content that lusts for human meat.  The chorus that follows states, indulges in some Captain Caveman calls and tickles the devious side of one's nature.  Spit-roasted fatmen, freshly boiled blondes and the sliced buttocks of captured midgets all come to the forefront of the mind in a black and white scenario ideal for the B-movie screen.  There is much meat on the rock and roll bone here, and like a shit-dipped leg, it taste mighty good to those sat around the table of perversion.   A comfortable and very effective opening, 'Blue' continues the low-slung style, the slow slopping movement of glutinous melody that for me at least, is easily lapped up and devoured.   The scuzzery is utterly unwashed, the approach unaffected, the loving need both chemical and strong.  The urge to get further intoxicated comes from a soul immersed, the increase in desire encourages the hollered output - things seem on the brink of getting out of hand and then the butt-plug is pulled.

'See You In My Dreams' begins with the best sound sequence so far with all areas soaked through, happening and cemented into place by a wired up synthoid sensation liable to pop ones cerebral cork.  The first burst of vocal goodness is done on a repeat beat basis with more exhibitions of saturated noise making thrown forth for your fucking pleasure  - have it, absorb, make sure you last the rather extended course.  Psychedelic visions are created as volume is added, throw in an illegal substance or two and man, way to go.   'Damaged Goods' is rock and roll pride, recklessness and 'couldn't give a fuck' attitude all rolled into one troubled tossbag of tuneful temperament.  The creation has a good lick, sprawls and drawls across your attentive lap with an acceptance of being proudly 'fucked'.   The deep-rooted rebellion found in the core of the crummy-fucking serenade is convincing, garaged to a tee and efficiently slagging in a contradictory kind of way - yes, awkwardness, fuck you.   'Joanne' is a very slow wander through smoked rooms of hazy affluence where multi-colours swirl and twirl and a coruscated slaggery transpires.  The loins of the lilt ache, perhaps we border on the edge of the sonic swamp a little too much and get glued to the spot and only able to shit out one consistent strain.   For some reason I find this one a test of my listening mettle and no matter how hard I try I also get bogged down in the sticky morass of negativity - no, I don't like this one at all.  'Beautiful Morning' is more like it, a trifle perkier, enhanced by deranged she serenades that border on religious madness and enhance the creeping insanity taking hold here.   The song has a good rock and roll thread, is delivered in the dumbed down way the band seem to adore and the reclined lick that laps at ones listening heels is decent enough.  The rebellion going on here is deep-rooted, this is music obviously made by those beautiful creatures known as 'lost causes' - the abrupt finish seems most apposite.

3 quick reviews, ' Slick' rolls about in its own manky quagmire for too long and does so in a thick, sticky way as to turn the positive receptors 'off'.  The song has an appealing underbelly of sound but, in the main, I can't be arsed to roll the sonic beast on its back and indulge.  I give this one a thumbs down, in future times, I may be proved wrong - what the fuck is new brother!  'Sloop Jon B' bounds in, hits a hotspot and skips to the resonations set.  The song is a slow foam from surfed waters where beatniks consider, idlers roams and sonic creators soak up the rays, inhale some green fumery and throw the odd tune around the cranium (well, that's how I see it).  I don't mind this one, a vulgar vibro-matic trip down slag-shag lane with all areas exposed and dangling.  The fear is induced when a back spirit joins the fray and adds some slightly unhinged shadow vocals that upset any sense of decency - I like it.  'Christmas Dickson Road' is a well-crafted song that tells of the goings on in a crooked thoroughfare where characters carry on regardless, without progress, without importance, but with in-bred madness that continues a cycle of downward desperation.  Listen in, one could easily become transfixed, reminded of similar times and that ultimately depress.  The added female hauntings donate a touch that almost sends one over the edge - sometimes it is just better being on drugs.

Down the last stretch we go, 'Caroline' takes us by the wary hand, waltzes amid a simmer of expected dirty fuzzery and is escorted by the odd bitch-wolf howl whilst paying homage to a love seemingly long lost and remembered very fondly.  An indulgent moment that moves with a syrupy consistency but outstripped by the chasing chant and join in 'Liggs'.  The ensuing effort is perhaps one of the prime 'movers and shakers, undercarriage quakers' of this CD with a celebration of time spent idling with friends, watching some grapple-mania and eating and drinking bilge.  A bit of bud enthuses the feast, the joy in these bouts of escapism is tangible, the band flow through this with 'kid in a sweet shop' excitement and this aspect is what may just be the main ingredient of a very simple but fulfilling sound.

'Lost In The Wood' comes on a skipping high, kicks up the fallen leaves of idle-headness and makes sure one's attention is grabbed.  The slant is too similar to what has gone before to make a thoroughly convincing impression and despite the accompanying 'doo wop' assistance, at this stage, I feel a little out of sync.  If the song would have come earlier in the fray a bigger impression would have been made but by now I feel a little 'Eye Screamed' out.  From here a lesson is to be learned - variety is the most crucial spice and for the next release we need a few curving sonic spheres for sure.  The closure is the overly elongated 'Sister Ray' cums, shits in her sonic pants, wallows in the mess and makes for a lengthy trial best listened to when acid is surging through the bloodstream, the mushies are being particularly malevolent and the fumes of the green are sozzling the cranial gunk.  I have been listening at work, it doesn't help, in fact signing official letters off with 'Hey man, dope out' is far from professional but who the fuck cares at this stage anyway.  This prolonged punctuation mark is not for me when in a sober state, pass me the pills baby, maybe then, just maybe, I can grip this bastard and see things best left...ahem...unseen.

The Eye Scream men have come, blessed me with a debut release and due to their hit and miss vibrations have me all the more intrigued.   I like bands who don't turn me on 100% more than those that do, simply because indecision and unpredictability come in greater loads and potential always seems higher.  For me, all the band need do is throw in a couple of 100mph quick flicks, create an opening instrumental piece for the 'live' set and maybe add some tribal chanting and ranting and they will have a mix to salivate over.  For now though this will suffice, I will be on their case though if things don't change for the next release - it is what any decent reviewer should do.

THE EGO RITUAL - SELF-TITLED

A five tracker sent via an ex member of The Pop Dogs, a band that produced some quite cracking ditties.   Here we go again for things popped and light, for tones unbarbed and easily digested, whether or not this is a good thing or not we will duly find out, I am merely an assessor striving to create clarity whilst swimming through an ocean of deceit and back-slapping bullshit - such is the musical arena.

First up and 'Chakra Maraca', a song that rises from ashes of subdued Eastern tones before initial flame tongues lap at the attention with shimmery animation primarily borne from a six-strung weapon that oozes casual control.  The conflagration that comes shivers, the escorting players fall into a somewhat chilled mood and this one needs several rotations to fully grasp the gist of.  For me, the greatest criticism, is that the song fails to acidize the senses, lacks any uplift and stays as one slight ruffling.  The 'across the water' exotica though is delivered with care and brings thermal delight and a reclining sensation to the already warmed eavesdropper.  The verse and chorus blend, individuality of each segment is somewhat lost and maybe, with a rethink, there should be some contrast sought for and, added.   The overall mix though is precise and to categorise is indeed a difficult thing - that is a positive aspect to hold on to.  'Ten Points For The Red Star' starts with shining sprightliness and has a good lick in the lilt before drums roll, strings increase the zest and the vocal stays aloft.  There is a subdued flavour restraining a full on blow out and one can't help feeling a little frustrated.   A break comes, the band prove to be worthy musicians and make for a textured episode that aches to be creamed over by a thrilling rise.  What we get is a bonged out moment of Turkish Delight aromas where mystic miasmas cloud the senses and create a hippy-dope escapist route.  A slow perpetuity suggests an oncoming fatality, the band instead go back to route one and finish matters safely and quite adequately - I just wanted a little more!

'Serenade The Ley Line' has the most pomp and affect yet and moves on a crisp cadence of crushed velvet splendour with the band, at last, truly capturing the sought for flavour.   The opening compartment of sound is 'Big Country-esque', the chasing incidents swing with reclined rhythms of almost carefree accents that crash against the attentive epidermal layers and leave a certain feel-good sensation.  The song avoids strict orthodox structure and moves at its own free-will with careening casualness always the upper appealing layer.  Somewhere betwixt the hippified, psyched and switched off there resonates a soundwave of gratifying easiness - this one has took me a fair while to fully appreciate.  'Days Of Set' appears from behind lightly fluttered curtains where twilight twinkles and awaits a full on reveal.  The exposure comes, the journey is long, in truth it lacks general undulations and spends too much time labouring the point.  The mix, the texture and the whole arrangement is suited to a shorter running time with at least two songs available within the one offered.  This is a voice from the punk angle though and one who has overindulged in too many terse tantrums and wham bam moments perhaps, but I do listen in to many areas and anything that over-runs the 5 minute mark needs something extra special.  The highlights though are the swishing swirls, the moments of almost tantric hypnotica and the overall blend of crash and splash unity that spice matters up - it is just that prolonged running time which punctures my globe.

We close with the aptly named 'Outro', the skies darken, the clouds crash, the rain falls and then...oh and then.  Scene -setting guitars come from monsoon areas, tubs are tripped over and vocals soothe.  We stayed beneath the broken heavens and remain subdued, this final tinkering is a moment to reflect, a moment to perhaps consider where things have worked well and where things haven't - for me this one is neither here nor there.

I am done and so far am a trifle unconvinced.  The band are seeking pastures not fully attained but there is something worth working at here and my only suggestion would be to keep the vibrations but clip the songs and thrown in some hair-raising licks of obvious riffery just to shake up the whole sonic shack.  I may be just out of tune with what the band are aiming for though and they may piss on my thoughts and move on regardless - all I can scribble is what I feel and try and be fair.  Either way - I will be interested to see what comes next.

VICE SQUAD - CARDBOARD COUNTRY

Vice Squad began way back in the late 70's - you know the time, when Benny Hill was in his prime, the Ford Cortina was one of Britain's best selling cars, Atari Games consoles were still the rage and The Yorkshire Ripper was making many headlines.  Since then the band have plucked, fucked, strove and dove and are still waiting to come up smelling of roses.   We had an interlude, we have had changes in clientele and yet throughout it all the band have tried to maintain their ethics and stick to their ever-firing guns.  Critical acclaim has been earned, albeit is doses the masses have not been truly absorbed by.  It seems a long time ago since I first spun my 'Last Rockers' EP - a time when hard-on's were frequent, the body didn't ache and punk was still beautifully innocent - crikey, sounds fantastical doesn't it?  Anyhow, and to the modern day, that free-thinking and wonderfully questioning 'erbert Paul Rooney (VS stringman as if you didn't know) requested some textual critique from yours truly and, as per, I duly agreed (I think I lack common sense).  The last disk I reviewed was a ruddy good effort and went under the name of 'Defiant', I was expecting some evolution (just like my reviews), this one had me salivating for sure.

'And Then You Die' furrows the brow, funnels the electric charge and goes at it from the off.  The recognisable oral tones of our lead lady accentuate the quality of the mix, an impression recognised early on and one that is maintained throughout this 13 track package.  This opening gambit is a clean and effective piece of punkery that deals with the day to day shittery and pre-set regulations that pushes the pawns from A to B to C, and to the finale, without apology.  The frustration and disgust is emanated on tones that are almost 'acceptant' but during the chorus a certain defiance seeps through the sonic substrate and all hope is not lost.   The main winning aspect of this initial tune is the breezy application, the almost paradoxically exultant vibrancy radiated and of course, the darn delightful gist.  The follow-up track is cement onto the initial brick of sound and is a real appealing blow out that blisters with disbelief at the saturation of music makers out there in the big media wanked world.  The TV creators appeal to the brain-dead, the artistes use many ploys to tug at the heartstrings and win a vote whilst yodelling away some insipid drivel that really has no substance whatsoever.  It is still a pertinent point, Vice Squad combine desperation with a situation, apply strong catchy hooks and much muscular power into one song that grabs the gonads from the first spin and squeezes out a response that is more than a little positive - a quite convincing song.  The opening three-shot win is completed via 'If I Knew What I Know Now', a song that blooms with time and continues the zested, rarely bested elements of the band under the spotlight, a band with so much clout and nouse and throwing in many accents and angles.   A chance for the lead wire-wanker to parade some manipulations is had, the underscore of bass and drums is bang on the mark and as per, the vocals are distinct, direct and of a lilt that is clear, raw and very effective - 3 out of 3 - what next.  Well, if the truth be told, a modern day masterpiece of proportions unexpected and an attitude that raises the spirits, rekindles the belief and makes one glad to be an awkward outsider pissing in the wind.  'The World Is Wrong' is self-assured, loaded with spiked sanguinity and delivered with an anthemic arrangement borne from hands very much in the know.  What a joyous classic, what a reminder that no matter how far the bastards push you down there is always a reason to keep on fighting.  All I advise of any listener tripping across this mighty gem is to pick up on the lead lasses relish with the task at hand, the great buoyant lift of the music and the all-encompassing roar of the song title - I think it is all rather magnificent.

'Hard Times' is a busier track than first deemed with the players beneath the hollers hammering away like building beavers on whizz and constructing a discordant dam that has a sturdy core not to be easily washed away by any wayward critique.  From somewhat sombre tones rises a rhythm and message that highlights the big dumb down, the dictating messages that are turning brothers and sisters against one another and making for one bloody awful mess.   The inner pause is akin to societies breakdown, a resurgence of resistance is had, the final silence found may be more telling than you think.  A nippy number get the job done. 

'Cardboard Country' is a deliberately foot-stamping bout of resolute disagreement dealt on one sturdy vertebrae of vibrating tribality hollered forth from sonic sufferers seeing and believing the entire shittery out there.  The heavy slam of the tympanics, the deep resonating strums, the forthright oral hollers that state the name of the game all slam home into the attentive abdomen like the punches of a heavyweight laden with hurtful intent.  The song gets more potent with each rotation, I think I will have another spin thank you very much.   The follow up to this hefty song is another beauty, and in these times of on-line sniping done by schadenfreude soaked shithawks it is a most apposite addition to say the least.  'Punk Police' rolls in on bass-pumped heels, travels with good pep that allows the lead lass to thrive and take all and sundry into the very effect holler-out of the chorus.   The she throat is burnt raw, the back-yobs provide extra weight and balance, the song catapults itself into a hurtling frenzy of control, the snarl that comes splatters me with good thriving angst and duly spits back at those idle-headed wankers who are self-appointed know-it-all’s and givers of the law (or 'cunts' if you prefer).  This is a zenith, a good old spiked throwback with nobs on, and why not?

'Colour Of Your Money' and 'Punk Star' are two mid-CD cementers that are easily joined in with and continue a steady quality level that really does the band justice.  The first track registers on the till, the sing-a-long snag is straight at the jugular and in a most friendly way nips a warning as regards the suited and booted power-hungry tossers who disregard the individual.  The laid back slant of the song makes for a real appeal and no matter how hard I try, I just can't resist the flow.  'Punk Star' is for me an oxymoron, punks should never be stars, they should be all of one strain and on one level - no heroes, no zeroes, plenty of prickly doofers with passion.  The weft of the weavings is led by the delicious relish shown by our femme fatale of the spiked arena who does what she does mighty well and shines bright here (as usual).   The celebration is related to, the feeling of the joy of the noisy pit and the overall shenanigans is obviously in the blood - anyone involved should lap up this quick spurt of triumphant animation.   The song hits the rails running, never lets up, has a crackin' bass line and leaves one with an impression reverberating in the soul.  The end crescendo is icing on a well-stuffed cake - ooh the cacophonic calories.

'Too Much Paranoia' begins with a lowbrow leaning via some lucid gobbage and restrained tickles that lead the way into an easy drift of musical manipulation.  This inclusion exhibits a band very much in a cool creative groove and producing underrated accomplishments without overly straining the salivating sonic glands.  There are no flaws, the mix is choice and the subject matter borne from a world of voyeurism, self-exposure and click, click craziness.  The whole burst ends a little too soon but whilst it is at the forefront of our listening lugs it be a reet treat don’t ya know.  'PVC' perhaps appeals to the perverse, the kinked, those who like a tightly clad carcass strutting with sanguinity showing each and every admirable curve...then again, it may just be about dressing up and feeling good (I must stop reading those magazines).  For me we get another snippet of the infrangible Vice Squad machine running with precision with the flowing oil clean, good to honest and making for another fluent construction.  These last three songs are best taken as one large bite, masticated on several times over with the resultant bolus of noise swallowed with pleasure - the after belch should taste real good!

The penultimate track and we glide over landscapes new and sonic vistas previously untouched.   The band opt for a sound almost cathedral, highly orchestrated and stripped to the fighting waist.  What we get with 'Hallelujah Karma' is a cry for comeuppance, a heartfelt desire for suffering to be dealt fairly and the ones getting an easy ride to 'get theirs'.   From the off the whole shebang is considered, observant and delivered from a pulpit of applaudable honesty and belief.  To be fair it is an impressive moment and accentuates the ideals of the band and the talent they have in abundance that they must keep tapping into.  I love it when bands throw in a curveball, and if the curio is laden with 'thought' we usually end up reeking of rhythmic roses - just like here.   Remember folks, music is all well and good but we should never sit back and let the world turn to shit!   We close with the more expected VS delivery known as 'Electronic Eye'.  The composition loads up, raises its lids, gallops along with mean intent and sticks a pinky in the digital peeper that is here, there and every fuckin' where.  Mind you - if we didn't give so much away it wouldn't matter as much - silly buggers we are.  This is a quick and pertinent full stop, with great gusto and a breezy affluence that convinces without a problem - a firm full stop methinks.

Vice Squad have maybe just produced their best album to date here - a CD that shows progression, musical nouse and with an ear to get balance, spirit and values just right.  In some respects it is a very polished product and that may not be to everyone’s liking but hey, even if a scabby DIY bastard like me can enjoy it there may be hope yet.  Vice Squad have raised their own bar - I like that and I also like the fact they have to maintain it - pressure on ya buggers.  In the meantime - let em' have it - live and loud!

PROUD CITY FATHERS - OUTPOSTS

Proud City Fathers have impressed me both on CD and in the flesh - they haul their sound from from London and nail their output with rhythmic rage liable to overspill into full on violence at any time - that sonic threat is almost sexual and keeps me agog with eager anticipation.  I was enthralled and expectant by this latest release, it contains 10 tracks of irritated intention, I go in stark fuckin' naked - without raiment’s of predisposed ideas and chuff-pecking wankery - what you get is the truth, the whole truth and nothing fuckin' but (as I see it).   You donate your time, it will not be wasted.

'In Crowd' chops in with unforgiving corrosion, the first verse is resisting, hot-headed and fuckin' well fuming.  The composition is simple and enters the chorus eruption without any unnecessary complication.   A brief repeat, a convincing holler, a belief in the outburst - what more does anyone need?   The fuel for the fire is good to honest fuck and roll rage driven down the listener’s lug-hole with great focused venom.  Fuck the pack, burn the ones on the inside, the last holler convinces and increases a conflagration already searing the skin.  The follow-up 'Not My Revolution' is a seething shithawk swooping on senses alive and kicking.  Something very old school is grabbed, anarchic strains from gutter days are smeared across walls left neglected, this is a glorious clatter of machine-like industry flinging its foulness right fuckin' at you.  The pep in the passion, the raw cobble-stoned monochromed reality and the call for unity all batter away with profitable hunger, led of course, by a frontman with a serious conflagration burning in the gut.  A second punch delivered with accuracy - bang.  The triple twat comes with the brain-slamming resistance known as 'Outposts' - a stunning political raving that deals with the mass digestion of the falsehoods, the bullshit and propaganda that is taking more and more prisoners by the day.  Thinking for oneself many will proclaim to be a simple thing, perhaps they are the ones eating the most crap, the ones utterly conned and found wanting in their own reeking pile of self-contentment.  This is a song that for me exemplifies the backbone of anything punk and drills home its point with excellent toxicity that I hope poisons many fuckin' minds and gets them back in the real groove.  The guitars simmer, the skins are slapped with vindictive direction, the whole shebang bleeds serious foreboding menace - a triumph!
'Sten Guns' is scything sincerity that cuts down all aural listeners with an unapologetic style built on crisp guitar skank mock, a grubby and weather-beaten bass line and a fluttering skin style that breathes nervous life into the mix.   The overall mix is spiced and diced by more highly fired vocal spills that burn brightly with utter disgust.  This is another beauty, a DIY dig in the ribs done with stripped bare aspects and much inner gumption.   The style of the arrangement is a blend that covers many ages, the march to oblivion is matched by the music - I love it - fuck all war!  'Pavlov's Dogs' is a perfect piece of creeping threat that starts as a tumour of temperament before turning into a raging, unstoppable mess that salivates in response to its own personal trigger rather than the many who are pre-programmed to an awfully shitty regime.  The nailing of scenarios set is fumed, utterly disgruntled by the dumbed down who have been fed way too much crap for their own good.  Fuck the mould is the message, think, react, be what you should be - you!

'Diatribe' twinges, grumbles, seeks a foothold.  Eventually the warning unfolds upon a bed of glowing coals that become absorbed, uncertain and almost tribal.   For me, the band just lose an edge here and the delivery just needs an extra spite and riffed up blatancy to back the chanted moments.   The arrangement lacks a continuous flow and although something strange and atmospheric this way comes I can’t tell a lie and say I like this one - because I don't.  'Party's Over' pulse fucks, stumbles into a dark bout of nasty poison that courses through open veins and leaves behind one unholy infected mess.  The structure is built on glowing embers, the tale of a brainwash that turns to horror that will rise above all.   The clashing elements of the construction are all blitzkrieged and highly inflammable with a midway break licensed to thrill.  A foreboding comes to fruition, an overspill of things that may just well come to pass - sit on your laurels at your peril.  A muscular song created and followed by the mid-boiling mover known as 'We Fall'.  Something similar to early Killing joke transpires, the drums slap around with a reactionary ease, the guitar play is steady and then naturally spirals and careens, the vocal inclusion is deliberately stated and stamped.  This is a song built around a very basic scaffold of sound and reinforced with the most intrinsically simple brickwork - but it works, it says a lot about the band methinks.

 'Kamikazi Town' has texture, ripples with direction, observes a disturbance made and the natural order of things real and decent thrown off kilter.   The song comes from the heart, the final promise to return is thoroughly meant and all throughout this twilight tinted, nuclear enhanced creation a certain unsettling emotion is felt - an emotion that relays a feeling of things unsafe – it is quite an ideal situation.  We close with the haunted 'Big Shadows', a song that tentatively peers from silencing curtains before making its presence felt with soft pulsations, carefully touched bass lines, sub-whispered words.  A horror show is glimpsed, something pervasive warms the onlookers flesh before an overheard dispute chills the marrow and destructive fists slam home and duly destroy any innocence left.  A scarred soul creates, hopefully banishes a demon, if only things were that easy.   This is a choice way to close and as PCF always tend to do - they make you think - something punks should always be able to do.

Yes, I have loved this one, it has avoided the obvious, backed up my beliefs of a band on fire and just waiting to be given the chance to burn the whole fuckin' shithouse to the floor.  Proud City Fathers come, do their bit and do it with an identity and a spit back.  They aren't happy-go-lucky, party pluckers and that, in this day and age, may be a hindrance - long may it continue because time will tell you that this is stuff has weight and deserve all the attention it gets - blah!

STOJ SNAK/SPEED DINOSDAURS - THE MASS EXTINCTION SPLIT

I like joint efforts - it is a good way to operate in a scene that has too many fractures, too many fuck-wits pulling their on self-investing way.  The Danish dabbler Stoj Snak and the folked up Leeds gathering Speed Dinosaurs have joined forces to copulate their ideas and ejaculate forth a six-track offering that has me intrigued.  These days I am picking and choosing what I review as I am clattered and battered and over fuckin' worked.  If it sounds right, or if something new or something out of the circle resonates within then the chances of me putting digits to keyboard improve - here, I take a punt.

'Drink From The Well' is sincere emotive beauty that moves with flourishing vibrations that keeps all hope aloft.  The wordery deals with the everyday kiss goodbye to things natural as we get side-tracked and chase the stench of false happiness like we are told to do.  Unfortunately I am too environmentally aware for my own good and can relate to the doom-laden prophecy that is being repeated here, for the umpteenth time and destined to fall on many dead heads.  There architecture of the song enhances the passion and thinking thrown.  Those who don't take note and who don't do are bigger useless bastards than those that have their heads up their arse.  This is a lovely effort in every sense of my fumbling words with the lilt exact, the warning at 'red alert' and the desire to see less selfishness so sweetly delivered.  Feel the textures, applaud the design, get up and react or all is wasted.  'Apex Predator' is wound up, twisted with an inner hatred that does well to mask itself behind some raving madness.  We humans may think we are at the top of the tree but each and every day we are swinging the axe and the fall will be one mighty disaster.  This is a quick chest-release, a holler out against idiocy, a train-track scuttle that will end in one big messy crash - hold on tight folks, ignorance is at the helm.

'Cosmic Irony' is another classic cut from our artiste who has so many cards up his politically-aware sleeve and who deals them forth with such aplomb and recognisable accents to make them almost familiar before they even begin.  The opening tones come from subdued rear areas before the main thrust is had and a call for action is created.  The music will fall on many an idlers deaf ears but one or two will surely be inspired to get up and give the enemy Hell.  When galloping like this the plucker is a master of his art and never fails to post home a convincing effort.  The winning aspects are of course the passion, the quick strum along adhesion and the 'nah, nah' snag – yes, I am hooked.

And to Speed Dinosaurs and their superb opening gambit called 'Fracking'.   This is a poetical masterclass put to music and built on knowledgeable insight and an abhorrence at a drilling deviancy not thoroughly tried and tested but destined to make good coin (and that is all that matters to many bastards).  From the initial question the response that comes is laden with horrifying threat and yet delivered with such a rewarding matter-of-fact counter-style that hammers home the point with greater effect.   The uplift of the song is almost 'holy' and surely people must listen in and take heed - if not, we are in a really shameful state.  I think this is a minor masterpiece and politically sharp - my titfer is raised.  'Triceratops' is a short burst of idiocy and detracts from a dinosaur I think is the dogs bollocks.   These 3 pronged beauties are the best - I wish the band could have dwelt a little longer on the finer points of this long-dead stunner - hey ho - I don't like this track at all.  'The Biggest Mass Extinction' takes a tragedy, creates an oddity, has a bit of fun but makes a point that things are not going too well with all the self-invested time to claim a bit of fame.  All will be lost when the end comes and all win run away from the blame.  The band deal with this damning situation in their crackpot way which I hope doesn't dilute the impact it should have - I suspect though that it will, there are some right deaf cunts about.  Personally I don't mind this one but the band set a remarkable standard with their first offering and for me that is where greatest success was, and will be, had.

A cute little CD this, hopefully spreading the word of the creators and building up a bond that will put them in good stead for future endeavours.  There is a lot of thinking going on here and some music to niggle the neurones and, even if you don't like each and every piece, that is the way things should stay.

THE HECK - WHO

With the frontman from De Keefmen at the helm again I expected a lot from this CD and the Dutch ditty makers involved.  The release, on Dirty Water Records, increased the salivation levels and expectations of a sincere 60's explosion all punked up were just around the corner.  Time was invested, the songs individually tested, here is my critical appraisal.

'Waiting In Line' pitter-pats in before fizzing along with great energetic vitality and providing one with an infrangible backbone of emboldened rock 'n' roll slagginess built on souped up desire and foaming intention.  When the guitars initially pounce one considers something orthodox and regulated to be in store but the vocals alter that state of mind with a natural ardour and duly rises to the climax on the precipice of madness.  It is a short, necessary opening explosion with good order keeping things highly enjoyable - I move on, expectant!  'Nothing Will Do' is a slower affair, a tortured gut twister that grooves in, turns itself inside and out and bares a panging inner soul with steaming passion.   The guitars play it tight, have time to showcase a certain taut relief and ride easy against the hefty bass foundation and reactionary drums.  The vocals release themselves with furrowed attention and contribute to a suggestion of something blue'sed - a good effort this and the inability to satisfy is wonderfully relayed.

Into the flesh of the CD we go, 'For Crying Out Loud' kicks in with a fine bass-driven lick that is awash with rock and roll architecture and adornments of time immemorial.  The tale of a life striving to kick back against the dictators is delivered with easy vibrations that take no time at all in worming their way beneath the epidermal layers and setting things to level 'tingle'.  The skins and 4 wired wank weapon are again alive and moving with relish, the guitar is played over the top with natural exhibitionism and done with one eye on keeping things slightly crudded.  The gob work trampolines from the tonal substrate and does a perfect job - this is the best explosion so far.  'I Won't Change' perhaps leans into darkened realms a little too much and delays the point a trifle too long.  The song has romantic horror shades running throughout, perhaps a suggestion of something 'psychedelic' nudging inward  but as stated, the extension of the sonic scenario is a niggle with me although the final wind-down is highly appealing.  Time seems to slightly alter my perception, the song has more depth than first acknowledged, in fact I would even go so far as to say I am 'converted' - cripes!

'Panic Attack' is a musical interlude - it is highly animated, full of spunky sonic goodness and rises to a gratifying crescendo.  At only 1 minute and 20 seconds it gets the job done and provides a moment to just ping about - I like it.

'Turn Me Loose' skin rolls, coolly enhances, croons with altered elements and therefore showcases an unexpected side to the bands output.  The slow brew moves in one wrap-around loop, perhaps is too protracted for its own good (and my punked soul) and maybe lacks the killer thriller inclusion but, having said that, there is a place for this restrained and more drawn out piece of emotion.  'You Call It Love' pangs, looks to release inner frustrations, does so with a tortured sub-tantrum of kicking and spitting energy borne from a fine militarised intro where sticks lead for bass who in turn lead for guitar with the hollerer the latest arrival to complete the party.  There is a decent arrangement going on here without being too flamboyant and yet all the while, one feels the  band are very much playing within themselves - this is a groovy grind out ideal for its position deep into the CD, I now go in search of fireworks.

'Money' is a loose swinging song, played with relaxed accents and some cute countrified licks attending to the eavesdropping arse.  The flow is slightly meandering, the chilled ambience slightly contrasted and counterbalanced with some spiderweb creating guitar work, the under-layers of sound are without fuss and firmly laid in place - tis not a bad do lad but for me, one that will thrive in the 'live' pit.  'Love That's Gone' ripples in, bemoans a duff emotional deal, exposes an arrow-injured heart that pesky Cupid has duly penetrated.  This is a melancholic song, blue-tinted in part, self-sympathising and highly injured thus making for a very moody piece that needs a certain frame of mind to fully appreciate.   The accents are ideal for the scenario set, the emotion precise - I am now ready for something more upbeat though.

'Cold As Ice' is liquid flowing and easily moves through the shudder-shade waters with cool accents and gently fuzzed strokes.  There is a restrained febrile expression that never fully blossoms into a right old tear up and I am found wanting.  I expected a blow-out here, what we get is more of the same but still played with good endeavour and with the same tonality that has served the band well thus far.  'Do You Love me' initially hints at some old rock and roll tuneage, lolling in a lovely groove that has the intrinsic fundamentals of the old school industry where teens got down and lapped up the vibrations on a heavily bounced dance floor.  This mid-paced tickle is obvious in its approach, has a loved-up need, hits a high via a questioning chorus ascension - not a bad do at all although a little slushy.   We close with 'That Moon', a song that starts with a wonderful hypnotic guitar inflection, a moment that sets a scene whilst tantalising the listener's lugs.   The song comes proper with a languid drawl moving like a lycanthropic predator amid crepuscular kissed glades where we, the victim, may unwittingly sleepwalk and become consumed.   This is perhaps the laziest piece of the lot, is a strange way to finish and yet somehow works marvellously well.   I replay, that starting sequence, what a joy it is - I give this one a right old nod of agreement.

So The Heck have come, trickled their tonality down the lugs of this fertile listener and left me with a feeling of something decent done and, in many ways, easily digested.  I am not 100% convinced, then again, I rarely am but this is a good foundation on which to build and if the band soup matters up with oodles of pace I reckon further zeniths can be attained.

DRAHLA - USELESS COORDINATES

Experimentation seems to provoke over-thinking on behalf of reviewers and therefore lead them to tumble over their own examining arses whilst missing the point of the music.  An almost kiss-arse approach sickens the soul and so, I continue to do my own thing, hopefully avoid a somersault that goes apex over base and try and nail what the fuck is actually going on.  Drahla come from Leeds, tis true they dabble, tis true they seem to have a lot going on but I go in unaffected, disinfected and with the usual Fungalised fairness at the helm.  The initial rotation teased and offered much, further investigation revealed the following arousals.

'Gilded Cloud' stutter-guns in, flicks one off the bass wrist, duly lays a troublesome foundation for one to traverse thus creating an imbalance that is pleasing to feel.  The angles and subtle suggestion of unrefined gawkishness create a situation not for those who play it safe and bathe in orthodox movements.   The opening aural tones are perhaps the safest element in this initial fascination but even then joyous oddness pervades.   There is a coldness amid the warmth, a perplexing creativity that furrows the brow, induces a salivation for more whilst all the while gratifying many attentive senses.  I really like this opening slab of pseudo-experimental noise that doesn’t stray too far off track so as to become nonsensical - a very well-crafted piece of music if you ask me.  'Serenity' moves like an automaton borne of illuminated coruscations that abrade, degrade, work within the shade.  The movement is forever shape-shifting with sabled off-shoots creeping in search of new attentive nutrients.  There is a deep-rooted pestilence gnawing away at the very foundations of the creation with ample power added when needed and an eternal sinisterism maintaining disturbed life -  I leave this one with the tag of 'interesting' - I don't know whether or not that is a good thing!

'Pyramid Estate' is a fractured fragment of bass-driven music invading by almost detached vocals and a nervously untrustable attack of saxed-up vapours.  The primary beauty that radiates from this untoward spasm of sound comes from the level of 'unexpected' and the disjointed way the band bring all components together and somehow persuade them to work as one.  It is an intricate piece of work that needs time.   When patience is given though it is duly rewarded.  'Stimulus For Living' is somewhat clockwork in its approach, an almost robot of rhythm that marches ahead with deliberate focus and a zoned-in intent of taking away any critique the reviewer may have.  The words are stated, woodpecker pulsations come, drums awkwardly tumble, a suggestion of seduction is felt.  The overall arrangement should in no way work, from my personal viewpoint it all falls into place, I am somewhat taken aback by this - I feel I should know better but I don't.   The effect is almost impressionistic with light caught from brief applications, moments ensnared with a veritable naturalness - maybe my favourite track thus far.

'React/Revolt' is a hybridised feline that crawls in under many radars and takes precious time to actually get going.  Screeches, ponderings, procrastinations take precedence as the mind is discombobulated by many acoustic disturbances and hesitations.  Eventually at 2 minutes 38 seconds things are coordinated, a flimsy spine of support is adopted and the song progresses with unpredictable angularity.  Distortions are still prevalent, vulgarities of vibration manifest themselves with gusto, the voice remains cool and aloof as always and yet this time, I fail to get drawn in - the first time my thumbs are turned downwards - what can one say?  'Primitive Rhythm' scratches like a metallic warbler from micro shrubbery that is wind disturbed and makes for a cruelty barbed.  The overall pre-programmed arrangment here is stated, progressive and almost nerve shattering.  The running time is short, it enhances the flavour and impregnates the impact with more 'oomph' - a necessary repeat stab methinks.  Next, and drums roll, impetus comes via tin-scraped guitars, the usual direction is soon taken, an abstraction of verbal’s spill seemingly without prompt and 'Serotonin Level' continues where all other tracks have left off.  The mix is again suggestive of something pastelised, dumbed down and spooked with a wispy oral style that seems borne of passageways disturbed and eternally on the brink of a metamorphosis.  This one though seems to lack true direction and the end breakdown is perhaps all too predictable - for me my least favoured snippet of the lot.

'Twelve Divisions Of The Day' takes us into the last 3 outbursts, pulses with deliberate eagerness, shadowplays, works inward from twisted cogs and an inner machine-like sanctum of unstoppable industry.  A pluck and twinge methodology is scatter-bombed with vulgar intrusions, the wordplay is poetical and ambiguous, the mystery is maintained throughout and I can only feel that this is a good thing.  'Unwound' is perhaps the best song of the lot, it begins in glorious style with a newfound thrust in the loins of the lilt which I feel re-ignites the CD at such a late stage and gets the listener highly motivated.  I love this opening gambit, would love to see it used as an inspiration to create a few quicker quirks that could be thrown into the next mix.  What we get here though is a fascinating blend of opposing themes that meld together, unite the acoustica and make for another outpouring that will surely reveal more layers as one spins.   We close with 'Invisible Sex', a number that crawls in on exhausted knees, forces itself upright and channels its last explosion of energy into one questioning unpredictable firework of sound that glows with multi-coloured accents and forever changing hues.  The band have one last spurt to expose their individual sound and do so with steady success and much unsettling threat.  The knife of noise brandished duly scars, the mental tissue is left to bleed thoughts of 'what next' - I think I kinda like that!

Drahla have created much success here with a sound that flits over many generic caverns but never fully settles into any.  The mix is magnificent and the feeling that one gets is of mixed emotions that always counteract one another and leave one...wondering.   The fact that there is much uncertainty, much to make one think and many obscurities only increases the end opinion of a job well done - have a gander folks, you may be troubled, confused, unsure - but many of you will be magnetised that is for sure!