TICNOTIC - SUM OF THE PEOPLE, SUM OF THE TIME

A five-piece band from Warrington in the North-West of England, with an expressive and emotive slant to the outflow that deals with various themes in a quite charming and unobtrusive way.  There is something natural here and something that strays away from the punk rock tick-boxes which is always a winning way to operate.  My initial dabblings with the music on offer was via a replay-fest of the first three tracks, from here I delved deeper, my overall thoughts are as thus:-

'Aargh' is a simply ideal opener - it has an uplifting sensation, flows with liquid precision, has a perfect blend of all components and really reflects a band that are thinking on their feet, applying themselves with knowledgeable precision and considered forethought.  Emotions spill as a need to be honest is had, the verse bounds along with good gusto and an on-the-cusp essence.  Frustration rises, a beautiful chorus cut offers some form of escape and really banishes any cloying drag-demons that hiding within the already bopping carcass.  A quite joyous number built on many basics and a few extras, an inner break is well-timed, the winddown spot on - the band certainly know their musical onions.  

'Peterloo' looks back on a mindless massacre where a slump, a protest and great disagreement resulted in death - all down to ruddy people hey?  The opening textures are sublime, the windblown throes and bittersweet string strokes work a treat and the narrative is both observant, well-versed and touched with tones of disgust.  Matters become harmonised, once again the chorus is a work of excellence and continues a folked and emotive bout of remembrance that we should all take heed of.  Do not let the masters dictate, stand firm and let us banish this bullying society built on imbalance.  I am both touched and enchanted.  

'Foot Off My Head' is lush, angelic, beautiful and a fine example of how to blend he/she oral offerings whilst relating a tale that is one of control, suffocation and feeling trapped.  The development of matters is like the blossoming of a flower, melodic petals gradually unfurl under a self-made solar goodness with a delectable likeability that defies the content. I, as a passer-by, am attracted, inhale the purity and ponder - I am witness to a natural wonder and I appreciate it with every ounce of my sonic soul - outstanding.  The follow-up to this moment of excellence needs to be something with its own in-built sanguinity and with its own identity.  'Fake News' is a contrasting bout of brilliance with a look at the confounding world of misinformation done in an upbeat old-school skanky style that almost accepts the idiocy and says 'fuck it all, let us all dance instead'.  We are in crazed times, as long as the masses are bickering and blinded then the ruling powers can do what the Hell they like - a perfect situation for the deviants, dime-chasers and those void of compassion.  I love this mocking celebration of a really toxic situation, I adore the honest and again, the musical exactness and the combo of the lucid he/she vocals is a pure, unadulterated delight - this is special stuff folks.

'Raining Again In Manchester' is an emotive, textured and ticker-touched example of thinking.  A song that promotes love, gently resists the ongoing tidal waves of hate, anger, violence and life-destroying lunacy.  The misery is self-inflicted, too many have been side-tracked and sold a universal con, the ongoing brain bombardment of 'it’s all about you' has crippled compassion, diluted love and created a 'get what you can' me-fest - it is all very poor.  I am absorbed yet again by a very convincing song that captures the pencil-shaded misery and low-hanging crowds that helps the tears flow - the inner misery is exposed and a question asked - love is the way folks, always.

At this point, in my pessimistic way, I am expectant of a dip but I am thrown another beauty as a local gossip/cum grass/cum nosey parker falls under the TNT spotlight via the sweet flowing 'Suburban Witch'.  The opening verse is spartan, reliant on minimal strings whilst the oral offerings fly with gratifying liberation. The slip into the easy and most pleasing chorus is a joy, the cream-dream elevation of the floating tones keeps one flying high on the back of the sinuous persuasions.  This is another classic example of why it is important for some bands to place emphasis on tonal clarity and consideration of the listener's needs - smashing stuff.

We gently recline into the final four with 'Bathsheba' beginning on tiptoed, semi-gothic keys before waltzing along in a quiet and somewhat insipid manner.  As matters progress my initial thoughts are banished and a little more promise charms the fungal sensors.  This is not the most impacting track of the lot and if found as a standalone would have nothing out of the ordinary to attract deeper investigation. Time and patience do assist though in making a fair judgement of a song that is neatly played, has a sad and annoying content with a gentle upcurve in magnetism.  The weakest song of the lot 'yes', a poor track 'no' - make of that what ya will.

'Sycophant' is a pertinent song and may very well be aimed at all the back-slappers and nodding slagwankers within the music scene who, instead of being honest and helping folk along, are too busy saying all the right things and currying favour.  The lack of sincerity is appalling to see and yet those who step out of the bounds and try and be fair are duly crucified.  This is an altered approach and takes a little adjusting to but when the swing is fully embraced and understood the job, it must be said, is a good un'.  The squelch and sear keys, the general futuristic sound and the undulations of the orchestration keeps one swinging - nifty.  

A liquid lick with a gentle skew, decisive words and a decision reached - 'Goodbye Forever Friend' is a bittersweet song that sees a long-term friendship go under the analytical eye and a finale reached.  I know this feeling well, sometimes one goes with a flow that is turning sour and mere loyalty blinds the fact that things have turned to shit.  A very sad song with an inner need that must be met - once again the deliverers of the ditty do so with tender hands and an erudite articulation of the vibe created.  With all areas comprehensible, the drift lacking any snagging barbs and the ongoing consistency upheld, this is a quite sublime penultimate poppet.

We shut down with a tangent, an invasion of interstellar accoutrements that are delivered by a seeming automaton caught in a web of pulsations and light ray scarrings.  'Learning To Say Know' is the oddball in the company of cacophony and with it arriving at such a late juncture, it really does throw me back on my heels.  I play over and over, recognise it as a track that keeps one guessing, as not being the stand-out moment and yet as one that offers many options for future jaunts.  A cold assassin of a tune, one that takes no nonsense - I would be lying to say I was 'convinced', I would be equally fraudulent to say 'I don't like it' - I am left unsure.

And despite the odd niggle I am happy to slap down a verdict of this CD as, in Northern terms 'a reet good do'.  In fact the whole shebang has been a joy, a song has been specifically chosen for my Bandcamp page (only the best will do) and this whole package will surely raise TicNoToc on to greater things.  I need to catch this lot real soon, the diary is rammed, I shall reach for my sonic crowbar and see what I can lever in to the great annual overload - it may well be worth it.

THE MISPELT - THREE CHICKENS, ONE GUN

5 tracks from a band who are still hanging in there despite being outside the general circles and suffering a major blow. They have played several Fungal gigs in their former guise and I do need to get em' back on a fiasco and thrown out there - tis all about juggling time and getting myself organised. 

And one - 'Revelations' begins with a lo-fi sober bass, a grumble, a tribal war beat before tension ascends and a good clatter-batter unfolds. The first cutlet  is agitated, stated and strummed with a move into the chorus slick and without hindrance. The band plough away with a solid heartniness and certain grind in the melodic grime. All the trimmings of a band I have not seen for while are there, the impetus is sprightly and spunky and there is a good flourish to round matters off. Kaboom.

'Ready Steady War' is a groovy bastard that swings its tonal hips, grinds out a head nod and foot-tap whilst maintaining a heavyweight underscore built on hefty bass, firmly thwacked sticks and a sweet and sour manipulation of the sextet of wires. A relish is apparent, a relish tempered with an acidic disgust and disillusionment may it be said. This is a fruity number with a good aftertaste, one that I am sure will force many a punter to ping, one or two to stand back and grimace - I may do both just for the Hell of it.

'Panic Buy' starts with a false dawn, has one thinking that something sedate is coming but instead matters unfold in manic style, just like the fuckers who go into a frenzy and selfishly stockpile as soon as any misinformation hits the airwaves. We have witnessed this idiocy quite recently, the tumultuous tonal twat attack is quite apposite for the theme under the spotlight with mania the leading radiated essence. The band nail a thrashing beauty with tight affect and tonal ill-temper. When the Mispelt put their foot down on the accelerator they test themselves and usually come up smelling of glorious gasoline - burn it baby, burn it. 'No One Cares' has a subtle screw within the sonica, a slightly above mid-pace incessance, an abandoned hopelessness and a somewhat scramble-head realisation of a very frightening situation. Who gives a fuck? No-one! Who is on yer side? No-one? What are we to do? The cacophony has a very troubled core and a bubbling overspill with the band going at it in unbridled fashion and getting the job done with relative ease - the final noggin crash is only to be expected.

'Let Me Go' is my choice for the pick of the pimple-popping pops. It is a real pus-squirting fiasco of good tunery, snagging intent and general bounce-inducing goodness. I like the fluster and bluster within the lunatic-fringe chorus, a chorus that is both simple but joyously productive in grabbing the idiot attention. The band are on the fringe of collapse here, are playing with loaded  dice of discordance but are somehow avoiding to roll out a dreaded snake-eyed duffer. A kick-up the arse is never a bad thing, to round off a CD with a good rear bruiser is always welcome - ouch.

Pacey, precise, under-produced and promising much for the next 'in the flesh' fiasco. The Mispelt are a good EP band with a long-term pedigree - I am still keen, are you?

THE DESTROID - DO IT YOURSELF

3 doofers, one of whom is a plucking frontman with a delicious attitude and a DIY approach - what can go wrong? Well, in truth, everything but being of the same leaning one has to give these folk a chance tha' knows. I have a lot of time for the front lout (Paul Carter), recognise a few of the tunes, and having worked with the stickman in the past (who is a delightful and well-mannered doofer) I was hoping for something rather invigorating - this is what I got.

'Do It Yourself' is a minor pip that states the ethos of many DIY dogs who won't play ball, will shake off the generic rules and get the arse in gear to get something done. The song has a distinct coruscated edge, the grime and sandpaper naturalness gives character whilst the gruff rough throat warblings of the front lout are ideal. The rhythm is smooth, the drums are clattered and give some beef whilst the chorus is simple sing-a-long stuff the most moronic spiky top can join in with. Do not underestimate the dirty goodness and the message here.

'Eco Warrior' is the pick of the CD because it is a fuckin' darn good tune, has the most pertinent message one could make in this world of selfish and destructive madness. The words are rebellious, the spirit warming and the facts spilled need taking heed of and some arses need to be put in gear. The incessant gushing, the call to wake up and fight, the fast flow and the sincere punk joy de vivre is all sweet sugar to my feisty soul and rather than be a complacent old fart and listen, jump about and do fuck all, I will use this as some fuel for the undying fire. Punk is all well and good but is nothing more than a fashion label without some action that makes for a better future - fuck hobbyists, up the doofers. What a great song.

'Family Man' is a tale of a bloke who has got bogged down with things deemed damning. For me, if you dip the dick and indulge in the way of the family then you have to be committed - no moaning or regrets, if so, cut yer cock off. The buzzing attack on the many who are snared is sweet poison and note should be duly taken. Too many opt for procedure without thinking and then feel trapped - oh the stupid bastards. There is good relish here, the sticks are alive and kicking, the wire work frisky and forceful whilst the maniac at the helm is loving every minute of it. For me, the message is obvious, if ye be a loving family man then do it with 100% conviction and keep life varied, vibrant and against the cloying grain. I like this one - it has me thinking.

'I Hate Work' is a classic from the set of Paul Carter, here the yearner of the relaxation sets a new standard with a really neat, fully-plugged in piece of annoyance that many of us will be able to relate to. This is a real uplifting piece of corrugated cacophony to play in the early morn before the day of toil begins or afterwards, when the carcass is tired and the frustration levels are at an all time high. Thankfully I avoided work for a long while, when I started I had a stint as a teacher and then joined a charity - it ain't a bad do and it helps folks, I pity those who have been trapped in a warehouse or on a production line and suggest they get out as soon as. Anyway - no matter what, we all get days when work gets on the tits, this is a wonderful eruption to ease the niggles.

2 left, 'Make Your Own Rules' is what I always do, this is a fine soundtrack to keep me focused. The opening bars remind of a tune by Corrosive Machine, the following snarl-fest that is laden with a two-fingered defiance is etched with the Destroids brand of spiky sonica. Simple lyrics, a simple ethos, an uncomplicated delivery - and very catchy too. My summing up is quite unembellished and straightforward as well  - what a good track for sure!

The closure and 'Shellshock' is a very archetypal, run-of-the-mill episode of spikiness with a stick slap, a preparing, a quick shuffle and some smash and grab fuzzery with orthodox hollering enlivened by the inner spark that will not be doused. A head is hammered by war, the inner cerebral wires disconnect and the nerves become frayed - no more can be taken as the brain kicks back against numerous horrors and explosions. The song rattles away, all players are absorbed in the artform and this is one of those that is in the punky blood, an example of why we fuckers are in this sonic shebang - ooh err.

Yes - this is good to honest sound shovelling of the most DIY kind. The peeps do, do it well and are not afraid to avoid idiot trimmings, over-production and all manner of arty-farty accoutrements - the key is - get up, let it flow and let it go - it will certainly do for me.

THE BORDELLOS - NOBODY'S LISTENING

The subtle humour and gentle title of this latest Bordellos offering isn't wasted on me as I take note of an overlooked band who are wonderfully prolific, explorative and musically testing.  They are a unit worthy of note, they may not hit the pleasure zones every time but what band does?  They may stray from that which many deem the norm, what the fuck is wrong with that?  They may be not in fact a punk band - thank fuck for that?  Anyway, a sinister 13 track adventure awaits, I best crack on and hitch up my assessing underduds.

We commence with the foul mouthed intrusion known as, surprise, surprise 'Nobody's Listening'.  The opening vocal salvo of verbal filth comes as a wake-up call but a realisation comes that the aim of the tirade is a tonal twat who has fallen in line with the mediocre shower and is missing out on the real vibe makers.  This seems to be a gentle piece but is a vicious snippet with claws bared and awkward angles exposed.  The shabby sham and shittery of the modern day nostalgia nuts is exposed and we have a tune that only just stays on the right side of sane and reasonable (although the final thrust is highly disturbing).  'Running Back To You' is a carefully orchestrated piece of emotive architecture built by placing each tonal brick with the utmost feeling and passion.  The tender touches, the provocative sensation of the barely felt keys and the whispered regrets and desires are all part and parcel of a sweet and sour sonic scar that runs deep.  This is a surprising inclusion that works mighty well - I think The Bordellos would do well to create a 4 track effort of keyed, vocal gothic snippets - it is all rather intriguing.

'And That's The Funny Part' is very indicative of many Bordello-esque tunes with the slight rusted acoustica, the bittersweet remembrances, the sober and soulful verbalisations and just the general feel of bedroom borne noise done with an insatiable need to bare the inner workings.  The drift has a comfort and a certain stark honesty and this is where this creative force find their greatest reward.  The semi-snow dust that comes from speakers unscrubbed helps too - nice.  One of my favoured songs of this latest offering is 'Brief Taste (featuring Dee Claw)' - it is well-blended piece of reclined roaming through sub-melodic thoroughfares where tonal teases and beyond are found.  The vocal combo works well, is beautifully unprofessional and highly approachable and a million miles away from the processed puke too many are sozzled by.  I like this one, there is a semi-lusty load unfolded and yet all is kept in control and one can't help but being a little unsure of the content.  I like to be left in a state of ambiguity.

Next and a clutch of three with 'In Another Life' floating along with a fondness in the eye and a dreaming slant of things elusive.  A focus for the attention is grabbed and duly absorbed, the imagination runs away with itself and contemplations of another place, another situation, another life... are had.  The silence is pushed aside as minds merge and the pseudo-serenade becomes holistically absorbed.  Again the players do what needs to be done and certainly keep this Fungal Fucker listening and, may I riskily add, entertained.  'So You' begins with a slow-stutter bass bumble before a droning flow comes and leaves me with little to say.  I don't mind it but it offers up nothing new and is too-typical of what the crew do which of course, is a statement draped in contradictory connotations.  There is a comfort had from the familiar, an easy listening experience from something so easily recognised and floated along with, I do like it when the Bordellos throw the curveballs my way though.

Hey up and another nestful of 3 with the strange artform of 'Gospel According To Julian Cope (lo-fi remix)' floating forth with a desire to be youthful again and to absorb oneself in the sounds of yesterday and a particular creator.  This is a slow burner that has persuasive elements it is easy to be enchanted by.  There is an obsession with rock and roll that has seen a soul taken - hook, line and sinker - is that a bad thing?  One for the fully immersed, one for those who like things without apology.  'Soundtrack To Getting Your End Away' may be crassly titled and is certainly not what it claims to be and for me is a fumble-reminisce that would be hard pushed to get any juices flowing.  Taken as a tune without aphrodisiac properties the sweet stroll through under-processed realms of bedroom music has a essence that warms the cockles rather than stiffens the cock - a middling moment methinks.  The last of the latest trio comes under the banner of 'Marianne' - a twinkle-twankle twang jarring with the string warpings almost detached from the throat warblings that are duly committed to the recording substrate in the most recognisable way to those already utterly Bordelloed.  Harsh, pseudo-melodic and off kilter with the pluckings almost akin to a musical minstrel on the cusp - it is all strange but resoundingly true.

'Kookies' is a 4 minute 50 second affair that will not be pushed into cutting matters short.  What we have is a moribund and reflective ponder with a few regrets perhaps, a few fond memories, a few occurrences to contemplate further.  The simmering mode is kept under wraps with only a slight steam rising from the inner brew of barely stirred stew.  A morose and almost insouciant piece that would work well in the midst of a hardcore rumble.

'Stone Turns To Stone' has a real good naked vibe with strings and words the only ingredients used to capture the eavesdroppers attention.  There is something raw, honest and utterly natural about this stripped bare escapade that does what it does in a poetical fashion and with a heavy legged approach that suits the style set. The length of the piece could be accused of being overly drawn out but believe it or not the song passes with ease and the end defiance is neatly timed.  'Tom Waits Blues' is a sorely fucked off piece that seems to take a certain satisfaction in the overall wallow.  Sometimes there is comfort in misery it seems, many seem to thrive on the low and lethargic feeling and duly use it as a source of creation.  I like the minimal depths here and the greying warmth radiated.

'Soft Get Smile' is a low-brow licker that curls its tonal tongue into your lug with understated affect.  There is a one-way operational technique here only broken by the odd feedback squeak and uncertainty.  The flick of the wrist is almost careless thus giving the tremulations of the wires an almost relaxed feel.  There is nothing mind-boggling about the construct, it is living-room spillage done with one foot on the arm of the sofa and a bifter awaiting in the nearby dimp-laden ashtray.  The 'jam and sub jive' essence are doped and doofing - somehow the combination works.

Time is taken, the mid-thermal sonic beverages served by The Bordellos are sipped with care - I hope my assessments capture what transpires and how, the great DIY realm is a glorious place to discover oddments, capricious ticklings and vibrations off the radar.  I have a fondness for this lot, this is my 12th review of their spillings - am I blessed, cursed, mentally unstable or just a curious and appreciative DIY Doofer?

SALEM TRIALS - HERE'S YOUR NOISE

More Metal Postcard magic to melt the routine, warp the expectations and shove a finger up the jacksie of the orthodox.  Salem Trials have been under the Fungalised spotlight before, this is my latest take, 'Here's Your Noise' ya fuckers.

'Data Leak' is industrial corruption splatted forth from the groins of invested automatons with no hope of salvation.  The machinations of Metropolis mayhem have borne fruit, the fruit is natural but maggot-molested, here is such an example of things that are left to rot and the sonic bacterial growth duly appreciated.  This is a right groovy grovel dog with a weighted rhythm that takes one along the crest of a sewage based wave.  Ride the shit or sink deep within the effluence  - your call, I like this one. 'Alternative VU' deals with a unenviable situation that  an almost forgotten musician found himself in and how he became the brunt of jibes by know-it-all precious fans and ego-screwed pluckers and fuckers who really did need a reality check.  This is a mid-paced look at what was a sour state of play and one laden with selfish shittery.  The band here take the subject matter, knock out their own style of 'against the grain' music and make for a rather intriguing hypno-crawl.  The overall ambience is of a saturated soundscape with all contributors absorbed and eternally caught up in the considered flow - of course this isn’t for everyone - and by heck, so it shouldn't be.

'Nineteen 93' has two opposing textures - one that is slightly encrusted and scurfy, the other that is smooth and embracing.  There is a warmth generated from the gentle clash of the styles, a thermal radiation that I find more than a little gratifying.  There are many elements of underground scenes and may I add, 60's experimentation with garaged overtones.  The blend should struggle to win any true appreciation from your everyday musos and assessors, I am happy to be outside those circles and give a thumbs up here.  The deep-rooted sadness and open-hearted confessional has strong emotive value and a solid, unwrapped rhythm - it is a pleasurable pain.

The closing tri-fuck of sound begins with 'House Of God (Part 3)' - a peephole perversion that many may deem bordering on the blasphemous with considerations had, questions proffered and no answers the outcome.  This is the most jazz-fucked piece with the ghostly verbals detached from reality and the general drift it seems. The general ballyhoo is a rather uncivilised assault of dis-arrangement to test the mettle of the most ardent, angle-laden music lover - there is something horrid happening here - the acoustically unstable may be intrigued.

'Another Lonely Night In Colne' is the outcome of an ennui attack in a Northern grey grind where grim sensations copulate with sobering mental mis-fires and all manner of thoughts arise.  Of course, when the thumbs are twiddled and time is there to assassinate it goes without say thing that considerations towards streaking arise.  And why not?  This is a moment in time that does not apologise for being a miserable and dour bastard that will not skip around for the sake of appearance.  A very fucked off sounding piece that I am not taken with when on a bit of a downer myself.  When chipper though I can applaud the creative process and the need to banish the demons of the drag.

The closure - 'No Job For A Man' - a rebellious little whinging wanker of noise that slops down its gripes in a low-slung, slaggy manner that has me pondering times of yore and sounds emanated from NY backstreets and other such wallow-holes.  This one threatens to fall-inwards into its own destructive designs but somehow manages to crawl onwards with a sub-tune forever nipping at the eavesdroppers heels.  The arrangement is, as per, awkward, unorthodox and toxic - just take your medication before pondering too deeply.

A mush of mishaps and mayhem that still has me wondering and still has me willing to dabble further with the ST overspill.  Here I am still split down the middle - sometimes I join in with the jangle, at others I am jarred and duly run in the opposite direction.  Is it perverse of me to say that it is better to operate this way rather than just tick all the boxes of expectation and then fall into the almanacs of 'average' - ooh heck, what am I saying?

THE SYSTEM/VIRUS/BUG CENTRAL - SPLIT EP

Take 3 reliable bands from a defiant sub-scene with always a message to be delivered, give them space enough for one track each and throw the release out there with DIY hopes.  For me, split singles are always the way to operate, it builds unity, gets bands working together and spreads the vibrating word farther and wider.  I was intrigued by this 3 tracker when it came through vie with wanky web waves. Here is my take on matters, all done in the usual Fungalised way with honesty at the fore, kiss arsing not an option and appreciation of folks having a go always prevalent. Oh, the bands are well versed in what they do so Fungal expects - pressure on.

The System I first saw back in 1981, nowadays they have a different line-up but after playing a Fungalised gig I was very much delighted with what I got.  Here the song is well produced, has a solid flow and a certain grim and grimy edge that counterbalances the general fluidity.  In fact this is a fuckin' good piece of forthright music with a authoritative kickback against the over-indulgent shitfest that keeps the masses distracted whilst the power mongers rake it in.  The cover of the EP reflects the point made here, it ain't controversial, it ain't shocking, it is stating the obvious - it is a shame so many are sucked in to a systematic draining that ultimately leads to unhappiness and suffering.  There song has a basic construct but carries great weight, some tight musicianship and some acoustic horror accoutrements that add to the noisy nightmare - it is a solid track for sure.

Virus follow up this hefty opener with some forceful turnery that is enhanced with brass attacks and space-age surges as well as a great incessancy that magnetises the punky instincts and makes sure they get ensnared.  Again the blend of all components is spot on, the extra switches in tack and trinkets of tonality work a treat and the general drift of the discordance is highly attractive.  The opening throbs grab the attention, the first verse has great urgency whilst the general hunger to deliver the message is done with undying gusto.  We are strangled victims in a great orchestration of malevolence - things may seem 'Futile' but you still gotta keep on being that awkward bastard who walks against the grain methinks.

The finale comes via Bug Central and their claustrophobic 'Four Walls' which has a real fine opening sequence that certainly molests the mind and makes its mark.  The soundbite hits home, the sonic follow-on is in no rush and has good muscularity and a certain old-skool monochrome feel that really does work a treat and has some political comfort for the born-to-be agitator cum agitated.  When all weapons of melodic war are brandished the effect is resounding, the whole concoctions shows a band thinking on their feet and not willing to follow the overly cooked routine formula.  This one rounds off a quite captivating anarcho-tinted CD - smashing.

So three good bands, three good songs, an honest label doing its thing - by heck you spiky bastards are spoiled rotten at times. Grow Your Own Records do what they do and do it well - keep em’ motivated and alive and kicking folks – DIY is the only way. 

LEGLESS CRABS - GOLDEN CHOWDERS

I run forwards, I dash backwards and then I follow-sonic suit (as found here) and shuffle sideways.  Try as I might, I cannot escape the multifaceted and mix and match array of these crustacean-based limbs that reach out, grab the lugs and twist and turn me inside and out.  Of course, I should easily avoid this situation as the cacophonic carapace-bearing bastards under the spotlight claim to be limbless - I tell ye, this is a trick and the unwary (and the alert) need to keep on their toes.  Once more I have an assortment of acoustic vibes to assess - such is the life of a pillock.

'Rock Yr Hole' has an automated underbeat, a subtle house of horror sub-sonica and a zombified vocal terror that brings visions of an abandoned educational building, now left to rot and ruin, draped in cobwebs and reeking of decadence and decay.  The arrangement of this opening track is to be nothing more than a greeting, one done by a crusted and scabrous musical mitt that will pinch a few nerve endings in a paradoxically sweetly malicious way.  'Pink And The Stinky's' is hepped up on anxious energy and relies on the agitation and loosely twanged touches to get by and make the finishing line in shattered fettle.  It is a very old school sounding piece of clattersome creativity with an end pulse-drone that makes me keep looking over my shoulder for giant ants.  I find this episode a foundation piece that could be reworked into an orthodox piece of delightful sub-art.

A repeat tap of the mini-timbers, a soporific heavy eyed delivery comes with splodgey bass, metronomic rhythm bouts and a very doped up vocal style that really douses any sense of upbeat anticipation.  This is another angle, it should be appreciated for the route its takes and how it pisses against the grain but... it is a tough piece to digest and has a 20/80 rate of success all being dependant on the mood of the eavesdropping framework.  'Grow Horns' is a similar piece in many ways but has a fresher feel and has a pertinent edge that looks at the wired strangulation taking place all over the world.  The masses are being turned inside out, groomed into a place of acceptance where many will happily join the shitshow and claim some kind of blissful existence.  The rantings and the rebellious ravings have had enough, the balance on the cusp of a standstill is no coincidence and the more I dabble here the more I nod in agreement with the pseudo-rhythm and the content.

I don't know what the point is of 'Jesus Christ Alison', it seems like an unwanted intruder that just nips in when the acoustic coast is clear, does what it needs to do and fucks off - in truth it ain't a bad little penetration - ooh me aural arse.

'Stealin' In The Year's' is an airwave wank job with the dial twisted this way and that, feedback zaps given whilst the pilfering lead bugger goes on about his sticky fingered ways back in the days when cameras were not watching your every move.  I know many who dabbled, by heck didn't that stolen chocolate taste sweeter and weren’t those smokes a whole lot more satisfying.  Of course those with any sense of decency moved on and stopped their thieving ways but this is a nicely delivered musical reminder of those wayward escapades.  The music has many features that distort the senses - oh yes.

The next batch of 3 are taken as a whole so as to keep the motions moving.  'Stuckist Manifestos In The Western World' is a level out buzz that is frustrated by the claustrophobic static play that sees all expression restricted.  The pleas are heard, the desperation rampant, the safety zone too easy to access whilst being all consuming.  This is a good mover with a snagging energy.  'Sleep Sweet Satan' is dark material stretched and contorted over an uneven playing field and exposed for your delectation.  A murky piece with a dubious intent thus sending the listener into realms of unwanted mistrust.  A sneaky devil that sometimes wins favour, sometimes disturbs - a typical effect of Crabby donations.  'My Baby (Can't Stop Buying Dumb Shit)' is a neat one-way trickle that sees a bloke beaten by a spendthrift who can't stop exchanging the coin for nonsensical crap.  Many are in the same boat, there are hordes of folks throwing hard-earned cash out of the window whilst picking up a cheap trinket or two.  The hammered down brow of the narrator is easily envisioned whilst listening to this tickling tune.

The penultimate track, a warning message done with darkened tones and a moribund feel. 'Broadcast Signal Intrusion' walks at its own pace, states its ambiguous case and places one in a slow stranglehold and squeezes like a determined Boa with no intention of making things easy.  The funereal march is a warning, there is an interruption to the airwaves coming, the tube that overfeeds the masses is gonna be plugged - I like the style.  We close with an almost bastardised mimic that has a glutinous grind, an almost Lovecraftian horror and mystery with the shambler from the stars closing all senses and looking to finalise everything in sight.  'Annihilator' is a pure terror-threat borne beyond the realms of matters deemed sane. The darkened forces that are summoned rise to a heavy beat that works like a laxative and sees this assessor at least, shit out a thumbs up dollop of warped goodness.  Upset acoustica that works well and remains utterly focused in what it does.  The mass and density  of the noise is the winning element here - a real stinking heavyweight.

Survival is the name of the sonic game and only the brave, the foolhardy and those willing to trespass into tonal areas deemed 'out of bounds' will win through.  Again, it must be said that what goes on here is beyond the range of most people's listening realm, it is best regarded as 'sub-music' in all its glory - this is no bad thing and the DIY elements only add to the fascination.

DAVID DELINQUENT AND THE I. O. U's - UNREMARKABLE TO DOZENS

As pilfered from Bandcamp I offer ye the following textual summing up of what we have on offer here - 'Punk Rock 'N' Roll from Dundee, Scotland. Featuring members of Dundee bands Delinquents, Volcano X and Th13ves' - well that just about does the job for me.  To add, what we get here is a free-throwaway serving of 10-live tracks that are sonically stained, trashy and as warted and wanked as you good wish for.  I have no gripes with the unaffected approach, what I see in the mirror every morning gives me no choice.

And to the opening salvo of sound and 'Nobody Else' has a fine slaggy feel with a great rocked up relish carrying the riff and roll grind out that ticks all the boxes of the chosen style. The groove in the verse is both alive and vibrant and the slip into the sing-a-long chorus is as smooth as butter and keeps this initial song flowing.  The second verse starts in a naked fashion before we carry on as per - it may be cliched stuff in many ways and have many well-used tricks but this mid-paced outpouring is an easy song to take favour with.  The follow-up track continues matters in the same vein with 'Too Far Gone' another slick dick inserted into your awaiting orifices where it does its thing with vibro-matic goodness before leaving one with the end silence and being impregnated with an ear-worm of a chorus.  The construct may be simple but the slap happy drums and the string strengths all give extra sinewy muscularity to matters and have one convinced.  This is not my chosen style of music but I don't mind the odd snifter - perhaps it is a little to Americanised and too mid-school for some, hey ho, I can't find nowt to kick here.

3rd track in, '2 Much 2 Say' adds to the consistency on show and for another 'live' track the end result is a fuckin' decent do.  All components can be heard, I think the balance is nicely precise and the frontman’s gravel gob gifts work just fine.  The words are lucid, are not overly forced and the oral endeavours are ideal for the spillage proffered. Not a bad do and nice and short too although the use of '2' instead of 'Too' and 'To' is 2 darn corned - oh heck. Next and 'Time Of My Life' - a very honest and celebratory feeling is emanated from a track with yet more R 'n' R gusto and US tinted (or tainted) tones that will tick the boxes of those who like things a little less abrasive and more melodic.  To be fair, even though I am a dabbler in the dirt and a lover of things scabby, this is another sanguine treat that rises above the sometimes restrictive 'live' recorded routine - my handclaps are sincere.

I speed on, 'The Last Laugh' is not a fave of mine, a suggestion of cock-rock gone awry comes to mind with a subtle countrified feel that seems best suited for a bitter dungaree wearing goon who is contemplating revenge.  I say this though, but the song is played well, delivered with good effect and has touches that will tickle the aural tits of many a listener.  I will never claim to like everything, here I am turned off and my personal eavesdropping paps are duly made flaccid.  'Alleycats In Love' shakes its arse with good weight before a groove is adopted and the song unfolds with a convincing vibe.  The orchestration of the piece is well worked, the move from verse to chorus is without hitch and the players seem to build up a good lather whilst plying their trade.  Much clarity can be blurred via 'live' releases, I think the crew do mighty well to maintain the inner gumption and to showcase at a decent standard.

'Shame Of My Youth' has many 'Big Country' essences and so, slightly changes the tack of the tonal collection. I can take or leave this one as a result, I don't mind the texture and applaud the bands efforts in altering the general approach but the general gentle ripple tones are not my bag at all and bring back memories of early 80's middling sounds that were all too prevalent.  Small dose sonica for me here, I am sure there are many who will disagree. 'Rocksteady Girl' has a great juiced up jive and jig enthusiasm and despite being an intrinsically basic construct it has 'oomph', well jangled conkers and a good overall joy de vivre. It seems to be a somewhat fleeting song that doesn't fuck about - therein we may find the true source of its success.

The final duo are flung forth, 'Hangin' Out' is a middling song to my ears, one that is played well, has moments of wallop and has the usual rocked inflection that the band create without flaw.  I think this is the most 'hindered' song of the lot with the 'in the flesh' airing not helping to get the best out of matters.  If one takes care one can see what the aim of the song is and how the band apply themselves.  I can't complain (well I could but that would just be because I am being a nasty bastard) and on we go to the last throws of the discordant dice we move with 'This Day's A Drag'.  A tight guitar, a sub-twinge, a strict tempo, an opening verbal spill exposed.  The essence is of a blues'ed up dude who is wishing the day away and hoping for something better on the morrow.  The gist is sound, the execution equally so and for me, the job is a pretty decent one.  There is little to add methinks, the band know what they are doing, have an ear for a song and survive a 'live' risk well.  Fungal applause are given, I hope I have captured what transpires.

THE MISSING PERSONS LIST - MUST TRY HARDER

Via the Punk 4 The Homeless music machine came this 6 track blast of enraged sounding discordance that immediately met the needs of my cacophonic caveman desires.  I have a real penchant for immersing my lugs in the acoustic overflow as heard here, many would say I need to 'get over it' and listen to material more polished, I say 'go fuck yerself you affected and tone deaf halfwits'- one has to be honest tha' knows.  Anyway, 6 tracks by a band I know fuck all about and, if you want to lean more, go and do some research ya lazy gits.

'Tory Cuts' is a seething beauty, spitting hot molten gunk with infecting rage that is riddled with DIY spikiness I for one fuckin' adore.  The unscrubbed upper scum, the sub-epidermal filth and the cruddy core all comes together to create a living zombie of enraged passion that can't wait to strangle out a positive pogoing response.  The chugging crud shamble is delicious, the gravelly vocals that are snarled with rabid rage all add to the steaming effect that has me drawn in like an arse-fly to a shit-laden duffel bag.  Fuck the politicians, go throw a brick, get this rammed down yer throats and kick back. 'Shit@CPR' is a nail-gun slam dunk of mid-paced nastiness that has a sub-comedic slant one can't help but be amused by.  The reckless wannabe life-saver eternally cocks it up and the frustration is more than a little tangible.  The riffing deliberateness is once again streaked with toxicity, the outcome is a very polluted piece of sonic sewerage that I am more than happy to bathe in.  The boils and puss-filled sores that come from wallowing in such beautiful acoustic effluence like this are veritable bodily medals to bear with pride.  A solid piece of DIY decadence methinks.

'Stationery Thief' is a delicious moment of idiot humour that relates a tale of a straight-edge kleptomaniac who works in an office and who has an inkling to pilfer paper, pens, A4 wallets and other such working day ephemera.  The chop and charm of the concoction works well and the upbeat score of sound that operates in unison with the roughhouse gobbage only helps matters thrive.  The verses are matter of fact, the mania of the chorus gives insight into a deviant who likes to abuse even the most petty situations.  There are many at this game, the thrill is in the theft, the need to feed an habit inescapable - ooh heck, where’s me highlighter pen.

'What Kinda Police' is a vicious assault on the corrupt so-called protectors of the populace who are nothing more than deviant scum using a front to hide their inner perversions.  This is an impacting assault that repeatedly asks a question - it is a necessary outburst!  The frustration and despair at this invasion of bad apples overspills into a concrete and compact number that has great appeal due to the emotion and the raw-assed delivery that is straight out of the street.  The quick follow-up is 'The Dirt' - a cracking sonic stint that comes from the put down and is spat at those who think they are better.  A chunky celebration of the filth that matters.  The he-she chorus cuts are utterly splendid, the nasty joy taken in being the scabbed, the unwashed, the cheap and nasty fucker who gets on ones tits is delivered with a jangling joy de vivre that is pleasure to behold.  I play over and over - yeah, I am a crummy fucker not lying down and following your hygienic idiocy.  

'Meds' is a quality closure with a mind on the cusp and with a need to decline into degenerate behaviour and of course, to bare one's bollocks.  The doc is given a seeing to, the social arena is invaded by a head gone AWOL, this is a treat for all those pilled up and with a bonce that just won't settle.  With a cranium cluttered, a day to day mither that gnaws at the soul and a persistent pillaging by societal demands, tis’ no wonder the rails are abandoned when the medication runs dry.  This is the best track of the lot, a real catchy rust bucket I can relate to.  The flow from verse to chorus is perfect, the blend of the foul and the clear, the brain zaps and just the general jangle juices that run from the speakers make for a stunner - lovely.

Well, what an unexpected treat.  6 songs, all devoured, and all fuckin' enjoyed.  This is why I am at DIY level, this is why I don't need to use nostalgia and the 'same old, same old' as a crutch to lean on.  On we stride, under our own fresh steam, fuck the static, fuck the stagnant - ain't we the lucky ones.

THE ALOPECIA TRIO - UNKLE YUMMY AND OTHER LULLABIES

Hectic times see this Fungal fool on the back foot and patchworking matters as best as possible whilst trying to keep the gigs flowing, the CD review backlog kept to a minimum and many other areas attended to.  This 12 tracker came out of the discordant blue and I duly played here and there and cobbled together some brief thoughts.  After more time the noises were assessed and the following textual ticklings were made.

So, first up from the Kidderminster based cacophonic criminals comes a song that goes under the name of 'Hippo', a melodic track with a brutal edge that cuts to the quick and leaves great mental scars on anyone who is overweight and of a delicate nature. After a quick grunt the song rattles in with a simple intro and the a neatly breeze-blown opening verse that reveals a perversion to be frowned at.  A penchant for a sweating fatso is exposed, the music clatters away with great haste as the warped juices flow and the pluckers get all worked up. The song is intrinsically basic and crude - it is played well though and as a sub-pop-punk likeability.  'Who's He' is similar in many ways but has a fine old zip and a dubious content laden with a mistrust and shady goings-on.  The impetus is the winning factor with the strings warped with whipping gusto and the skins scatter-slapped with breathless attention.  The gob work delivers verbals that are easily joined in with - there is never anything wrong with that.  My fave track of the opening three is the mid-paced and meaner sounding 'Bright Blue Skies' - a ditty with conker-clobbering firmness and a fist in the face of the idlers, takers and general shits that really get on my tits.  Self-absorbed fuckwits are the majority shareholders of a world turning to shit whilst their eyes only see things that they want to see so as to keep their limited intelligence upbeat.  My only gripe with the song is that it drifts out too quickly and lacks an extra verse and some real inner wallop - I still love it though.

'I Love My Baby (She Loves Me Too)' has a right whole groove, borne it seems from 60's zested zoophile with a need to pester the wild world whilst strumming his way to sexual zeniths.  There is nothing intricate and profound going on here, it is a quick jerk jaunt that comes, goes and fills an orifice - I am not offended or aroused, I may need more pills but, the song is a merry jingle I do enjoy now and again. 'Pidgeon Hole' is par for the course tuneage and does what it does whilst bringing nowt new to the crooked table.  It has a charm though, a persuasive force borne from the fact that this is one for the oddball, the outsider, the awkward bastard who won't fall into line.  I can relate to this, by heck, even the fuckin' punks have a problem with me!  The fluidity of the song is also appealing and the clarity of all components works - it leads the way into the neat swinger known as 'Sick And Tired', a real 'fuck it' frolic that has a careless carefree approach due to being beaten down into an inescapable position of 'fucked off'.  This is a minor crackerjack with a great lick that gets right into the crack of my swinging arse and insists I jig some more.  As a bloke who is fed up but will not give in to the shitshow flow I am partly in-line here and some days, surely everyone feels like this.  The key though is to play this loud, enjoy the moment and then go forth and refuse to let the bastards beat ya.  Do your fuckin' bit folks.

'Furry Cup' combines elements of all that has been and with a few elements no doubt of that which is to 'cum'.  A crass song if the truth be told but with a good chopping effect and some nice back hollers that keep matters moving.  I have heard too much similar genital-based stuff over the years and have been desensitised and also noisily neutered I think.  Despite this though the ditty has a certain brutality of tone and of course that crude aspect many aging perverts will love - ooh heck, where's me butt-plug? 'Jesus Shaves' keeps the impetus growing, it is an attempt at a shocker, I would prefer it if the band went full tilt and nailed a few vicious digs at Allah, Buddah and that supreme God-Like entity, Jim Bowen of Bullseye.  I think the masturbation modulations are fine and dandy, the band know how to mix their elements and I am more than happy to crack one off the wrist to another easy-swinging tune but... if ya gonna go for an electric shocker that make sure all and sundry are frazzled - fuck em' all I say - the long, the short, the tall and the cross-eyed midgets too.

'Travellin' has a certain insouciance that is quite apt for a tune 'on the road'.  Let the miles be eaten up as this tune unwinds.  Let the limbs loosen, the head clear and the simplistic vibes invade.  Again, we are not working with ground-breaking cock rock poser piss-arsery here, we are dealing with 'off the cuff' tunes that are what they are.  They slightly fall into the 'pop punk' category in some minor way, they wallow in the cruder realms in a more obvious manner and all the while they have a decent wallop that is easily embraced - and on I go!  'Billy No Mates' is a kick in the conkers of those poor souls who wank their lives away because they just don't fit in.  A care-free society sees these misfits left to stew in a growing ocean of spunk whilst those who play the game and slot into place smile, mock and head to nowhere happy - ah tis' a cruel scenario.  The band show no sympathy here and knock out a fair ditty with spiteful relish.  The tongue is in the cheek (I hope) and the job, is, a good un'.  Now where's my deodorant.

'Unkle Yummy' is unsettling filth of the most sordid order.  Many will gripe and many will screw up their faces, many will have horrors rekindled - in a scene where I dwell there are no holds barred and sometimes confronting this underhand scuzzery is the best way to get it sorted.  The finale assists in the terror factor when that white-haired wanker we all know and despise comes in and does his usual cliched bit - complete no doubt with a hard-on and tingling scrotum.  Despite my reservations on the content this is a nifty tune that ejaculates on areas out of bounds - it may be a tasteless triumph.

The final song of this CD is 'All My Friends Are Wankers' - a real sing-a-long piece that has many strains of truth in it.  I know some good folk, I have also known some shits who claim to be friends and would do the dirty on you the first chance they get.  We walk amongst untrustable wolves on the make - you would be wise to tread carefully and lock your doors.  This is a great tune though, a real Velcro-vibe you will easily be ensnared by.

To add - 2 tracks had been banned by various social media sites (Spotify you wankers) and are slapped down under the banners of 'Psycho' and 'Parasite' - both are on the physical CD and so you need not fear.  The first is a richly embroidered shindig that has a barn-dance suggestion as well as a real old school rock and roll feel wrapped around an exotic euro swing.  The second song is a troubled nightmare with an 'Alien-ised' opening.  One can feel the invasive presence of a being feeding on the life-force - I am not sure why the delicate media half-wits would want this banned as it doesn't seem to upset me in any way - apparently Universal Studios banned 'Psycho' and The Disney Corporation banned 'Parasite' - what a fuckin' world!

So, I have entered the world of the 'Bald Patch Three' - I have been used and abused and I come away enthused - I bet these lot are pretty decent 'in the flesh'. I suggest you check em' out and if you are of a perverse bent then pick up this CD and have yer genitals rub and roger ready.