THE SHADY POETS - THE REGION BEYOND

Blackpool based Shady Poets blend many facets of musical goodness (and all things Poe-esque) and duly avoid falling into any strait-jacketed generic pigeonhole liable to see them flush their arses of creativity down the u-bend of indifference.  I gave the band their first gig, they have played one other Fungalised fuck-up and are due to make a reappearance. I have to keep things moving and reckon what they do is done with a flair, a cute adeptness and with influential points born from here, there and who knows where?

The first of the cacophonic quartet is a sable throbber laden with heavy tones, darkened recesses and great weight of tonality, namely 'Spirits Of The Dead'.  This is a well-packed number with a flexing muscularity that gives the players room to manoeuvre and showcase their own brand of sonic prowess.  The opening billows clear the air, set the stage before the sable-kissed and slightly cavernous vocals come. There is something bleak and commanding during the delivery, what we have is almost a sub-incantation proclaim from atop a bloodstained alter with the subterranean demons of discordance called up to come and dance.  A heavy song and a veritable mood piece with plenty of flesh on the bone for any other zealous zombies who wish to chomp – boom, baby, boom.

'The Sleeper Part 1' slaps in, finds an immediate groove before adopting a certain cock-rock, sub 80's approach, this time with added bollocks.  The vocal style is lucid and controlled, the string work flamboyant and expressive whilst the skin applications are militarised in part and at others, walloped down with abandon.  Matters move with concrete assuredness whilst the players are allowed time to slap, strum and sensually wank off their chosen tools of tonality.  An inner break is awash with choice musicianship and exhibitionist tossology, the guitarist gets extremely carried away and looks set to end up in a stupor.  The song continues, with a rising prowess that takes us to the finale in accomplished style.  Even if this is not your bag, surely one can recognise the quality.

Onto the third thresher in the pack, 'Valentine' is a groovy groomer with a waltz in the opening and some good embracing components that make for a complete and somewhat absorbing sound.  Twangs come from the insatiable guitar man, the bass and drums are applied with a grittiness and an obvious gusto.  Mid-paced, well-weighted like the vibrating buttocks of a glutinous fat man, this one squashes the listener's resistance and forces out a quivering thumbs up of submission.  A cool cucumber number with a transparency of tone and with a good overall rhythm that will surely set a few asses all a shaking.

Soothing bubble-bath caresses come via the opening frames of 'Alone'.  The tender-trap is set, the pluckers stay within the shadings and allow the fragrant tones to issue forth and enshroud one in their comforting and thermally satisfying tendrils.  The ascension to carefully traversed zeniths is slow, deliberate and well-rehearsed. The wire-wobbling jackanapes is soon making mischief again with an assault of cable-able cacophony that adds a contrast to most of what has transpired within this very rewarding song.  The more I listen to this CD I feel that this is the one with the greatest strength and suspected longevity factor - only time will tell but, I like it.

The Shady Poets will not slot into the punk circuit and so will miss out on many gigs.  This does not reflect any flaws within the band, it reflects a scene that has many insularities and with too many in the mix not willing to vary things up.  The Shady Poets are due a Fungal fix and I look forward to hearing these songs in the 'flesh'.  This isn't my everyday choice of tuneage but I am certainly not willing to slate it as 'shite' and duly ignore - tis quality tha' knows and should be doing the rounds.  Think on!

NO MURDER NO MOUSTACHE - NAME 3 SONG BY NMNM

A 3 song tickle dealing with a musical delight that dropped my way via Bandcamp/via Hotmail.  This World Wide Wankery is a complex web of sonic intricacies, many of which just disappear into the great oversaturated void.  Here and the there I try and do my bit for the odd smattering of sound that comes my way and tweaks my nipples of attention.  I have dealt with an offering from this unit before, it were fair dinkum tha' knows and so here I go again.  The plucker claims (on Bandcamp again) to be 'anti-establishment inclusive Punk Rock with Celtic influences. Sometimes acoustic, sometimes not, always punk' - I like it.  And so, here are my thoughts on a trio of 'Live' tunes that really do capture the goodness of the artiste.

'Six Pints Of Guinness' states the state of piss-pot play as a rueful boozer contemplates the stupidity of overdoing the old swilling lark.  The zest of the music, the clarity and the liquidity of the whole orchestration is utterly delightful and will have many a fellow tippling tinker jigging with delight as the ale foams over and the legs creak with contortions untold.  This is a highly relatable tale, we have all been there, in some instances (including mine) six pints was a minimal event indeed.  I am finding this a real fresh and upbeat number with no political intrigue or any deep-meaning - it is a mere tale we all know of and will no doubt relive again and again.

'Throw Your Fucking Flags In The Bin' is a direct ad no-nonsense skanky tinged tickle with a fine acidity aimed at those with idiot prejudice and unthinking pride.  In these times of vile unrest and some real selfish Neanderthal behaviour I see a world falling apart and we need constant reminders that hate and flag flying is not the way.  In fact, all flags need burning, all divisions need destroying and we need to be just one human race trying to make for a beautiful planet full of love (an impossible ask I know).  This is a bouncy number with opposing content but the balance is fine and my only gyp would be that if I go out and trip up over a little solar-baked todger then I will hold this artiste personally responsible - ouch.

We close this charming hat-trick with the sombre and sober request rhythms of '2031' a look at when times will be greyer, colder, more uniform and utterly dumbed down with fewer places to escape to and enjoy some DIY noise.  It is happening here and now, has been happening for years, alas the media melts minds, the big band mentality ain't helping, the masses are numbed and self-serve whilst all turns to shit.  This is a palette-grey snippet dipped in a realistic sauce that may indeed, burn the tongue and get one considering.  I like it, there is a fair passion spilled and the crispness of the strums and the tale-telling verbals are all lucid, unpretentious and honest.  This one provides a choice contrast to that which has been, but it still retains a certain unity.

3 songs, I am taken, I have booked the plucker to come and do what needs doing on a Fungalised gig - I think that should say it all.  Good work all round I'd say - here's to the 'live' sesh.

UK DISSENT - PRESSURE'S COMING DOWN

I  like this band, and the three chaps who make up the unit are gents.  They have played a couple of Fungalised gigs, by heck it was a reet treat.  I have them booked for further ventures, hopefully exposing their solid songs and getting them a few contacts.  The band’s first album was, to put it mildly, 'a fuckin' peach' and had a fine working class edge and a great wealth of power.  I have dealt with many bands who have set out their stall with such prestigious prowess and never again attained those zeniths. This is how matters go, and if UK Dissent get 80% of the way there with this latest CD I will have no complaints, then again - nudge, nudge.

We open here with a ditty called 'Crash' - a slam-dunking affair that could be likened to a trip on the old Billy Whizz.  The initial screwdrive and nag-tap soon dissolves into a surge with great clout and a certain irritation.  All tones are familiar, the final orchestration is deemed as uncomplicated and done with a clear and precise arrangement coupled with a crucial clarity of component. The song is an ideal opener that grabs the listener by the lower parts and drags them without fuss into the general gist.  The inner break is terse, it keeps the impetus high and takes us into the final roll-out.  Solid.  'Disgrace' jumps in with a 'Kicks'y start and great nervous energy.  The fidget accents are soon smoothed out via a good verse that leads into a chorus without hindrance.  There is a buzz that duly gets beneath the skin and causes a distinct agitation of the more pleasurable kind.  There is a good amount crash, bang and wallop here, a few neat touches and the usual honesty of sound I have come to expect from a band I hold in high regard.  As an extra point - these two numbers do get better with every play - just like those on the first album.

With consistency hinted at I am with raised expectations for track 3, namely 'Easy Target'.  We open with some tumble-splash tympanics and a real low strung, semi-relaxed riff.  The victim is the media soaked dimwit, the self-sacrificed digital dick as well as, paradoxically, those who like a fuckin' good tune.  The latter bunch should have more nouse, they should lap this up and avoid much drivel - I suspect many won't.  Anyway this is a concrete effort that refuses to join the mirror-image brigade and punches its weight thus completing a sound hat-track - wham.

'Gotta Get Medication' is a frustrating number as it has great emotive essences, a fine lick and some easy animation but, it is a song that does not fulfil its potential, opts for the repeat-beat route all too easily and so mars its overall effect.  The theme of the song is one I can relate too - a fucked up world and a need for pills, the tonal quality is highly magnetic but, this is a short-term listen and one that needs a rehash with something extra thrown in.  As I say, a real niggler.

The middle brace and the first of the two is entitled 'I Can't Stand Living', a song with a granite skin skip, a vicious angle and some sub-funky skankiness that will have the punters pinging.  The brass, the general class and the hollering lout at the fore makes for a contrasting but paradoxically three-way partnership in cacophonic crime.  The outcome is a ditty with multi-faceted life, a certain zest and an angle that gives the band further room to explore.  The second offering of the central brace is 'Life Doesn't Happen'.  A thumping piece with the usual shout and clout manoeuvres taking precedence as well as the bare-arsed good to honest content that holds no punches.  Straight from the noggin in the street, onto the disc, this is a piece slapped out with an uncomplicated methodology and a certain command.  As I listen to this growing gruff-fuck I feel the need to get off my arse and do something - the job is a good un'.

'Life Is Tougher Now' has a highly encouraging start with fast flashlight urgency and a solid pace.  The stagger and strut first verse is aggressive, factual and with no apology whatsoever.  The fat arsed idlers and general moan and groan half-hearted arseholes are nailed, we slip into an easy chorus accentuated by a 'whoa hoa' and the continuation of a fine tempo.  Not one for the delicate arses who can't do for themselves and always looking for an excuse, not for those self-appointed musical cunts who want something profound - no, just top notch hammering from a band with their feet on the ground.  Fuckin' smashing.

From twilight ghettos and thoroughfares trespassed to the backbeat of multicultural vibes 'Pressure Comin Down' asks questions, ponders, pushes on and comes up with no real answers.  The aspect of the output is a consideration of the omnipresent pressure, the all-consuming threats from all areas that are killing people stone dead.  In the midst of this cultured piece we get smatterings of reggae-fied rhythm making before a final surge, another final boogie and... done.  Sweet work if you ask me leaving little to say.

The final brace begins with the perkiness of 'That's What I Like About You', a song that begins with textured pulsations, a good riff and a stripped to the waist verse that slowly drapes itself in familiar tones that the band deliver with such authority and honesty.  We repeat the method, stature is maintained, street-clobber credentials remain lofted and respected and again we have something simple slapped home with great charisma.  The end 'nothing' throws us a curveball to consider - ooh the tricky devils.  We shut down with pronouncements, stage sets and a deep groove.  Hollers come, explorative accoutrements adorn the song and give me a feeling of something more accomplished. This is a captivating closure, one that puts the band in good stead for the next release provided they are willing to  push on, step out of bounds and make sure that the cultured, cacophonic and clobbering can be combined to create something a little different.  The 'whoa hoas' are a good touch and have a poignancy, the message must be heeded and fuckers need to crack on - full bastard stop.

Yes, I am taken, the band have ticked the boxes expected and I am delighted that the 3 fine gents have another solid piece of product to pass forth and please the pimpled pogoers.  As said though, the next move needs to be into territory testing and maybe a dip in the acoustic ocean with a 4 track split would be a winning way - for now though, UK Dissent still have me convinced and have me touting them as one of the best bands out there.

RITES OF HADDA - SOILING OTHER PEOPLE'S KNICKERS

A trio of teasing tirades that throws the applecart over, jumps on the fruit of your sensibilities and then rips the arse out of that which is deemed orthodox and prejudice.  Rites of Hadda crack on in the own way and I for one am happy with that.  I am always wary when it comes to doing a review as honesty must always dictate and this lot always seem to be walking along a very precarious precipice.  I go in unswayed and unblemished and without my lips puckered to kiss any rear - this is as naked and as real as it can get.

The title of the EP has me intrigued, there is sub-test there liable to stain more than just the gussets.  We begin with 'Everything Stops For Baby' - a cover contribution that starts with a twinge, a rumble and some abstract sax appeal.  The open verse is marvellous, with a beautiful naturalness and sub-clutter-fuck-it underscore that reacts, infects and adds a primitive smear.  The verbals come with great observational and matter-of-fact poetry.  A disgust at formulated living and plastic rebellion sees this one a solid angular treat with much to say, if only you will take heed and listen.  The bonus is - it is in keeping with the usual/unusual ROH flow - smashing.

Another cover, this one an aping of an Anarchistwood spillage done with great nag-fuck incessancy that pecks at the noggin and makes sure the attention is either turned on or sent into the realms of aggravation.  'Fear Is The Mind Killer' is an obvious statement (remember the Covid behaviour patterns) and should be used as a weapon of remembrance that will avoid us falling into the same old traps.  I love the bent-legged unorthodox gallop here that kicks up dust and discordance and leaves us choking on the wonderful melodic motes.  The arrangement smacks of DIY, it is wholesome fodder to my ever gaping maw and eternally grumbling guts of vibrology.

The final imitation snippet is slagged down under the tag of 'Pink Mist' - a T-Bitch arrangement given a seeing to by our friendly neighbourhood noise nobbers whom we should duly well applaud.  This is a slaggy and almost perverse parade of prominent placements that struts and poses before throwing off all restraints and welcoming all and sundry into a realm of utter anti-prejudice pootling. It is done with a fine abandon and with all acoustic orifices gaping.  This todge/twat (or whatever you have) tickler rounds off a hattrick of buzz-brain animation I am very much taken by.

3 good songs, questions asked and points made - Rites of Hadda are not a fuckin' curio, an oddment to gush over or a band to use to make you look so fuckin' liberated - they are a darn good unit, doing what they do so fuckin' well and making sure they do it their own way - I am still a fan.

NEON KITTENS - THOSE DAMNED DIRTY TAPES

The 500th release on Metal Postcard Records - now that is something worthwhile and greatly applaudable.  This 3 tracker is by a band I have reviewed several times before and they are a unit who are regular donators to the labels cause.  What we get here is more off-kilter, wank-angled wonderment that is a small portmanteau of predictable unpredictability.  There are no rules, the are no designs to dazzle, it is what it is, long term lovers of the label will understand by now, those uninitiated need to get in line.

First up and 'Those Damned Dirty Tapes' - an electro-beat attracts, sends sparking attraction up the vertebrae, intrigues the cerebral cortex and has many neurones popping, pinging and pulsating.  There is a message - I listen and take note - I rebel and just wanna be me, but this does not mean that I am intrigued by the factory-based conveyor belt fuckery that chugs, churns and operates with an unstoppable prowess of futuristic tones.  Music to get bombed to, music to be bombed by, in fact... is this not music, are we not men, are we all living in an alien Universe where anything rhythmic goes - on this evidence, I hope so!

'Mind Mine' is not to my liking, it is a mere musical phantom that comes and goes in a puff of perverse smoke without leaving the trace of recognition.  Perhaps one of the most ambiguous and uncertain songs I have ever entertained - is this a zenith of achievement or a real faux pas - I am befuddled.  I replay the idly and soporific tones and find myself still uncertain as to the purpose and the exact drift - somehow I find this a little exciting.

The closure comes with the machinations of 'I Don't Wanna Cause A Scene' - a foundry-based hammer wank off that compresses and shapes whilst spilling forth lyrical content that one Lewis Carroll would have been highly proud of.  The investigations into these fantastical methods and modes reveals a sonic land of escapism with deep rooted nebulous wordage left for us to decipher/decode and perhaps delight in.  Of course many will be turned off by these non-conformist obstructions to the typical flow - I am still charmed by the angularity and in small doses, find them worthy of my time.  This is not a bad effort.

So you know what you get from the label and the noise-makers here - take it as you find it and consider my words too - as always, make up your own mind but remember - we need many colours in the whole shitshow, it makes for a better end shebang.  And also remember, any label that coughs up 500 releases is worthy of applause - clap, clap, clap, shut yer trap.

DIRTBOX DISCO - LIVE AT THE STAR

A 'live' offering released by the STP label and one last effort from the gent that was Stu Taylor (RIP fella).  This is an effort that was recorded at Stu's fave haunt and where he showcased many bands.  Dirtbox Disco built up a good following and played some storming gigs, a couple of which were for yours truly in far flung nether regions.  The success was built upon good tunes, high entertainment and some good promotion. Their first album was a mighty zenith that ensnared so many, here is an attempt to capture what they did so well 'in the flesh'.

As I delve into the CD many would expect gushing praise and tick-box tossery out of sheer politeness - thankfully Stu knew me better than that and would prepare for nothing less than honesty.  My initial thoughts are of a CD that doesn't capture the DBD brilliance in the pit and doesn't grab that magnetising sound, power and overall melodic charm.  The mix seems to skew towards the vocals a little too much and so I am left with an adjustment to make - I do this, settle in and hear many faves poured my way. 

As a long term 'non-fan' of 'live' albums I once again feel the frustration of what transpires and feel the need to seek out the original version and play very loud.  DBD are better than this and if someone picked up this album and judged them on this alone I think they would be in danger of missing out on some real momentous tunes.  Having said all what I have said though this is a recording that is DIY, raw and with many good facets for the fan to enjoy.  If one is familiar with the Star and Garter then one can easily envision the gig itself and see the joy generated by the on-stage jingle-jangle that made so many smile. 

Early in the CD I find the track that got me into this band, namely 'Tragic Roundabout' a veritable early classic with good texture and noise-craft.  This song follows on from the clobber heavy 'Burning' another early number that helped a turn few heads the bands way. 

'Peepshow' is a joyous moment, a 'whoa hoa' filled gem that still stands the test of time and will continue to do so.  The bands ultimate strike 'My Life Is Shit' is surrounded by a couple of weaker moments but is still a behemoth that would shrine bright even in the most select of company. I am already pondering a browse through my extensive (disorganised) CD collection to fish out the studio albums – needs must folks.

I roll with the flow and pick up my ears more and more as familiarity breeds respect.  Despite not being fully at ease with 'live' recordings and the invasive 'out of tune' invasions by hepped up wannabe singers this one captures what was created by a promoter and  band who put on some good stints.  The latter end highs are many, 'My Girls Best Friends Sister', 'Let's Get Wasted' and of course the embracing 'Dirt Box Day' are all choice tunes of course but then again, this lot do have a strong catalogue of cacophonic charmers.

So, I am not wasting time here, you get the gist and if you don’t then please take more pills and read the notes inside the CD, take note and remember there is more to life than music.  This is my honest take on a fair recording, it is the final release by my good mate Stu, somehow things will never be the same but for what was, we must be thankful, never forget and crack on.  If you like the band, you loved Stu, and you wanna support the cause - get this you lovely bunch of bastards. Now to have a rummage in my disarray of discs.

CORALINE BONDY AND THE LA LA LA'S - THE LAST HANDSTAND SHE DID BEFORE THE ACCIDENT

Coraline Bondy is a pseudonym, I work alongside the lead lout, he is a fine bloke with a penchant for looking at angles and ignoring the brain-drain fashion flow that suffocates.  One day, the blighter came into work with the usual array of stuffed oddments, ancient relics and verbal dribble that I for one appreciate.  Talking bollocks is an artform, and covering an array of topics always a good way to start the day,  Anyway, this bald bloke from Plant Capricious also bore gifts, these came in the form of his bands latest CD which I offered to review.  A disc crossed my palm, I promised honesty and to give it a good listen, here is my appraisal that my get me bummed with joy or booted with bitterness - the aim to be fair is always at the helm.

Initial raindrop tones drop from the secret silence, with the consuming flow that follows a mere sweet lullaby with unspoilt innocence and may one add, a smattering of hope.  'Drinking Fountain' is a delightful piece with a hint at something slightly glammed, slightly sleazed but all the while, being wholesomely melodic.  The blend of all components is done with care and we get a breathing space to appreciate and so consume the intricacies of the song as a whole - I like this. I think there is a simplistic charm embraced by something more artistically profound. Jobs a good lad.  'Hee Haw' is a more cock-strutting affair with a swank wank swagger in the stride and an emanation of something almost vulgar.  The condition of the piece is created by things borne from the late-70's era methinks, perhaps those from the NY gutters were temptations awaited and the grubby side of things was passed off as something rather exciting.  The minor niggle here is that the consistent flow fails to have enough contrast between the verse and chorus and what we get is one meander only broken by a switch in style that in truth, is the veritable highpoint.  A song to take time with, not an instantaneous ball-kicker but a distinct acoustic ivy tendril that will eventually squeeze out a nod of affirmation. The juxtaposition of this and the second track is choice though, think on it.

The central piece, 'No Honey' - a contemplative number with a somewhat lackadaisical/rueful slant that is both sombre and almost defeated.  This is one too easily overlooked but if care is given than the subtleties and nuances are appreciated and the orchestrated blend is tagged as 'most agreeable'.  Coming from a slam-dunk sonic background I do like to vary matters but even so, that spiked streak is always foaming and in need of a vitriolic upchuck.  This is a good switch off moment and one to not take too lightly.  There is a certain preconceived ideal going on here with something more emotively natural - it is a copulation that works.

Fom here we get a strange affair that rattles off many famed fuckers and so-called idols.  'La, La, La' is a grubby fuck affair with Thunder-ised accents and other tones of that realm.  I am not keen here, you can piss on all the famed and named, and the flamboyance of the guitar needs a lot more 'oomph' in the mix to get the best out of it.  I like a bit of slag rock but it is a ruddy hard sub-genre to get thoroughly right - more snarl, spit and spunk needed methinks but hey, these are thoughts from a bugger who wants to squeeze the best out of peoples potential and who is also best described as an 'awkward bugger'.

We close with another switch in style, this time an almost deathbed occurence with regrets aplenty and submission felt.  'One More Sugar' seems to be borne from a washed up wanker striving to be relevant, he is failing and fading at a rate of notes.  The angles here are sound, the soporific steam release obvious but a good final blow out to finalise the whole CD would have been a great punctuation mark - not bad, chance missed though I reckon.

5 tracks, 5 tangents of the unexpected offered, this is what I expected, this is what I got.  Overall I rate this as a good creative expulsion that overlooks a few opportunities. As per, personal taste, honesty and an attempt at objective balance must dictate and the review is what it is - I would certainly like to hear another release - next time with balls bared, guitars strung low and the discordant dog off the fuckin' leash baby. I do hope the man at the helm still speaks to me and doesn't dip his dick in my office cuppa.

LEGLESS CRABS - PIERCINGS AND TATTOOS

2 tracks from the fecund and fuckin' musically estranged Legless Crabs, once again released on Metal Postcard Records - a combo that will not be denied and who maintain a great 'outside the circle' approach whilst bending genres and lugs in equal measure.  I am wasting no time here, I am to be succinct, sharp and hopefully somewhere on target.

'Piercings And Tattoos' begins with a fine billowing dub-scrub that is borne from deep within a cavernous speaker where the hollerer is ensnared and seeking escape.  Industrial tones, a grating of mechanical parts and an overall automated approach, this is very much the modus operandi of the band but they always manage to find that much needed acoustic oil to keep matters running as smooth as is almost necessary.  This is another unhygienic number with an inner torture but with a somewhat suggestive glow that defies the surrounding sable silence.  I like this one, it has a groove and move prowess that threatens those opting for matters more obvious and processed.

'(Yr) Kink' is slow-moving bilge, animated by darkened forces that hint at things Lovecraftian. I am bewildered and will not be forced to waste my time on 'non-music' for those from another realm.  The verdict is - one sub-hit, one dub-shit.

The LC orchestration is a thing to behold, at times challenging, sometimes intriguing and at others, beautifully disappointing.  You can't polish turds, you can't put down the awkward, you can be honest though and do what ya do (it works all ways).

DAFFODILDOS - NOT MY CUP OF TEA

Great swathes of kick back fuckery here with 6 tracks from a band spouting off, sonically strutting and keeping it as raw as fuck.  The press-release I received tagged this lot as a Brighton Queer-Punk Band, I was intrigued but also unmoved - I just am happy to listen in, make my oral decisions without sway and keep honesty at the helm.  Here's what this fucker thinks, in no particular order.

'Stuck IN 77' is a choice song of great pertinence that sticks a finger up at the washed up wankers and nostalgia nuts who jump into line when the old bands arrive in town thus leaving the DIY doofers abandoned.  Seen it, been the brunt of it, carrying on regardless. Of course they all talk the talk but when the chance to ping and pogo to the age old usual noise, the waffle is thrown to one side and the socialites gather.  I love this risky rip-out and I like the vocal style that is, paradoxically very similar to many old sounds that slipped under the main radar.  There is a goodness to the gruffery, a sweetness to the screech and the composition has good DIY weight that tickles my unwashed fancy.  Go get em' and shake up the stifling shittery I say.

'Ba, Ba, Bada' is an oddment that refuses to play orthodox ball.  It starts with a quirky, almost demon-summoning chant with the odd tympanic stutter to keep you alert.  The strings are soon joining in the melee with great surges sending us headlong into a quickly flowing verbal assault that has all the fine trimmings of the band that I am quite taken by.  The clutterbucket, stutterfuck-it arrangement is something out of the draw marked 'off-kilter' - a place where my grubby mitts are always dabbling and plucking out many a fine curio.  A sound tangent this - and still tonally gratifying. 

'What's Your Excuse' is veggie vitriol done in a calm and stated way with a caring heart at the core.  Instead of hollering out demands, the facts are stated and the flow is steady and sanguine.  The ultimate question is asked - it is there for you to answer.  For me, the whole spiked arena is a place to toss around beliefs, ideas and stances and to not get upset by them but to use them as food for thought to ultimately make ourselves a better thinking being.  Rest assured, none of us are perfect, we are all making mistakes and are rough diamonds, but if we are trying to smooth things out and be a little more thoughtful and caring it can only be a good thing.  This is a solid tune that cements the whole CD together and of course, has me questioning myself even more.  'No Pride' sums matters up in this shit-mush where prejudice is raging, only now it is more subtle in many areas and people are cute at wearing many faces.  Even the punk scene is riddled with hate, division and bigotry - I hang my head in shame.  One thing, the gigs I do are for all the outsiders and so-called misfits and this number would be most welcome, blasting around the gaffs where I showcase the DIY dive-dwellers.  Personally I just crack on, fuck the labels and nonsense and treat people decent if they seem decent to me - the rest can fuck themselves.  I love this sub-anthemic piece that celebrates many things - the end result - just get along with each other people and bollocks to all sway and imbalance.  Now where's me dress and steel capped boots - time to pogo from an awkward angle methinks.

'Never Enough' is regulated punkery with the usual slap, dash and holler orchestration used.  Nothing out of the ordinary and nothing new brought to the tonal table (there never really is tha' knows) - but this is a spicy piece with many old school nuances and modern day angst wanky emotions.  The soul at the heart of matters is rock solid and the zest of the whole occurrence helps make this one of those moments that meets the most basic of spiked needs.  This is no bad thing, the attitude and frustration, and the inner curve away from the thrust, all makes for something highly listenable.

The final track I get my lugs around is 'Mirror, Mirror' - a bass grumble, a she-count, a hammer along and some acidic lyrics throwing the queer cat amongst the macho-straight gang who, in many places, lack a serious tolerance.  Again, I have better things to do than worry about people who may not have my leanings or follow my own ethos - as long as no harm is being done, respect given and the seeking of a better place is the focus then the rest can go to shit.  Alas - when people are involved, matters will never run smooth.  The main winning factor of this proud/pride shout out is the sincerity, the refusal to play things subtle and of course, the wallop in the skins, wires and overall shebang.  No gripes here, I need to see this lot 'live'.

A decent do this, plenty to consider and a real kick up the jacksie for many who are in a safety net, not considering movement forward and are stuck in a mental time warp.  Is it punk many may ask, is it music to get pissed to and jump around - on all fronts I am without concern - for me, the CD has clout, barbs and a good fuckin' DIY feel.

EASTFIELD - TERMINUS

Eastfield are a joy - they do what they do with a style of their own, a good trundle in the ever-turning tonal wheels and with plenty of muscle stoking the fires of the sonic goodness.  They give off a wealth of steam in amiable and approachable style, they are happy for anyone to hop aboard and their output, over many years, has been admirable - ooh and they are decent folk too.  Here we have a 7 track journey that captures the flavours of the band and the style in which they do what they do.  This is a bread and butter band worth their weight in coal - this is a very good thing indeed.

We leave the station of silence and hit the metal supports with the incessant quality of 'End Of Days' - no arsing about, no pompous posing or taking time to prepare - this lovely upbeat song hits the mark from the off with all the sheer good of the great Eastfield loco pumped out for you to cough and splutter on with great defiant and triumphant joy.  This is a real beauty, the lyrical copulation of words comes thick, fast and with magnetising fluidity that really enhances the whole mesmerising flow.  Verses dictate, the choruses are mere glue in the composite but are fresh, breezy and part of the whole encouraging fiasco - I think this is fuckin' marvellous.

The second splash of wholesomeness to fall upon the tympanic membranes within my noggin is entitled '45 Minutes'.  There are hints at other sonic sensations and some lyrical weavings that have me pondering textual matter that has been absorbed over many years.  The greatest asset of this song though is the encouraging aromas that rise from the spit roasted rhythms that are dripping with the juices of life.  The galloping pump of the pistons, the breezy drift and the breathless energy that is poured forth all keeps the CD moving with captivating fluency.  A bouncing brief bite of goodness follows with 'Railyard Blues' run of the mill, orthodox Eastfield grooving, doing what it does without any over indulgence or elaborate flamboyance.  This is the bands earthy unassuming noise that belts out with unquenchable thirst and an enthusiasm that will not be halted.  A real safety belt this one - no need to hang on tight, just sit back and enjoy the comfort and security of a band doing what they do so ruddy well.

A drum skitter, a plough of the wires and a ready-steady good beat that has me tapping the lower timber and nodding the noggin.  'Paper Houses' rebels, kicks back and dreams, the lyrics come with poetical dynamism and have one jigging along and working hard to keep merry pace.  A sweet and sharp piece this with an efficiency and honesty (and a thrown in OI OI) that exudes a healthy standard of sound the band are utterly renowned for.  Tis’ ruddy beautiful stuff tha' knows.

3 to go, 'Second To Last' is aptly titled, it comes and goes and leaves an aftertaste of goodness for sure.  Groovy bass, undulating rhythm and a great subtle defiance that keeps matters heading the right way.  This one gives me a boost, it reminds me that the way to succeed is to stick to ones ethos and get the head down.  There are always doubters, down-shouters and snide critics and for me, if what you do is deemed utterly duff by the many, as long as you are giving it your best, then that is true victory.  This is a reliable song that will keep your sonic sensors flashing and your optimism at a level not to be trifled with.  The choicest of morsdels this be. 'Paint It Red' follows suit and just has that extra bite that sees my jig and jive joy slip up another notch.  The liquidity, the tumble avalanche of verbals and the breathless application are what I, and many others, now expect.  The final sing-a-long repeat flourish is splendid.

'End Of Daze' closes and is a marvellous piece of more relaxed music making with the foot off the gas and the band contemplating.  The 'nah, nah' sequence magnetises, the poetical weaving is intriguing and the whole gamut of Eastfield quality comes together here, coagulates, re-hydrates and readopts a liquid form to slip one's way and to be easily consumed without hiccup or indeed, belch.  I find this one a sneaky 'under the radar' worm that wriggles free of the sonic substrate and rises high to make its presence felt.  What a fine finale.

Whoosh, whoosh and all is good in the land of Eastfield - a straight ahead 7 track treat, no fuss, no tossery, no ego-sozzled buffoonery.  I was a fan, am a fan, and will remain a fan - the reason, because this noise is just darn tootin'.