A request came to squeeze this pop pimple by a chap called Martin who had recently joined the band under the spotlight after previous noise-laden stints with 2 fine bands, namely The Plimptons and GUMS.  I had reviewed a lot of material by these bands and was very often tickled by the tonality that poured my way!  Little Love and the Friendly Vibes have sneakily slipped past my wide reaching lugs despite being around since 2011 (oh man there is just so much music to get through) and so I lunge in here quite unblemished and innocently intrigued. So, let us see what these acousticeers from Edinburgh have to offer and let us hope that many a merry old jingle is had.

'Circles' is a communicating gift that hums and fizzles with old school electro-magnetism that is in its own scuzz-fuzz world that I very much enjoy dipping into.  The accented vocal styles have a nervous sub-stutter underlying the delivery through the verses which are allowed to flourish and self-relieve via a brief but subtly potent chorus burst.  The song oscillates with regulated voltage, the semi-mechanical wind up is embracing and the underscore of keyed assistance adds a futuristic edge - very appealing indeed. 'Jealous' is cross-wired poppism that fuses through the airwaves with a delightful resonation that is bittersweet and semi-poignant and reminiscent of many people’s lives when they see someone get all the doors opened for them and bounce from one opportunity to the next.  Luckily I am not wired up this way but can understand the tremblings and this is almost in line with the Undertones ramblings about a rather 'Perfect' cousin who seem to be always the flavour of the month.  A cracking little tickle this with a slight rivulet of irritation throughout - nice!  'High Maintenance' completes the opening trio and combines sobered singing with lashings of 'la, la, la' madness and so gives a real effective contrast that perhaps gives insight into a mental state found in a bedroom dwelling bod who watches the lust worthy girl next door but recognises his limitations within the bouts of lunacy. One can envision the peephole dreamer wishing but taking the easy route and pishing (on his own hopes).  The song is a treat, one for the misfit, the cast aside and the severely uncool.  In fact, this whole collection is for those who have never been in-vogue, will never hit the charts of popularity and who are always found in the kitchen at parties - I know the feeling.

A clutch of three next, laid down in my nest of examination and cracked open on one good burst with the hammer of honesty!  'Team Leader' begins with a Toni Basil piss-take (ooh where is she now) before wretchedly crawling along with a morbid acceptance of a situation not to be envied.  Advice comes, a false chirpiness encourages and all components are enhanced by a wired up escalating chorus that seems liable to end in a fully blown fuse-box.  The attempt to swallow shit and have it stick in the craw is well masticated here and more easily digested by us, the wee listeners.  'Two For One' has an Oi lout intro explosion before the tune takes on a sarcastic pop slant that prods and pokes from a life with very little excitement.  The fact comes across that if these unimaginative retail offers are responsible for moments of unseeming lubricity or untoward rigidity then you really do need to get yourself sorted out.  Find a mirror, take a long hard look and then have a fuckin' word!  When in a better frame of mind then I suggest you pop this crackin' ditty on your player and dance!  'After Hours' is the last of the latest three-way fling (phwoar), has a doleful verse section that is smeared deep with forlorn hopelessness and misery mutterings that are then rescued from the dustbin of depression by a diverging chorus release.  We repeat the black and white formula before hitting an instrumentalised wank off and a final mouth melt that finalises the stress easing burst and takes away any initial reservations this eavesdropper may have had.

'Wound Up' is a fractious fuck elevated on querulous quirky spirals that rise and rise and invoke an unsettled feeling within the assessor’s nervous system.  The jingle-jangle wired wangle coils out and vibrates with marvellous accents and the juicy fruit chorus is both stressful and therapeutic at the same time and is for those who just need to dance away the tendrils of tension that try to choke out the very life force we thrive on.  A simple but beautifully effective song.  Dig those cheap guitar sounds too!  'The Same Only Worse' is trickling tale telling and brings in a sweet mix of male/female oral offerings that are both approachable, rich and coloured with cobblestone tones.  An old time band get fondly remembered and get inspired to produce something similar but with no pretension to outdo - how ruddy lovely is that?  I have no gripes here, it is a sugary switch off to laze with.

'Terri, Terri' is a nob-nagging wanker that rubs with consistent, unstoppable rhythm and eventually produces pre-cum enthusiasm before the shaft of sound turns bloody red and climaxes in a short, brief spurt.  We are not left flaccid at the final stage but are still in need of another injection of Mr Big's sound stiffener.  I replay many times just to get the gist, not because I have leanings that are perverse.  Next and the cutey-pie jerk of 'Awkward'.  A funny little song this with abstract and surreal thoughts chucked into a washing bowl of popping soapy suds that are swirled with daydreaming distance borne of the head in the fluffy pink clouds.  The snagging sing-a-long ease and the shimmering segments that appeal are all finely accepted.  The penultimate tickle and 'Talk To Me' is a raw track that has a definite under-processed feel and moves along with a distinct linear approach that starts with an end point in mind and travels to it on one straight scuzzy track.  There is a place for this kind of direct DIY dabbling and that place is here - a simple diversion from the more outre inclusions.  We finalise with the sad exposure of 'More Than You Can Stand', an OCD confession that touches a nerve due to the fact  I have suffered from this vicious curse that drains the soul and takes up every minute of every waking hour.  This painful closure is perfectly delivered and pangs and twangs with a deep-rooted insight into a mental aberration many find quite amusing (oh those ignorant bastards).  A lovely trinket of tonality even though it stings a little - nowt wrong with being kept alert.

So, I have been asked, I have responded and hopefully I have hit the nail somewhere on its awaiting head.  This is a charming CD with many qualities to thoroughly recommend.  It is far from harsh clouting punkage, it isn't of any particular ilk but just a good collection of likable ditties to play anytime, anywhere no matter what the mood - and you can't argue with that!



Lots to get through here, a lengthy burst from a band with DIY ethics and who plough out their produce from the US location of Georgia.  The essences arising are mixed, from New York earthiness and early rhythmic rawness to an experimental freedom that dabbles with hippification and petal powered drifting.  It is a choice mix, an array of acoustic facets that come and go in the twinkling guitar twang.  There are some definite 60's rock and roll rummages that come to the surface and suggestions of sub-folk to suck on - all good for the sonic soul don't ya realise!

'Overture: Sunday Morning' is a lazy intro that beckons and charms but is no sooner in than out and making way for the power striking madness of 'Occidental Front', a galloping montage of nerve jangling distortion escaping from stables but orthodox and yet more reckless. An indulgent whip along that sees the riders of the rhythm lash the ass of the musical mares and journey into the flames of pseudo-madness.  It is a high flaring commencement that sets a good standard and has sturdy sonic steel within the construction.  The more crisp and semi-crumbling creation known as 'Can't Hold On' wins greater favour due to its artistic texture, raw-boned feel and...most importantly...its attracting vulnerability.  The sufferance in the lilt, the needy exposure and the natural assault are up my acoustic avenue and I open the door and bid the airwaves welcome. Perhaps the latter end outstays its welcome but I am already convinced so overlook this minor nob niggle.

'The Last Cul De Sac' enters on sanguine tones and serenades its way on a long drawn out mattress of lazy intention with a Dylan-esque folky appeal loafing around on the springs of sonic sedation.  The soporific drawl is perked up by rippled strings and some tambourine twinkles that have me pondering Byrd-esque suggestions - mmm, interesting.  The chaser is 'Got Me All Alone' a slinking back alley cat that weaves through loaded dustbins with swaying haunches and a cool smoking ass.  We are still set to mode 'recline', the only apparent danger is of the band becoming too self-indulgent and hypnotising themselves into a foul stupor.  I am far from keen on this one by the way!  'Crystal Night' is sweet pseudo-calypsotic cascade of discordant dabbling that weaves in with impish cum cheeky dwarf-esque strains.  From something that tugs heart strings, through a grotto-cracked tangent and then back on the emotive tracks of semi-decency.  A nicely floated offering methinks.

A clutch of four are grasped next and dealt with and in I go with the hippy beat 'Squatting In Heaven', a full on soaked through shakedown of condensed sounds that fuzz buzz, self activate and rely on an underbeat of relish and tympanic regularity to drive the general vibrating mush. One to rack up the volume with and following the trailing acidised lights with - are you with me ma'an.  'Interlude Bongos' are just that, with added madness!  I move on and avoid the mental molestation.

A fast five fuck-through next and 'Rebel Intuition' is country bumpkin buffoonery hot-footing on coals of provoking radiance and collapsing in a final heap of self-disgust. 'Wayne' is a strange sonic shitter dripping from heads detached and happy to dip themselves in sub-psychedelic puke-brews were uncertainty and cerebral peril is always at the forefront of the cranium.  'Interlude Elektrik Spiderwebz' is background bullshit that roams around and wastes time - this is definitely not my thing and is a disastrous whinge that grates on the tonal titties.  Oh man, I move on with my nuts safely gathered in!  'We Know' is slanted and off kilter, but only in the slightest way possible.  It is a retro burst full of garish color and moving in a psychedelic haze that will satisfy those flower-power A-heads as well as dabblers in varied tones that caress and corrupt.  'In My Mind There's A Dream', a fairground ride of tormented oddness that goes round and round on a loop of sub-lunatic repetition.  There is a charm here, a hypnotic attraction that is best likened to the feeling one got has a child when entering a seaside gift shop and was in a state of wonder at the cheap and cheerful offerings on display.  There is an innocent simplicity to the tones here, an inoffensive effect and an easy manner that remains approachable.  Not bad!

A 3 way fuck review next and the first to get an assessing penetration is 'Lucid Nightmare', a honky tonk truck along with surfy drums opening the gateway for some cool dude driftings that blow sand up the arse and croon away with baccy chewing roughness.  The sparks generated from the wirework are akin to mental fuses blown and the overall lilt of this one is still on the lunatic fringe.  'Come Ride With Me', is a sleazy groomer who vocally offers an opportunity to go to a place some of the more decent listeners may not wish to tread.  The dirty devils play out a seductive tune and cacophonically kerb crawl with only one intention in mind - to molest ya baby!  The third thrust that comes in this latest batch under the blankets is called 'It Won't Be Long', a song that shimmers in before adopting a great Beatle-ised sing-a-long sensation that swings from the speakers and gets into the most uncomplicated receptors and rocks away bringing sweet, innocent delight.  The influence of the song is blatant, the angle taken obvious but who the fuck cares, this keeps one guessing and adds yet another curveball to a forever arcing CD.

'Losers Lament' is a dragging dirge that glimpses hope but perpetually stays in the doldrums and sticks to the wretched pathway chosen.  The musical input is clockwork, the vocal harmonies reminiscent of a backwoods ministry were boss-eyed yokels croon in unison enjoying one another’s comforting and shared insanity.  Just the feeling I get folks.  Homely and countrified and one to play whilst sitting in your rocking chair, smoking your pipe of craziness and using your spittoon of detachment.  We fuck off with a 'Finale:  Sunday Morning' a brief moment of sheer bizarre roaming - make of it what you will.  And then we were done!

We started as we finished and in between never really got back on the track of sanity.  That is no bad thing, the tested heads of troubled turnips are where many good growths may be found.  This is a wayward product that has many fascinations, some oddments that disturb and a few snippets that cause distress - but it is all food for the ensnared and long may the webs of sound contain me.



A self-titled album sent my way with much sway and gushing words from a variety of sources.  I pay little heed as to stay neutral is the key which will assist in gaining a greater clarity and balance in the end assessment.  This CD came with some on-line bumph, here is the opening snippet:- 'Loom formed through a shared distaste, boredom, and frustration with new music. They recorded and released two cassettes within their first year, the latter being a showcase of their most prominent initial influences – a six-track covers EP of The Jesus Lizard, Bad Brains, Pixies, GG Allin, Misfits, and Warsaw. They felt that it was a necessity to broadcast their intent as a band as aggressively and directly as possible.' Impressed? Me neither - tis the noise what matters.

To commence we have 'Lice' a scurrying fuzz flea that causes cranial disturbance with its disease ridden indified excretions.  The style is to keep the hollerings submerged beneath flaking fungaloid detritus before scraping the scalp of sound and allowing the gob to roar.  All the while and underscore of power-passionate noise thrives and inflames the affected epidermis of the eavesdropper.  This is a very infecting opening gambit with alternative and troubled leanings that are distinctly...grunged.  'Hate' almost proves the bands restless disgruntlement and refusal to play happy people before the first note is struck.  What does come is an off centre carousel ride within a fairground of rising distemper.  The rotational rhythm spirals into a chant of passion before cooling down and pondering a certain position. The frame of mind is on the cusp of fucked, a regression threatens to dictate the oral output but the focus is kept, all players are of one accord and we have, to put it pertinently, another damaging track that does impress.  'Get A Taste' has impetus, exposes a fresher feel to the crew’s donations and moves with a pace-persuaded direction.  There are undercurrents of gothic bleakness, overtones of early 80's B-league blow-outs and very much a desire to keep things off the conforming track of hygiene.  This one kicks hardest of the three songs reviewed thus far and upholds a very hefty standard set.  I am so taken, I take a pause from reviewing the CD as a whole and invest some more time in this welcoming hat-trick of discordance.

'Leopard' lung coughs in, briefly chokes before grasping a dirty length of rhythmic rope and throwing it around your neck.  The noose is tightened, the gnawing noise corrupts and as the fibres dig into the resisting neck flesh you will be lucky to fight off the tightening tonality that comes.  A polluted reservoir of liquid gloop enters our attentive channels and runs easily to the pools where appreciation is found - suck it!  'Salt' is a riff friendly fucker that moves with ill grace and soils itself repeatedly with delightful rectal regulations that pulse with passion and stink with a fashion.  A very meaty heave ho this that bulges the pants and causes your neighbours much disgust.  A bowel moving piece that is a loud laxative to encourage self-degradation - go do it, reek of shit man and enjoy!

A run to the finish line and 'Seasick' is a heaving upset of distemper that orally fights against a sickening syrup tide that threatens to drag you into depths untold and trash your enjoyment of the CD thus far.  A disrupting moment that desires fluidity but gets caught up in a disgusting ebb and flow many may find themselves choking on.  It is a dirty swell that moves slowly and spitefully and although not my favourite track it does alter the tempo of the CD which is always crucial.  Fuck corrupting suggestions whisper in before the toxic beauty of 'Bleed On Me' pours from aortal arteries of pumping belief.  That cruddy beat and undeniable lifeblood is tasty nutrition to a soul forever desirous of the next gloried glut and I throw myself into the bloodbath with head-wanked mania.  I have uncovered another zenith here, a power-panther of sound that claws deep and causes a liquid leak of appreciation - maul me baby, maul me. 'Nailbender' cranks up the zeal, metalises matters and spirals with a thirst only quenched by a need to make noise.  This one is dark matter puked from an orifice of Hell-ish inclination and whips itself up into a schizoid frenzy that one moment is controlled, and the next off the leash.  It makes for an interesting listen and throws a new angle into the musical melting pot which is never a bad thing.  I take out my ladle and feed some more!  

The last two you mother fucking scum lovers and at the penultimate stage we get snagged up into the cutting prongs of 'Barbed Wire', a racing dirtball of increasing weight that tumbles with intent so as to gather as much appreciative detritus as it possibly can.  We are the awaiting dross, we are victim to the trampling tonality and as we get attached and dragged we should have no complaint - I know I don't!  The shut down comes, 'Slowly Freezing Heart' is the name of the last blast, a predatory horror chill that moves through gothic curtains on bended knees before rising high in a fascinating body blossom that crescendos in a sonic seed release of gut-wrenching gratification.  From the careful to the carefree, from the wary to the wild and eventually...into a mire of confused disarray.  This last spasm of sonic life brings the CD to a damned and eternally accursed finale and one last shout from the depths is apt and alarming in the same terminating breath. Aaaagggghhhhhh!

Friends, people, cacophonic countrymen - there you have it, another CD dealt with and may I add, what a grand listening experience it was.  Full of hard tones, awash with hurtful resonations and heavy enough to put bruising on the toughest carcass.  My advice here is to strip off and take yer beating with good reason, and hey, enjoy two particular rib-cracking investments that will cause you some wonderful discomfort – there is no other way! 



Bleed - a booming band who drive deliberate spikes of sound into the core of your being and then fuck off and leave you...well, bloodied of course. The band have played 2 gigs for me to date, I have reviewed one of their CD's and am so far, horribly satisfied.  I expect I will get another fist up the rear here, another kick in the plums done with untold spite - if that is going to be the case then my trousers are down and my legs are splayed.  No matter what you say, a roguish leopard can never change its manky spots.

We begin with the sobering message of 'Dead And Gone', a matter of fact viewpoint that tells you to get off your griping arse and do what ya gotta do before the nails start to be struck into the coffin lid.  The opening dirge of tolling bells and crawling death tones eventually get blown wide open by a revolver of rhythm that is six-barrelled and on a repeat wreck setting.  Lyrically simple and to the point but highly pertinent to the anti-apathetic cause and when followed they really do resonate with the DIY soul. Loud, abrupt, no fuckin' about and a pulverising start to the CD.  'Better World' pelts down with molten needles of glowing rage before deciding this crud laden life that has so many niggles and upsets is best dealt with via an ale or two.  The blistering intensity that Bleed throw out is unapologetic and this second twat blast is a choice chaser to the opening fist in your face.  The guitars are compressed and thrashed, the sticks tireless and the gob fully fuelled and spraying ignited disgruntlement here, there and every-fuckin'where.  The band do what they do, they do it well.

The methodology used here remains consistent and high with the next pack of songs succeeding in maintaining the thermality but failing in changing route and allowing the listener to be provoked and the band to stretch themselves.  Hard-hitting wham banging that is right up my street but I always like a band to switch styles and alter tempo.  'Grin And Bare It', 'Bleed', 'Police Force' and 'Speed' are all whipped mightily hard, drenched in fearless acoustic acid and all of that 'Bleed'ing style that works but needs a definite spanner in the cacophonic cogs.  The second track of the 4 has greatest liquidity and bobs and weaves with artistry before unleashing jabs and hooks with silky precision that really make it a stand out moment.  The last of the 4 is an amphetamine tribute whose lyrics get the blood racing and the whizz-heads disgracing...themselves (and why not).  And still the flames burn strong! 'Speed' staggers in but soon finds its feet and races headlong into many a wall with a desire to beat the addiction...failing!

And onwards...

'Hooligan Element' is a ring ripping surger that hurts like hell and makes ear-wax turn to water, shit turn to soup - with nothing more than mindless full on-aggravation.  The entrance is lengthy and gives us time to hold on before the white-knuckle kicking comes and the band hammer out their hearts and souls via a very gratifying piece of proud and passionate din-disorder.  The reins are held tight, the gallop is tirelessly breathless, this is my pick of the blazing pops.  'I Can't Take It' initially appears to be coolly delivered but no sooner have these thoughts settled then they are kicked up in a turmoil of ill temper that thrives on its own intolerance, high discontent and jaw-cracking tension.  It is more of the same - my question for you dear is whether or not this is a good thing? 'Sex Pest' again surges with annoyance but has a quite direct approach that is easily picked up and chewed on.  The verse and chorus chunks are distinct and there is a punk rock reliability to the song with my only concern being that it drags on for a little too long.  This band are made for short sharp shockers and they are missing a distinct trick here.

Into the last three and I grab them as a fistful and slap down the assessment as thus. 'New Dark Ages', 'Die For Oil' and 'I Love Living In The City' are the trio of twat rupturing turn-ups that ravage the soul, rape the already knackered noggin and show that this band have a brutality and insistence that will not be denied.  The first, the second and the third instalment of this final blitzing is best taken in small doses so as to fully appreciate and not have to resort to a changing of the underwear or the use of a surgical truss.  The opening belt out moves not from the path it dashes down, the follow-up drills and spurts with regular thematics and the last of the lot is a solid gob off that takes pride in the urban sprawl and makes sure it gets itself heard - oh those loud louts!

And that is that, another CD done and this time with mixed emotions.  This band are great 'live', have power aplenty but, as I have now had 2 CD's to run through, I am wondering when a change will come.  The direction is hefty and unapologetic but the band need to start altering tack to maintain interest and also to stretch themselves as players.  A reggae number, a skanked up piece and maybe one or two short hardcore-esque bursts will emphasise all areas and make one sit up and listen to a very solid unit. Tis all about expanding the wings and keeping one guessing don’t ya know!



I am always being dragged at various angles this way and that and each and every tangent I fly off brings me some new vibes to mull over.  Gooseball Brown is the man at the helm here and his project La Ti Da.  This is the second time I have reviewed the dabblings in this guise and the third GBB effort I have tackled. The man swings in from a DIY roost and plucks and fucks in his own honest way - I like the dudes style, I have been critical, praiseworthy and fair along the way so far, there is no reason for that to change here!

We start at the beginning, no - fuck it, I'll go in reverse because I bloody well feel like it.  We finish with 'Joe Got Ya Money', a crumpled newspaper dirge arises from sable silence and we see, what appears to be, a washed up cowboy get fucked off with moaning and take his sonic steed down a groovy avenue of wise assed funkery where the bass side-wanks and the gob plays it cool and jives on in opposition to the self-pitying nag nobber.  A double-ended discordant dildo this with two transmission levels - one I take pleasure in, the other I find deflating - such is the state of experimental dabblings.  The penultimate drift is a slow and pleasurable fiddle labelled as 'Push You Home', a homage to a loved one, a heart peeling tear tickler that relies on lachrymal lilts and soft keyed delicacies to gain an advantage over your indifference.  It is a new side to our Gooseballing players style and my only gripe is the knicker elastic of sound is stretched a little too far for my punked patience and I lose a little interest towards the latter end.  I slap my wrist and reinvest my time over and over, I get the same sensation but praise this one for the soothing soporific tones and the consistency shown throughout an altogether exposing number.

Backwards onto Track 9, 'Upside Down Burn', a nervous energy caffeine soaked kerfuffle that begins with disjointed danger before jumping on board a flower filled bus and having a quick jaunt to Hippiesville.  The journey is short though and we are readily abandoned in a cartoon land were uncertainty and multicoloured insanity pervade.  We are soon picked up again and relieved via a handjob of madness - I stagger away unsure of what the hell just transpired.  'Blood Mile' is a bluesy corruption that rolls down a shit-streaked hill like a pregnant jelly on psychosis inducing pills.  The opening abhorrence rolls to a standstill and the heaving fat splat that comes is cuckooed and sweat-soaked.  A very foul beast this and not one for those who want something orthodox and with a free-flowing magnetism.  Very stodgy stuff and with the inner machinery in need of a dousing in oil.  Having turned my nose up at the main meat of the mess I must say the chant and rant section does ascend and achieve albeit in the most cruddy DIY way (and there ain't nowt wrong with that).  

Track 7 I believe and the lazy throw back roll and rock lilt of the quite charming 'Shame'.  A quirky curio that takes an holier than thou piss take stand-point and shakes its head at the wayward miscreant who is used as a focus-point to deflect from one’s own misdemeanours it seems.  A typical going on in life and finely observed here via a tune that borders on the mocking but is a nice moment nonetheless. 'Motivation Speaker' rings in, wades slowly through the sewerage of life and then gives some insightful advice, much of which has simplistic wisdom and could be used to ease the strain of many stressed noggins.  There are no hidden depths here, the song wants to help you out of the mire and does so with good positive vibrations - I appreciate that!

Finally onto the opening 6, flipped over and awkwardly done in the right order. 'Abaddon' opens the entire CD and drools and drones from the warped wicker chair found in the sunhouse of the local asylum.  Rocking gently back and forth the tones emanate and always suggest a certain madness going on with a yearning to indulge in a conflagration and some suicidal wreck and roll.  The song metamorphs toward the latter end into a dirty caterpillar of crude tribality and crawls along to the final silence. 'Hanging Tree' is a rasping scummery of polluted folkism that swings through the effluence with denying delight.  The filthy sound is combated via a strong under-swirl of fidgeting melody and as it raggedly roams to the final outlet one is...dare I say it...intrigued.  'Madonna Luna' creeps on strummed strings, contemplates a situation and seemingly accepts.  It is a carefree croon done with a laid back lilts and seemingly poured completely off the cuff. No preparation, just see what arises - well that is how I am reading it!  'Cocaine' is horrible, a messed up, fucked up shit out that I really can't take too.  A song that is too troubled and confused to embrace.  The eyes are popping, the bowels dropping, I shall leave this one to wallow in its own irritated lunacy.  The final song for me to review is track the fifth, a ditty known as 'The Mermaid Song', a tranquilised treat that is semi-buoyant beneath dappled light waters were the noggin can dwell in peace and take relief in a blessed respite where disturbance will never come. Play this one in a darkened bathroom where you lie down in your tub of escapism and disappear - I am sure you will get the drift.

What goes on here is bizarre, angular, unpredictable and, most importantly of all...DIY! The artiste under the Fungal stained spotlight is a dabbler in the dark and reaches out and takes hold of whatever feels right. Sometimes this instinctive sense works best, sometimes it goes awry is a very natural process and clap my hands together in gratitude.



Silver Dust are a rock band who have only been on the circuit for 4 years and bring to the tuned table a melting pot of that which is raw and demonic, that which is elaborate and sub-operatic and that which is tinted with pseudo-gothika and that certain dark blood that gives many vibes an ethereal slant.  The band arise from the depths of Porrentruy in Switzerland and have their very own style that does take a little adjusting to, especially for a long termed spiked victim like me.

The opening tumbles of multifarious tunery come via a triple salvo known as 'Welcome', 'Heaven Knows' and 'My Heart Is My Saviour', the first of which beautifully combines horror, baroque operatica, power thrusts and the dog basin basics of good song construction.  Brick drills, rabid Shoggoth roars and pulsation theatrics are amongst the acoustic ornamentation brandished and throughout the noise the articulation of the mix and precise production is magnificently high.  The 2nd cutlet has moments of stripped down soothing, episodes of panoramic grandeur and an overall prepared essence that is just a little too staged rather than naturally delivered...or maybe it is just me (it usually is).  The third spillage is almost holy and cathedral-esque in its pseudo-sacrosanct stance that really does make for an imposing, albeit affected, presence.  Elements of cock rock emerge from the underbelly of sound but even my punked spirit is hard pushed to stick a nasty boot into the vibes and hail them as shite.  No, I must be fair, the band are stretching themselves, mastering many methods and that is all anyone can ask for, even if they like the end product or not.

Further advancement into the meat of the CD reveals continuous flamboyance interwoven with a decisive unpredictability and a steadfast resolve to make sure all areas are highly processed and powerful but retain an individual airspace in which to operate and hold attention. One of the most noteworthy tracks is  'Shame On You', a grinding pulp that retains clarity before disembowelling itself and conveying itself further on a deathbed of high orchestration and...exhibitionism.  The switch from the skewering to the silky is quintessential quality that keeps this spiked git involved.  We cycle forth into the CD further we more dramatic unfolding via the spread wings of 'Princess De Ma Chair', the classical copulation of pomp and grandiosity of 'Morte D'Aimer' and the pulse fuck, machine drill and all-round future frolic of 'The Age Of Decadence'.  We have numerous herbs and spices to toss around the palate within the huge dollops of decadent and thrilling orchestration that consistently combines to give rise to new obsessions.  It is a very specific angle from which this lot of overly elaborate huffers blow in from and albeit far from my rocked ragged backyard of noise I can still wave an ensign of appreciation.  And why the hell shouldn't I?

The last trio of tunes do not alter the pattern of the CD but continue to embroider the silver donation with many baroque fascinations we may sit back and admire if time is kind.  'Now We Request' begins like a bull in a china shop before dramatically stopping in its tracks and taking on a sagacious stance of pomposity and stating a case. Minimalism combined with a full on knuckle-fuck is the recipe adopted, the band show they can sonically spin bowl or hurl out a blinding bouncer that will bruise your gonads with nothing more than power...and this is always a good thing.  The song sticks to the registered formula - fans will love it.  The penultimate song relies on mechanoid happenings and goes under the appellation of 'The Judgement Day', a very matter of fact movement that drifts out of line at times and perhaps provides too much variation in one set creation and thus paints a pictures that is, in parts direct, in others blurry and overall quite incoherent.  The individual strokes that are power splashed and then caressed are smeared and I am finding that I am looking upon something rather messy. The closure comes via 'Forgive Me (Acoustic Version)' a delicate wave farewell via a porcelain hand holding aloft the transparent tones of virginal gossamer.  A tear in the eye, a heart-touching moment in time.  The song floats off into the distance mists, it is a mood laden piece and for me oversteps the mark by hanging around too long.  Instead of a short tug at the ticker wires we have a nagging irritation and my spiky spirit is far from keen.

So I am over and out and am up and down and roundabout with a listening session that has me thrilled in parts, stilled in others, impressed at times and then downbeat here and there.  It is a mixed bag and very specific in its target audience.  When the band get it right they do so with breathtaking brilliance and that is the positive note on which I will finish my scribblings.  Take a peek folks, some of those opening expulsions are wondrous.



The crummy resort of Blackpool has produced many good bands over the years and in recent times has many appetising crews for the seeker of DIY and underdog vomit.  I have conducted a 'Blackpool Bastards Invasion' gig and it was a joy and the next one looks set to be even better with some Litterbugging louts spreading their rhythmic refuse and adding to the debauchery.  I have seen the crew under the spotlight a few times, I have reviewed many silver circles by the said outfit and have found many highlights.  They have their own quirky angle on proceedings, have an insightful stripped to the waist honesty and this latest 8 track offering is highly anticipated.  And so...

One...'Damage Is Done' - a song that instantaneously exposes the Litterbug lilts and moves with a DIY clutterbucket honesty that has a good scrubbed out feeling and a spirit of frustration at certain wraparound loops that sees various circles in sonic life never really get anywhere. The busy affect, the ceaseless desire and the hassling approach the band naturally take all make for a piece of scratched and scathed punkism borne from a bog brush circuit and a reality based observance.  As real and direct as ever and with an approachable rustic rhythm and overall 'bloke down the pub' unaffectedness.  Two...'Hanging Around' skids and stutters before popping things up and clattering along on a bedrock of discrepant discomfort that shakes out the cobwebs of affectation and makes for an overspill of out of kilter, sub-unorthodox music that once again has the rusted elements combined with the more rhythmic side of the spectrum.  The end result is of something very distinct without being vulgarly so and very much in keeping with what the band do.  There are no complaints thus far!

And Three...'Here To Stay', a quick chugging burst that raves about the metamporphing properties of the punk rock scene and how we should embrace the fact that it is here to stay.  It has many forms, some convincing some not so concrete in its structure but we have to do what we do and make sure the growth goes forth and as many bands as possible get noted.  Litterbug display a good level of frustration here and clobber along in good unwashed style.  The sense of rhythm never leaves us, those with a feel for both retro vibrations and those striving to progress should get this.  Four...'Let The Night Unfold' begins with awkward string tangents ascending and descending before falling into a nice furrow of melodic accuracy that contains enough fuzz and dust to keep things earthy.  A consistency comes, a bass line wobbles, the skins are briskly leathered and the front strings scurf and scratch as per.  A very basic song but sometimes nothing else is needed.  I regard this as a hybrid borne from Uncle Pop and his crooked partner Auntie Awkward - ooh the randy devils.

Five...'Prozac Zombie', a shushed start, a quick 2 wire wank and then the surge comes.  Verse is direct and stripped, the chorus is pacey and uncomplicated.  It seems too simple to be true but it sticks in the noggin like a spider in your rectal pubes and no matter how much 'Anal Arachnid Wonder Dust' you apply to the rear region this rockin' bug will not be shifted.  I now wander the streets, take a leek, make my breakfast or simply shoplift from the local hardware store with this tune dancing round my head - can't be a bad tune then can it.  Mind you, try stealing a lawnmower singing ' I'm Just a Prozac Zombie' - not easy but worth it to keep the grass trimmed!  Six...'The Chimp Effect' jangles, is roughshod but coruscates with a certain lifeblood that the band simply inject.  There is nothing elaborate or heart-stoppingly outrageous here but the band have an earthiness and 'off the street' reality I find appealing.  There is little to add to this one and not much I can add to the next track, namely Track Seven...'Smokescreen'.  A quicker thrust, one that lacks patience and wants to get its point across.  Clear and scurfy, restless and kicking with spirit.  The rippling tones are incessant, the fact that the band move with higher impetus exposes their unity and efficient methodology and this one is one of those songs I would deem a grower.

Eight...we finalise with the multi-faceted frost-fuzz called 'In Your Dream'.  Again it is more of the same, typical of the Litterbug leanings with cohesion and awkwardness proffered partners that we, as perverts of sonic shenanigans, are left to wank over and ponder.  These songs strike out as being simple but when closely examined have several depths to explore.  You have to concentrate and then let go, it is worth your while.  This isn't a dazzling finish, in fact I would harshly (but honestly) tag it as average but there ya go, you can disagree if you like and if you care to do so via a review then that would be absolutely spiffing.

Litterbug come, drop their toned trash and leave me to pick up the mess.  I like the band but always feel there is more in the tank!  Do they believe they can up the ante?  Do they not want to change tack and are happy with their lo-fi donations?  Who knows, all I can do is say what I feel, prod and poke and put the posers there for you to ponder.  Not a bad effort this but...well, you may guess what I am thinking!



Just as I was clearing a mound of CD reviews those gits at Deadlamb Records sent through a pack of 5 to keep me out of trouble and constantly batter my head with many sounds.  The mix was good and here I tackle the first of the batch with a virginal approach I always find best. The info that strikes me from the convoluted web waves is that the band are a hardcore unit from Alabama and have a screaming lass at the fore, something I was soon to be battered into submission by, much to my untold pleasure.  Other than that I avoided an over indulgence of info so my judgement would be untainted, darn those pesky sycophants and tellers of bulled shite.  So, here goes a Fungalised version of events, a shroomed lowdown of the shizzle on offer.

Blinking open at the first juncture are the piercing and passionate 'Goat Eyes'.  This song is the commencement of one long wild and reckless beating with a sincere she-spite that claws, scratches and gouges with a frenzied intensity that, in certain parts, reaches zeniths untold.  This opening fist in the face is a repeat nag of gnawing nastiness that, like a rabid Woodpecker, takes up its perch and rattles the dead timber of the noggin like the vicious fuck I have this song nailed has.  The vindictive drilling increases as the final slam is taken and along the way we feel as though that the music radiated is both mentally suffering and nauseous.  Like a perverted dog to a bowl of reeking vomit I find myself drawn and prone to diseased blackouts that may see me commit some criminal....damage!  'Plinko' is a quick follow-up slap, it initially skewers on warped prongs of devilish intent before steadfastly getting on with a crack-happy forcefulness that is no sooner acclimatised to then it is over - an odd moment that is a swift going over, nothing more, nothing less.  'Punch Little Babies' is a fuckin' giant stride forward from the previous disappointing track and slices through all resilience, all sinew and...all bone.  The mania and compelling melody are all heaped together and kicked like fuck around a soundscape that attains behemoth levels when thrashing through those stunning chorus cuts.  This helter-skelter raping is relentless and for me it is the fact the carriage of craziness rides on a cusp of total danger and may crash, smash and end up as useless trash at any given time - wonderful.  I can't get enough of this perilous product and ramp up the volume, stick a broken bottle in my face and slam like damning fuck.  If this isn't enough the razors come forth and slash us to bastard doom with 'FNG Your Wife' another hard-edged episode of almost demonic bleakness borne from heads doused in heavy racket making and clued in to playing it on the cusp.  The whole spirit of this song is happening and a certain virulent violence is established at the first strike and refuses to ease off until all players are whacked out and your ears are leaking life-giving blood.  If a band is going to make noise of this kind then why the hell not leave your guts on the stage - I reckon a disembowelling has taken place here and for that I offer my congratulations.

'Doomed At Birth' wastes no time in destroying any settling dust of decency that may have gathered in the nano-second of silence between this and the last hefty burst.  More billyclubs of belligerence rain down on our battered bones and further sonic steel capped booted sink into to our writhing carcass, this time with something more orthodox and more flat-lined.  The delivery is consistent but lacks the high shake-ups previously encountered and I am still coming down from the loftiness of tracks 3 and 4 to give this fair judgement.  For me it fails to challenge its predecessors but is a decent stand-alone belt out.  'Spice Jam' is better, is surprisingly the longest track of the CD (2 minutes 30 seconds) and cruises in before brandishing simmered threat via a chorus that is quite controlled for this lot.  The chorus addresses matters of restraint and puffs with power, huffs with angst and gives the song...essence. Strings and skins are molested, the front throat is still alive and kicking and the sub-final onslaught that sees the guitar parade and the bass and drums get a rhythmic seeing to all inflames the listening infection further.  'Subshit/Guillotine Licker' and 'Sleepover Dad' are two tetchy cunts of misshapen spastic fist-fucking that come, go and leave one grasping for some semblance of understanding.  Both efforts are a double-ended damning that penetrate, provoke pain and yank out without apology. The second invasion gives greatest pleasure and the dark edge opens up delightful vistas of disturbance. 

The last two grotesques to grind your musical gears with are as per.  'Blood Pipe' is quick, grumbles in on 4 nasty cables that are shook with gratifying absorption.  The cacophony that comes is restless, naturally vomited with effective gut muscles used and has that underscrubbed contour that has served the band so well thus far.  'Swarm On Em' Boys' closes matters and swings and sways with a noise that perhaps would be considered groovy if played with a less hyped up tempo.  Again all elements on wired high, they seem in a rush to get to the final deadline and just about hold it together.  I like the danger and the tribal chant section but at this last juncture I would have liked to seen a severe curveball thrown in that would leave all listeners...wondering!  Just a personal thought to finish.

Future Hate have much going on here and in one or two places attain heights that really take the breath away.  Their dark underbelly is regularly exposed as the complete beast regularly upturns and shits out excellent effluence to choke on.  The fact they keep things quick and without arse fucking nonsense is just as well and this one will be enjoyed many times over, more than likely in the midst of contrasting tones - oh yeah man!



A band here I first saw at The Star and Garter in Manchester and who provided 40 minutes of absorbing interest with their punked and reggaefied rhythms that clashed, collided but, most importantly, cruised with quality.  The band won my favour via a 'live' review, as a result I find myself with an album on my hands to do my usual business with!  My pleasure as always.  The crew hail from Scotland, have an intolerance of Nazis, bullies, prejudice in general and will not be restricted by genre - this sounds fuckin' fabulous.  I have done my listening duties and am now ready to clatter the keys with my throbbed and nobbed Digitus secundus manus, a limitation that causes untold problems - such is the life of an arthritic assessor.

Track one, I taste and ponder and let 'Jesus Buddha Mohammed', trickle down my sonic swilling gullet in fascinating, comforting and rewarding style.  The delicacy, the soft application of he and her vocals, the Jah man accessories and the movement from placid waters through to motions with apparent strength all induce the listener into a dreamy float that is not to be questioned.  The band have aimed high at such an early point and have reached their goal with sincerer talent, insightful know-how.  They have a crafted cultivation that is not hurried or over-saturated and the gradual precious peaks and necessary troughs all combine to make a soft oceanic happening to absorb.  'Hey Mr Reggae' has a more calyspotic flavour with the solarised string shimmers upbeating the output and bringing to the fore many essences well wafted in the certain sub-genre. The crisp wire strokes are splendid, the street-wise oral roamings resplendent in accented drapes and the splish-splash tympanics add a further element of animation that aids the overall groove.  The undulations are light but noticeable and this escorting follow-up to the gratifying opener is another notch up on the ladder of success.  

Next and a change of tack, a more orthodox tune as far as those punk boundaries go. 'Isolation' has more to offer though and the clear vocals are wonderfully shadowed by whispered she-susurrations that breathe extra life into the free-flowing track that I just lap up with each rotation.  The wires skank, crisply ascend whilst the sticks tap with controlled regulation and bring something orderly to the tuneful table.  The persuasive head rushes, the need to flee from the fascist fuckery and the last push that repeat beats is all nutrition for my noisy nob - it stiffens with delight (ooh heck here I go again). 'Reggae For The Rich Boys' is another scrumptious scoop of creamy cacophony that states its case, snipes with suggestive solidity and erodes any sense of resistance one may have with nothing more than subtlety, exacting tonal blends and languorous lilts that get buoyed along on a surface skin of serenity.  Marvellous and a quartet to quiver at the knees with - in the most pleasing way!

Plucked from the verdant bush of sonic fruition comes the most clamorous and clashing marvel yet, namely 'Strawberry Boy'. This kicking song lashes out with regularity and exposes a new facet of the Tripwire crew who can play it cool, wander with a mean drift or hot-foot it with a bit more forthright vulgarity.  If one was to dissect this one then there aren't too many layers and it is the most basic piece thus far but the cough up encouragements, precise production and alive and colourful affects make it work.  'I Don't Want To Be Like You' is a rich song with distinct qualities of something 'Lydon-i-fied', and is a real sub-PIL'led up number that moves with a melodic passion and easy magnetising swing that emphasises the entire quality of a band with many strings to their well-twanged bow.  This song is a charming sliver of sound that rants, raves, indicates self belief and has a liquidity that will not be shied away from but totally embraced and...involved with - a choice cutlet. 

Further on we go and a quick assessing trio beckons.  The choppy starlight shine of 'Stand Up' is utterly delicious and is crisply delivered and ideally ruffled with all components superbly complimentary and contributing to an uplifting sensation that will not be frowned on by this cantankerous assessor.  Love it I do - love it!  Next, and a sneaking serpent of sound that is pencilled down as 'Tyskie'.  It moves in before metamorphing into the most basic of tracks and is a simple boozing song that pays homage to the Polish beer that is apparently taking Britain by storm.  This repeat insistence is there for the pisspots to slurp and slide with, nothing more and nothing less. I rate it as the weakest track of the lot but it has its place and perhaps is a necessary counterbalance to the more erudite offerings?  All I can do is be honest and say what I say - there will never be any other way!  Last of the brisk trio is the intriguing 'Down In The Dark Alley’, one of those Virginia Creeper moments that at first appears to be another sonic growth but one that soon reaches out, embraces with tough irresistible tendrils and chokes out a reaction. The zest within the weft of the workings is more intricate than imagined, the barbed branches incessantly snag in a quiet subtle way and as the plays are increased further interest, and pleasure, are aroused.  NB - This song is about about a very dodgy back alley underneath Central Station in Glasgow.. and near Ivory Blacks and Audio Music Venue - so sayeth Rich McGlashan.

3 to go and a burst of therapeutic madness next via another jester despising jollity, this one unimaginatively called 'I Hate Clowns'.  One of those moments that breaks the patternisation of proceedings and throws in a curve ball to keep you guessing.  For me this is bog-standard noise rolling with a theme I have encountered several times over the years.  I have to admit though that Tripwire DC do what they do well and this one has some nice touches and avoids a full on savaging but remains in some sort of strait-jacketed control.  Not as bad as I first thought if I am honest!

'Not Finished Yet' is an accomplished song with many subtle sophistications that contribute to the songs fluid, fine-spun attractiveness that I for one am quite mesmerised by.  It doesn't brandish the more blatant qualities of some of its cacophonic colleagues but it has a quite proficient plumage that is waterproof from any Fungalised critique.  No rush encountered, no unnecessary scabbiness to try and create a false punk reality - no, just hard practiced, experienced musicianship with care taken to blend components and do things one's own way - my appreciation gushes.  We close down with 'Count To Ten', a remarkable whisper of gossamer gifts artistically ruffled with the warmest zephyr that brings pure sonic sedation.  We are lured and lulled, persuaded and pulled and gradually lain down on a waterbed of lucid, lazed and softly illuminated acoustica that finalises this fine CD and, makes sure we are convinced right up until the very last...breath.

I saw Tripwire DC 'live', I walked away taken.  I have now listened to Tripwire DC on CD and I am thoroughly sanguine in my belief that this is a very accomplished band with a very rewarding and masterly release on their talented mitts.  I shall seek them out again with salivating jowls and look forward to their next release with throbbing nadgers - cripes, pass me the pills vicar!



Nice and Sleazy is a festival (yes one of those), it is held in the crumbling seaside resort of Morecambe - a tragedy still happening and all the place is good for is some coastal birding, some cheap chips and an annual jaunt for some mixed and matched music (if you so prefer).  This is a sampling from the 2016 fiasco with many good tunes to enjoy and perhaps, reminisce about.  Here goes my take on the 22 tracks dished up - by heck I best tighten my text-tapping fingers and keep to the point here!

The Negatives are up first, the classic known as 'We're From Bradford', a defiant sing-a-long classic for the old breed and, if they care to have it, the new breed as well.  It is what it is this song, it is about making a statement and pokes a finger in the ass of those who create division and think the big smoke is the be all and end all.  I like this track, a long time favourite that still defies time, as do the fuckers who play it - they must be mad (I hope so).  Big Fat Panda counterpunch against the opening punkery with the two-toned skarring known as 'She Makes Sense'.  This is a fuckin' stunner and rises from the 'live' recording with sonic strength not to be under-estimated.  The commanding gob, the cathedral keyed opening and the brilliant snag to the ensuing tune is mesmeric.  The brass cream laden over the puff pastry of sound is gobbled up and swallowed in one satisfying chunk.  From the first spin you will be hard pushed to defy a dance and my advice is to just let yourself go and let this upbeat explosion grab you. Next up and the reliable party people who turn out top tune after top tune come and blast out a song entitled 'My Girlfriend's Best Friends Sister'.  Dirtbox Disco have proven their quality, have a repertoire many would suck their grannies teets for and the donation here does the job in keeping the quality high and the foot tapping.  Great front gob, honest rhythm, expected trimmings - it seems simple but not everyone can do it - DBD can and they do it with aplomb.  A cracking track and onto the emerald tones of Neck we go, a good band this and their offering of 'Sean South' is a nice switch in style for the CD but makes sure quality is still lofted.  An intro seems to excite one chap and then the tinkles come, the military drums march us inwards, the whistles and strings enhance the sprinkling and keep this very much a themed tune leaking from a very special box.  The blend is precise, the embracing warmth tangible and in truth, it may be run of the mill Irish infused acoustica, but it does do the business mighty well.

RDF next and the fine reggae drift of 'Babylon Is Burning', a mellow wander that is bass lifted and nasally sung and embraces the crowd with its meandering catchiness and shout out chorus that even a cretin with brain pox could latch onto.  Accoutrements are minimal with a steady stick beat, a skank string persistence and a quick homage to the old Rutted classic of the same name and we are done, with all success safe.  A good song followed by another pip, this one by Media Whores and their delicious donation of 'Black Widow', a superb cutlet that sees the poison of the strain seep into the soul with numerous questions posed, a animated undulation of sound eternally intriguing and the rising vocals of a choice standard and working above the tidy soundscape with classiness.  This is a definite favourite of mine and keeps the quality bubbling.

Popes of Chillitown next and the casual snaking serenade of 'Now You Will Never Know'.  This is a song that sidles in with brassed fluidity before pepping up and creating a skank-o-licious treat for those who like to hot-foot it on the dance floor and prefer some muscular relaxing vibes to shake off the blues to.  The band do what they do, they do it well and all the expected trimmings are here - nothing more, nothing less. The first cover comes via Skaface, who put their own twist on the all time classic 'A Message To You Rudy'.  Originally a rocksteady tickle by Dandy Livingstone and then later exposed by The Specials this is what you would expect, a two-tone treat that keeps to the tried and tested formula and no doubt hits the zone with all those festival goers.  The band do the job justice here even get my knackered ass twitching.  I do like a bit of this stuff though, especially the raw end of the monochrome wedge.  

The mix so far is varied, vibrant and a solid example of what the Nice and Sleazy bonanza has on show.  Good on em'!

A big name next, namely Sham 69 (well one version at least) and the famed head clout of 'Ulster'.  After the recent deluge of jigging joy this is back to the grindstone with a biting gob off that sees the band simmer, clatter and saw-bone to the core of the punk instincts.  The mouth is off the street, the tympanics slapping and the guitar buzzing whilst the bass remains orderly and provides good foundation.  A loutish song, very much needed at this point!  Loaded 44 jump up next and slap out one of their best songs, namely 'Get Ready'.  This one begins with the front lass hollering and demanding attention before jumping in line with the tasty riffery that moves from verse to chorus with rock buttered ease.  All sections of the song are firm and robust, etched with snagging hooks and drawing in the noggin of noise with ease.  We change tack with Root Systems obvious but still sage advice of 'Stop Fighting Each Other' a song the world over should take heed of and instead of indulging in combat they would be well advised to shake off their stress and insecurities and have a good old jig to this uncomplicated but invigorating tune.  Easily put together, skanked up and provided with power thrusts when necessary and full of balls out gumption not to be denied.  I love this one, it is an effortless dance-inducing delight.

Broken 3 Ways enter the fray next, 'Free To A Degree', is a brassed up and polished new skank vibration that has that strain of sound so often found in nooks and crannies the whole scene over.  I have quite an extensive skanky collection, primarily thanks to Do The Dog Records, and this is right up that street.  Ska with a high animation level and a leaning to change route whenever the mood arises.  Orthodox in some ways, spontaneous and unformulated in others - if this is your thing then fuckin' enjoy!  Puked up next is 'Question Time' by a band called Vomit.  The song is apparently about that Dickie Bow wearing cantankerous git Robin Day, a man who took no prisoners and shot down many ego's and snorted like a good un'.  The song stays within its own limiting jacket and the band do not stretch themselves here but do they really need to. The CD is ready for some bog brush punk and this is what you get.  Good plodding guitars, stabilising sticks and a sewer-stained gob - this is just what the insane Doctor ordered for many - those ruddy rampant perverts!

Time for some high end quality from a band I have done my bit with, hold in high regard and have seen flutter off on to bigger (but no better - I will always defend my DIY roots) things.  Headsticks ooze class, are set to please the masses and produce quality tinkle after quality tinkle with consummate ease.  I have gushed over 'Paper Flowers' before, I need not do so again but I will tell you this - the song is a behemoth, a work of acoustic art and it is a stand out moment - ooh me dribbling willy, I best stop there. Next and a band that has never been my thing, namely the ever popular Peter and the Test Tube Babies.  The karsi based insensitive humour they are known for is no bad thing and here is brandished via a shit-stained sonic brush off known as 'Never Made It'.  A tale of a follow-through, an unplanned shitty arse, a rectal faux pas of the foulest order.  It has the distinct strains of the band and that over-forced gob work and shimmery string play all point to another Test-Tubian bout of madness.  It is what it is, fans will fuckin' love whereas I can take it or leave it.  

Into the back stretch, Reject Renegades offer up a love song (allegedly) and smooth their way in before opening up and showcasing their straight-ahead 'Fun While It Lasted'.  A bitter twist of lemon sucking fruitiness that moves well and strikes me as a tongue-in-cheek tickler that has a consistent melody that keeps it safe but still appeals and gets itself worked up in glorious style.  Kid Clumsey turn things down a nastier back alley with their chuff churning 'Pig's Bottom', a grinding tune with a very malevolent sable edge that cuts through to the core and clatters the nucleus.  Piston-like, tortuous and ranting - it is a good curve-ball thrown into a CD with many flavours. The snarl is appreciated.

The quality of Nine Bullets is welcomed next with their plucky fucky bounce of 'Skank' a well delivered piece that has a double-she-delivery atop a pulsing underbeat liable to get you jigging with easy joy.  No fluster here, no sinister sub-text - just a homage to a fine source of sonic escapism and done with sweet simplicity.  Healthy Junkies take over from the bopping delight and billow black sheets of satin sound in an attempt to sex up the existing scenario and give their song of 'Nice n Sleazy' an erotic magnetism.  It moves with seductive grace, piles on the atmospherics and whispers into your lugs with hypnotic desires - once again it moves the CD in a different direction and when the song becomes more passionate we are duly won over.

The last 3, the cretinism of Hung Like Hanratty knows no bounds and this superb sing-a-long classic surely gets each and every crowd joining in with the utter lunacy and manic message sometimes overlooked.  The lads are diamonds and this song is a set in stone stunner.  'The Ghost Of Jimmy Saville' dabbles on the precipice of controversy, deliberately smears shit on the walls of pseudo-decency and whilst having a twisted laugh still makes sure the filth of the celebrity is spat on. Tis punk and it treads on toes - I like that!  Skaciety pop up next and offer one last brass blow-out with all areas bass led and following the four wire weavings with excited gusto.  'I Don't Know You Anymore' is routine fodder for an articulate scene and here we get the usual high quality.  The finishing touch of the CD comes via the slagging scrawl known as 'Hater', a middling closure that sees a slow crawl pick itself up and eventually get things biting. It finalises a CD with much to offer and takes us out with a very bitched up feistiness and dustbin lid rawness.  The 'fuck the system' request is routine, I shall say no more.

A great compilation showcasing, what is, one of the best festivals around.  I am not a festival fan, they are now overdone, part of a dilution and are just mirroring the commercial state of play which many denounce but let us face it - would love to be part of.  Well not me, but even though I remain stout in my belief I can still wave the flag for this quality CD - now go forth and get a copy ye buggers.

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