FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 1
WE ARE INTERVIEW - MONSTER, MONSTER
Cripes – who the hell are this lot? We Are Interview are a crew I have never heard of and with a name as such it may be just as well - what a crap tag indeed. This is besides the point though and if the music is good all will be Fungally forgiven. The band are a rock outfit and hail from Geneva and were originally called 'Interview' (gosh the controversy) and are inspired by the likes of Grunge-based bands and outfits such as The Foo Fighters - ooh heck. Fuck all this, here is what I make of the output - grab yer gonads folks, this could hurt!
'New York' is our first discordant destination and plays a cool hand with carefully spiralled guitar making way for a verse that lays good foundation on which a pre-chorus preparation can come before true glory is attained via a catchy blow out that rings out the EP's title and immediately draws in the listener’s attention. Impetus elevates, the coming together of all components is increased to a compression level that leaks the blood of life and thus lets the rest of the song run with great fluency. This opening gambit displays high levels of attention, good cohesion and tamed but effective power, it is a song I am very much taken by. The same feelings can be brandished for the second outburst too, a song slapped down as 'Tokyo' and one perspiring with torrents of glowing chordage that pulsates, chugs, flashlights, rushes and keeps the whole construction alive and thrashing. The verse is concrete but when it is smashed apart and the chorus is allowed to dazzle through we are bowled head over heels by a stunning moment that requests, desires, demands...everything you have got! It is a brief burst, extends itself with the use of cerebral imprints, impressions that become ingrained into the great gunk and set alight an inner reaction that will never die. The cacophonic catalyst is perfectly timed and delivered and this song outweighs the fine opening number and makes for one superb brace.
'Johannesburg' is the piggy in the middle, it initially scrapes dirty talons over rusted metal before moving on with a predatory persuasion that sees the muscular haunches tense, release, tense and...hypnotise. The grace with which this sonic beast moves is sanguine and solid and the stride through your attentive undergrowth is done in such a way as to be almost irresistible. The production levels are exact, a sub-sex drips, the barbecued throat cadences are perfect for the cause. One for the rocked up methinks or those willing to be converted and perverted. 'Edinburgh' opens on tympanics and gobbage before hop-frogging along with a definite pulse push that activates highly relished rhythm into an ever-impressive CD. This one is blows hard, puffs out its cheeks and gives a blast of hot acoustic breath that we won't forget. The cymbal pressure escalates and drags all players along whilst bass and guitar react from each other’s offerings and build up a chain reaction that persists and allows the lead lout to indulge in flamboyance and the front gob to hail with ease. The job is a tidy one!
'Chicago' closes, whips itself up into a good early storm and makes sure those string stabs get right to the heart of the assessors matter. It is another bold and brazen song that rises on string waves, stays on a foaming crest and even when the waters calm down the SS We Are Interview has plenty wind in the sails to make sure impetus never lets up. The metallic drive manifests itself throughout and despite the song lasting beyond the 5 minute mark the band captivate and stay in control throughout.
I have surprised myself here by semi-gushing over a 5 track treat that is out of a rock and roll arena you won't normally find me inhabiting. It is a very decent piece of cacophonic kit and is mixed well, played well and delivered with a distinguished panache so many fall short of. Cheers chaps, consider this punker (for the time being at least) perverted!
CUT - SECOND SKIN
Anti-Pop Records deliver this 6th full length offering from Cut - a band who have been on the block since 1996, ping forth from Italy and who mix and match several specific styles. I am fucked off with writing intros, here is the meat of the matter instead!
And to the first, 'Shot Dead', cool wires begin, grandiose attacks from all areas pounce with brass enthusing and cruising. The vocal attack is flamboyant, overspills with a superfluity of insightful class and cutely adorned acoustica. We repeat the trick, from the thermally chilled to the keenly cascading with a certain Chiaroscuro appearance to the end splash down. The strokes made are swift and slow, natural and then more controlled - it makes for an initial cacophonic puzzle to play with further. 'You Killed Me First' is heavier, carves deeper with a palette of more brutal shades all recklessly blended before our attentive zones that, to all intents and purposes, need to be wary of an ambiguous danger that pervades. The band work from ad hoc regions where a feeling is transmitted of tones thrown out that feel right at the time as opposed to what felt right on a previous occasion. The hunger and relish breed oxygen into the lungs of the song, the bass is a dictating engine for the other components to rely on - this is challenging produce.
'Too Late' skin beats, donates icicle cavern throat expulsions. The whole mix is built from those opening jungle tympanics and remains a quite angular and frenzied hotch-potch as slippery as an electric eel. It wriggles away from an accurate assessment, gives the odd shock and disorientating dilemma and I go in, ponder, fuck off out the other end none the fuckin' wiser. Do I like it or do I hate it - bah! 'Parasite' is a better burst, a very flamboyant and ever-changing expulsion of art-laden liberation that brass-rubs when needed, splat fucks accordingly and seizures throughout to give a melted abstraction that borders on that which is jazzed. There is a very definitive style manifesting itself here with an underflow of tetchy disgruntlement against those life-draining fucks who attach, absorb and abandon - oh those nasty bastards. There is much life in this beast, it kicks and condemns with virile agility and I am liking this one the best so far!
Sideways on a slide of glory.
'Automatic Heart (Tacoma Time Travel)' pulses, pushes and pukes out a squirming worm of sub-ambiguous acoustica that just operates beneath a quelling membrane that sees the song remain semi-subdued and not thoroughly exploded into the aural caverns as it should be. Maybe the production level is a trifle low, maybe my ears are shot to bits (highly likely) but this well-constructed escapade loses 20% of the thump factor somewhere and I just can't for the life of me pinpoint my gripe. A decent do though and keeps the awkwardness high. 'Take It Back To The Start' cools down the heat, meanders with grace and sidles beneath your attentive substrate with crafted care. It is a cute tickle with sub-funk bass, soothing orals, mentally wired guitar bursts and a finger clicking casualness. Each component works as a stand-alone but really shouldn't fit into the end portrait. The fact is though that each jigsaw piece slots into place and I remain puzzled as to why this is the case? A quite smart piece this, yearning for a replay in many ways, be it the situation or the song!
'Second Skin' next and a shard-adorned piece, a metallic barbed-wire entanglement that unwinds itself, is brandished and then...brutally garrottes. A very malevolent edge slices, a distorted grimace spasms and sweats, the song is one uncomfortable episode that is stripped bare and then clothed in designs of decadence. Obscurity dictates, the paradoxical phenomenon of premeditated spontaneity manifests and masturbates, I can only write what I feel - odd and rewarding in the same breath! 'Holy War' is an accomplished effort although still with that degree of uncertainty and chancy whimsical creativity. The finger cannot be placed on any centre point of distinction and where this one comes from and threatens to go is always up in the air for your guesswork to nail. The elements involved have generous life, the start raises the pulse, the persistence pays dividends. Next and 'The One Who Waits' bubbles, simmers and rises above a tangible spume. The first pseudo-verse leaves me cold, the nudge in the back isn't firm enough and as we plummet further into the depths of the song I am, at this point, left outside the circle. The coming together of clashing guitars rouses the routine but it isn't enough and despite a good Joy Division-esque bass sequence I am just falling in the shadow of this one. Have I overdosed, I am glutted, am I just being a pernickety twat?
'Paralysed' is indeed a crippled cacophony that seems to struggle with its own structure and just have a pecking problem in maintaining any semblance of balance. It is the second track I find myself unsure of and just can't seem grasp the gist of the song. This is an angled and mangled cur of hobbling music which fits the title and the trouble it can create. There is a very patchwork aspect to the product, a cut, paste and piss feeling I very much applaud but it is a definite 'thinking' number rather than one that leaps out with essences of enjoyment. It does pick up, displays deeper desire - mmm, maybe I need a rethink? 'Catch My Fall' is more of the same and falls from several tangential lines that start apart, criss and cross in an network of ambiguity before parting again. Numerous re-alignments take place, a few stutters and stops and some groovy furrows are glided down but the song remains capricious and incalculable in many ways and that is a methodology that will create much befuddlement in many bonses. We close with the slightly quirked and head-tortured 'Crash And Burn', a closure that sees the band stretch their own foreskin of experimentation to new extremes, duly let it go and feel the pain of the tuned twang back. The critique of this one will be as varied as the tones proffered and it is a challenging tickle on which to sign out. To upset the applecart should never be frowned upon!
An oddity, a gauntlet thrown down, a band testing your waters as well as their own. There is much to marvel at here and although a few latter tracks didn't stoke my cinders I can see what the band are trying to do and make a good estimation at where they are coming from. Where they end up though is anyone's guess.
STREETLIVE - COMPILATION
A compilation track, sorted by the mitts of some Blackpool musicians who wanted to put something back in to a worthy cause. The following text was lifted from the Bandcamp page - 'Streetlife provides support and shelter for young people between the ages of 16 and 25 to enable them to make informed choices about their situation and issues which affect their lives. The Nightshelter is entirely volunteer-run and opens 365 days a year to support vulnerable young people who find themselves homeless through various life issues. The Day Centre is an inspirational building that provides learning opportunities; practical support such as access to food parcels, showers, low cost meals and internet access; intensive support with specialist workers to help young people who have challenges with their housing, finance or health and we run outdoor activities such as climbing, walking and cycling which help to improve young people’s confidence and self-esteem and promote healthy living. All of these activities are supported by a team of around 30 volunteers.
So 12 tracks to assess, this is the Fungalised lowdown of a very worthy effort.
First up and Du Pig lung eject some manky clogging tones via the mucky melody of 'Personal Filth'. Unsettling, furtive and garage-esque the opening gloop drips slowly and thickly and will ruin your carpet slippers of apathy if you are not too careful (you cerebrally idle cunt). An indified jaunt, loaded with grungey grindings, deliberate whisperings and an undercurrent liable to unsettle your stability if you don't use your noggin and make some mental effort. It is a good substrate layer and you should get down with it and enjoy the coating of sludgery donated. Eye The Bomb funk you with their classy scratch and serenade sonica that undulates with accuracy and passes over a pizzazz one cannot resist. 'Debt Roulette' is clued into the street, deals with life today as it pans out in many spheres and despite not being what punks would expect this pisses far more spiked attitude and intent. The shimmery sound, the fat twat bass, those grooved-in gob bursts and the overall fuck funk aspect deliver the goods over and over again from a sonic squad on a roll and bowling me over with their artistry!
From one crackerjack to a masterpiece of wise talking insight via The Karma Party and the quite stunning 'Elevate'. A key-pulsed bout of magnificence with a message of obvious but most noteworthy importance and one that surely must be heeded by any level-headed, straight-thinking 'erbert. The whole arrangement and orchestration of this passionate 'from the ticker' tune is precise, well-aimed and undoubtedly fuckin' larger than life. The call for unity is irresistible, the time to think is now - listen up, crush your ego, embrace your neighbour. A stunning classic peeps, ignore at your peril and fuck all prejudice! Random House provide some fine 'Jive' and shuffle up a sound dish of skidded and sub-skanked funkiness with a bass manipulation and a blue light urgency in the wires providing a highly palatable output of smooth streetwise sound to get thoroughly off to. The smash and grab sticks collide with gusto and all the gob is left to do is fall into the musical melee and let his oral stuff do the business. It is a tall task to which he rises (the dirty devil) and the total impact of the song is bang on the mark. Great inclusion.
So far so ruddy good and onto Solid States and the cool crackerjack known as 'Fall Away'. A real processed piece this, articulately put across both musically and lyrically with sapient application had to the overall arrangement. The minimalised pre-chorus section is carefully handled and adds a subtle transparency, a delicate off-track wander and yet keeps the whole escapade sweetly moving with consistency. Nice indeed and into 'Everything I Owned Is Nicked' by Three Headed Monkey. Classy, smartly suited and cutely booted this crafty cut of hygienic auralisation is way out of the trough from which I immerse my snout and feed but even this pig has gotta respect the fact that the mix is precise, the movement fluent and the texture both smooth and effective. The vocals are lucid, the swish of all musical swords cutting and there are many I know who will be happy to indulge in the overspill here. I can’t blame them for that!
Next and Almighty just manage to gain a grip and clamber up on the set stage and produce the uneven and emotive thrust of 'Alpha State Of Mind', a song that overstays its welcome and just becomes a little further outside my own listening range of hospitality. The band though are in fine fettle, vibe it up with tight security and add many flamboyant touches to an ornate effort that perhaps is a little too sugared up to be palatable. Just personal preference dictating here and despite the superb vocals and many other applaudable touches I am not taken. There's Always Another Summer chuck up the more tranquil bed of sound known as 'I Drink Therefore There's Darkness'. A wispy susurration that uses light and careful brushstrokes to adorn the canvas and one that alters the direction of the CD proper. The up-tinkle of the guitars, the move onto dramatic panoramas and the sweeping gesture of the whole movement may not necessarily be my first choice of tuneage but I can recognise the style and decent application donated. Related To Lions hop up next and contribute a restless number known as 'Win Or Get Wiser'. This one is an electronically compressed number that moves with a flat-line focus and never lets up until that final blast. New school punkeage is the feeling I am getting here, hybridised with that 90's essence that saw a certain cleanliness invade the spiked pit that many took to. I was somewhat immune to the lightened discord but there were many good moments to mentally debate. That is what I do here after many listens - I remain on a rickety fence of indecision but give a positive nod to the attributes of the song and overall delivery. Troubadour next and the sonic 'Shelter' constructed is done so on honesty acoustic cabling that is delicately adorned but given an inner framework that has much strength. It is what it is, one of those 6-wired affairs that keeps the flame low but still sears the attentive skin. A certain trepidation and a lucid vocal style make this a captivating addition and although it has its limitations due to being a minimalistic piece it is a necessary inclusion.
Two left and the penultimate track wanders over hallowed frosted substrates where dew is kissed by early morning sun and mists of premeditation rise around the gnarled limbs of stout trees. That Hidden Promise deliver sub-gothic drama and scene-setting theatre with their quite effective 'Goodbye Avenue'. A sub-textured coronach of heart-wrenching labour this one that is, in its own emotive way, one of the best tracks on the CD. Pure, natural and very moving with a image-inspiring stride I am quite absorbed by. We close with perhaps the most established band on the CD, namely Sonic Boom Six and the subdued light lilt of 'Northern Promise'. I expected a real fandango finale where the tootsies and the ass would be provoked into a reaction of dancing delight and see this whole collection go out on a high. Instead what we get is one of those coffee-table stirrings that is too milky to be palatable and lacks a real frothy liveliness I am perhaps guilty of anticipating. The song is chilled and flowing but it just lacks any crucial barbs to drag in my sonic interest and I sign off this collection on a low. What a shame but purely a question of personal taste.
Besides the last minute blip and the odd niggle this CD is done for the right reasons and showcases a good range of tonality and talented outfits. It is quite an eclectic mix which, even if you hate 90% of what is on offer, is always a good thing and anyone who likes to roam outside their own scene (if indeed they have one) is advised to have a bimble here - nothing ventured, nothing gain and all that bollocks!
KING SALAMI & THE CUMBERLAND THREE - GOIN' BACK TO WURSTVILLE
Sausage based sonica served up by the masters of good time rock and roll who sizzle and spit with the best of them whilst generated a beat you will be hard pushed to ignore. It is senseless, it is all done in the best possible taste and if you shake off any pretensions or preconceived ideas then you can jump up and jig with some fine tonal tomfoolery. The band come from the Big Smoke (or shit-hole if you prefer) and force you to swing your ass with vibes that go something like this.
An 'Intro' bigs up the listening expectations and after much joy we drop into the awaiting lap of the hepped up 'Pineapple Mama'. This, as you may expect if you are familiar with the band, is a song that gets the flavour set and sees the artistes immediately bouncing over their self-created dance floor and juicing each song through their own blending machine with utter, wide-eyed, hang-loose flamboyance. The track spurts colour, moves with ants-in-yer-pants liveliness and is mixed with a rapid accuracy only the most insightful artistes seem to be able to do. A smile is on the mug as I type, the whole shebang adds life to the carcass and this is feel-good music to swallow by the bucketload. If you have never forced a pineapple up yer jacksie - now is the time to do so! 'Nosebleed Boogie' chases, is undulating idiocy that gets up the hooter, tickles the nasal hair and forces one to sneeze out a snot spray of sincere applause. The sharp-suited weave and the light booted dance inducing jive are the two major elements that make this a second winning toon. With cartoonised slap-stick fractures, a cheeky cretinous vocal strain and a smiling chicken strut this is pure japery laid by strutting goons with no hope - and good on em' for that!
'Busy Body' is a grooving ass bastard walking on hot coals of feisty music that produces numerous teasing tongues of fire to keep you on your toes and jigging. The application is sound throughout with the brass a living liquid pouring with zest, the skins jumping bean joys that help the overall juicy jest, the string compartment electrified and unsettled and donating that needed nervy edge. Once more the gob work enjoys taking part in the overall melodic prank but let us not forget - this noise is no joke, it is just grand fun to move to - simple really! To the oriental entrance of 'Kid Ghidorah' we go, thrown into a ballpark of eastern instrumentalisation that has a 60's CID shimmer, a backstreet sinisterism and almost brings to the fore visions of a slant-eyed Bond foe, scheming away in an ornate hideaway that only his closest associates and converts know about. This Fumanchu frolic is precisely delivered to the awaiting palette and as the dragons breathe fire and warm the cockles I get all worked up and end up doing a Kung Fu chop on my nearby CD player and hurting my untrained hand - tis very much worth it though (now where's my Carl Douglas mask).
And onto 'King Sized Love', a song that could be about a bopper with a chopper, King Kong's sex life or just a statement that shows how far head over heels one can be - I shall leave it for you to ponder. The tickle is heavily bass wobbled, orally delivered through promising lips that groom the listener and with a certain sparseness of sound that explodes when necessary this is a decent do that many will be happy to swing through the trees with. Tis caveman rock and roll, Unga Bunga my friend. 'She Was A Mau Mau' is noodle-nobbed nonsense built on a sound vibe that has a jungle-esque undercurrent that flows with monkey mischief and groovy cat desire whilst scratching at your idiot nerves causing them to prickle with reflexive delight. The music achieves that extra kick simply because it is mixed to precise level, is played with neat and tidy attention and thoroughly reflects a band immersed in their tomfoolery. Not a bad ditty at all this.
'No Stoppin' is groovy cat shimmer shake pulp, a snazzy crocodile dressed in its finest sonic scales and swaggering through the rocking riverside vegetation with only one thought in mind - to bite your darned ass baby. These instrumentalised moments are quite abundant in the pit from which this CD is plucked and they never fail to do the business, impress my jiving soul and get me fuckin' gushing. A lovely piece that appeals to the cavemen instincts, turns on those prehistoric neurones we will never be rid of - thank fuck for that! 'Tiger In My Tank' has already been assessed by me, tis on the site and needs no further wordage - oh go on then, just the one 'fruity'. 'Stutterin' Sue' staggers through the awaiting doorway, makes an entrance, cuts it short and then careens around your mental airspace with a suggestion of Beatle-ised guitars before gooning and crooning above a boom-bounded membrane of energetic animation. This one is not my favourite, a bit too ramshackle methinks and just a ride that is a trifle uncomfortable and just out of the general sync. Ooh consider it a blip - but only in my truthful opinion!
The last 4 and I push the pedal to the floor and fuckin' fly man, fly! 'Camel Hop' is funky Egyptoid elevation, built on congenital tub vibes, hectic Berry-strutted strings, bean bouncing bassism and the slightly gravelled, heavily gurned gob work. There is much happening here, I am split down the middle, or perhaps split down the bamboo - crikey! 'Shiver' is a scrummy serving that is illuminated with glowing grooviness and some garaged honesty. The hook is simple but irresistible, the verse as a result is equally so. The switch between many facets is mellifluent and appealing and this, in many ways, is one of the better tracks encountered. 'Going Back To Wurstville' pokes sonic fingers into the awaiting podgy pie and pulls out many toned and stoned plums to suck on and...see. The lead countenance is grimaced with madness, the 'choo, choo' expulsion reveals a further crackpot slant and the overall spirit of the song is nothing more than fun - and why should it be? And to 'Caramba' a spitting and splattering sausage of party popping wonder to just get up and gyrate with. A wonderful note to end the CD on with a nonsensical edge that just wants to see some sexed up mischievousness played out on a multi-lit dance floor filmed over with happy perspiration - let us keep on slipping and sliding until we drop.
The porker was dangled, I opened wide and took one hell of a bite. I have regurgitated and spat out a review - does it turn thy stomach or does it tempt you to go and have a nibble yourselves? I hope it is the latter! King Salami will keep on frying away and cooking up their brand of skinned sonica - all I can suggest is you get yer aural frying pan ready!
COLIN'S GODSON - LOVE IN THE TIME
Oh mammy, oh daddy, oh great Uncle Colin's Godson are at it again and have requested my attention concerning a 4 track release I am very aroused by. This will be my seventh assessment of this crew and over the years I have been entertained by some deliciously attractive tuneage and have travelled at the speed of sound as well as been invited to pay trips into space, back in time and aboard ship. I expect more of the same here, with the usual slants thrown in, if I get something close I will be one please man, if not then honesty will win through and I will say it how it is - priorities remain.
...'Failing In Love' finds the exact frequency, glides with languid ease and rises upward on a love-ascension that leads to mighty promise, magnificent holistic sensations that elevate the soul and dreamy detachments from reality that see decisions go awry and situations taken for granted. The change in circumstance comes, an idleness takes over and then a deflation whilst all the while our artistic creators of gossamer rhythms add a soundtrack of precise and apposite accents that yet again appeal to this Fungalised soul who, is an unashamed fan of the band. The strains of head-over heels wonder, hope that melts into the trials of abandonment all make this a leading treat to repeat spin with thought. The tale continues with a keyed quirk giving way to the solitude soaked misery of 'Microwave Song', a dreary but highly listenable piece of self-examination when love has flown and all you have for comfort is Pizza and some damp in the basement. Wretchedness and a certain self-loathing come, along with a nutrition free dinner and a completely harmonious tickle that is an untold treat and gets cooked ideally before the notifying beeps come. An ideal follow-up to the opening lilt and a continuation of things gone awry - ooh err!
Next and on the look-out for salvation we go via 'Match.com', a desperate attempt at reconciling the emotions and keeping them appeased comes on tonal haywire before finding a tune that reveals a working desperation that prowls the web waves in search of...salvation. The promises are offered, the plunge taken, the meet-up had. Embarrassment is par for the course, the band deal with it and fly along on excellent tones and screech to a halt that is perhaps significant of the outcome of the rendezvous. It may end in disaster but this song is another peach, they do this so well, what a ruddy treat!
And to 'Paul And Linda', grasshopper stick calls, dreamy self-contented serenade and a quite lovely cruise of tonal delight that summer twinkles in the eye of the love-soaked and, even to this cantankerous and ruffled old bastard, is a joy to behold. The flowing drapes of dittification are billowed by celebratory breathe and the final plume of ascending excitement is simply superb and full stops this tender jaunt in heart-touching style - applause, applause!
Colin's Godson are something special. The band have blessed my lugs with many fine releases amid a tumultuous and incessant reviewing programme that is...endless. I get battered with many routine noises, many duplications of discordance and an avalanche of unoriginal upshots which, in the main, is all well and good but, needs the odd inner condiment to help it appeal more. What this crew provide are those necessary salt and peppers to keep my taste-buds alive and this, is another relished serving I suggest you all partake of. All I want is more and more..come on chaps, why not indeed!
PLAYBOY MANBABY - DON'T LET IT BE
Having recently attended to a swift release by this effectively gushing crew I was keen to throw myself into something more advancing and...testing. Sarcasm, sharp wit, cultured tonality and a fervent necessity of keeping things unpredictable these Arizona acousticeers shit down some fine stinking filth and when, at idiot times like this, my hands get mucky and my ears get clogged I feel it all a completely perverse pleasure and good use of my eternally stretched time to be involved. I look at the morsels ahead of me, salivate and then pick up the assessing skewer and take a stab at assessing the sound-bites.
Chomp, the first lump of melody to get masticated (ooh sexy) is labelled as 'You Can Be A Fascist Too', a garishly spasmodic expulsion that bursts with initial life and slaps it up the jacksie with angular accents and boom-fuck effervescence one cannot resist. I have already reviewed this number on the site so I will not dwell here, the point to be made is that the words are choice, the song is stunning and I fuckin' love it man, fuckin' love it. 'Last One Standing' is a chirping bird from branches on high where it can observe, ponder and make apposite music to enjoy. The song starts controlled, flutters its plumage before taking flight and circling round and round on a neat loop before eyeing its prey and swooping down with taloned blastings that never fail to hit their target. Back on to the perch where a bass drive accompanies the captured meal and keeps us utterly absorbed and...in many respects...aurally devoured. From the settled to the shit-kicking, from the sublime to the blatant all in the flick of a talented tail and we, the victim, should be bloody well appreciative. As an aside, I squawk with satisfaction.
'Bored, Broke And Sober', a troubled jazz fuck that has a machine-like incessancy but is oiled over with many tonal touches that gives this whole shebang a natural freedom, an off-the-cuff liberation that sees the band brandish powers of persuasion that comes from a nervously agitated realm where the crew manically function and bring much excitement. The brass adds a dose of sedation, but the song is alive and kicking and perfectly applied thus highlighting what a fine band we have on our listening mitts. A cracking opener, a real head rouser, just what the quack prescribed. The follow-up 'Cadillac Car' is a steady plod that oozes rising tension, sweats toxic anxiety that is borne from the cruddy pressurised world we find ourselves eternally crushed by. The encumbrance of the external requirements placed on one struggling bod is highly tangible in the extreme and the need to scream out a venomous 'fuck you' to the whole shebang is an emotion many of us will be able to relate to. Taut, steaming and squeezed through a clenched arsehole this is exact and necessary fodder in a CD that is really making a mark.
'Self Loathing In Bright Clothing' - whispered cymbals precede offers of mouth-watering cable manipulations and then additional gifts of searing icing on a cruddy cake before a crushing, painstaking drive of snatching sonic need strikes me as more totally convinced racket making that has me rocking. Rocking with glee, rocking with head-bruising mania, rocking in reaction to the slapping music that has the greater spite of the whole collection - it is very much needed - let the claustrophobic spillage hurt you man!
'Cheap Wine' is a curio to ascend with as it develops from a controlled double punching jot to a free-flying eruption of wonderfully she-assisted freedom that puts this chorus up amongst the highpoints of this increasingly impressive CD. The sonic stimulus that culminates in the aforementioned pinnacle is all appetising pleasure and I lap it up like a scabby dog let loose in a sausage factory (for want of a better simile). I take several deep slugs from the bottle of noise on show and I like the heat feel it causes - blah! The hectic mania of 'Popular' sums up the crazed thinking within the massed mush that concerns seeking a stupid-fuck fame and universal appeal just for the hell of pleasing the ego. Too many judge themselves by that ambiguous and inaccurate popularity stick and that is just one sad shame. Having no self belief leads to a need for others to believe and then all sorts of problems arise. Hey ho, the song here is short, tumbling and direct. It vents a disbelieving spleen, it comes and goes and is one of those terse bursts that every CD needs (unless of course the CD is just one terse burst after another - now that would be silly).
'I'm So Affluent' shuffles its tympanic booty before bass weaving inwards with a cappuccino-drinking affectation. I stand unsure and when the shady shadow sub-susurrations come via the gob I still need convincing. Dramatic back hollers arise, frenzied application of the oral opening bleeds, we get chucked and fucked down many back alleys of noise - I replay, re-think, re-apply myself. The outcome is of a virile piece full of spunk and letting go at just the right time to give maximum zeniths. It is a complex effort, at first it confounds then cultivates and then convinces - nice work and one that will grow. The band are flying here, I am in the slipstream and loving having my exposed bollocks wind-blasted. Next, and the regulated madness of 'Orprichniki' comes, gets brassed up the ass, claps and clouts with eagerness untamed, is keyed in with ravenous need and culminates in a thrash out full of swift melody, full of spunked vigour and...passionate pizzazz. Not a lot to add here - soaring the sonic skies we be, never to be worried by the perils of a crash - nice!
'Don Knotts In A Wind Tunnel' is a beauty, a wound up glass glinted grind out that has heated hysteria raging throughout with nervous panic attacks of sound interwoven with greased up class cuts that run as smooth as sanded silk. The throat is red raw, the strings haphazard but bang on the timed mark and the drums slapping with hungry glee and in no way in liable to need respite any time soon. Eat the fuckin’ racket! 'White Jesus' changes the tack of the tunery with a sloping anti-belief dirge that crazily tumbles downhill into a blurry sphere of fast action frustration that leaves us in under no illusions as to the point the band want to make. It denies the existent of an almighty being, it promotes the necessity of getting up and enjoying yourself and making sure you get the most out of this life (I hope not at the expense of someone else though). From the strait-jacketed to escapee lunacy this one has contrast, much colour and provocating angles - it will get you pondering about where you are at, what you do and where you want to be. Get up lazy fucks, smell it!
I am pressed like fuck at the mo and need to round this one up in a succinct and accurate fashion with honesty and integrity maintained. Oh here it goes then...'brilliant', thank you...care to agree or disagree I care not. I am ruddy convinced.
BLEED - BEDLAM
I remain beneath a pile of CD reviews and struggle to fight my way into a position of balance that will see the backlog mastered and my musical airspace left with room for current releases. Bleed played a gig for me and gave me two CD's to assess (as well as a T-shirt the kind buggers) and after watching a sturdy performance I expected a good old bash up of honesty and earthy punk and roll ravings. Hailing from West Yorkshire the band do not fuck about and get up, give it hard and tread on toes along the way - I can only applaud such spiky behaviour and long may it continue. They are a band who like honesty, here is a piece of mine.
'Final Solution' scums up the scuzz with hard-nailed, tightly drilled force that deals with another of the crimes committed by this so-called mess known as the human race. The horror of the holocaust is revisited via a fully focused gut-fire that seethes against the doubters of this unforgettable atrocity. There is no room for pleasure here, no room for piss-arse ponsing and that modern day skipping around with a smile that more and more punks gigs are infected with - this is sobering, impacting and very serious shit chief and I give it a sturdy thumbs up. 'Don't Believe' twats about, sets a substrate of cloying, heavily cemented sonica that eventually gets torn up and splat-fucked every which way possible with a blistering intensity not to be messed with. The band take the pace and gruffness of hardcore, strip it down and add more punked procedure. The disbelieving slant of the verbals, the energetic thrust of the racket and the raw, relentless drive of the unapologetic player’s appeals to the primitive spiked instincts and will undoubtedly put the band in a good light with those who like bare-arsed aggression. For track three 'I'm A Nihilist' we get more of the same but this sizzling affair is an irresistible rambunctious roar-fuck that outstrips the previous two offerings with its wild, snarling mania that somersaults with athletic brutality before eventually drop-kicking us in the gut so hard as to make us shit our own kidneys out through a very taut and frightened sphincter. A massive tear-up, one to be very afraid of, one to cause untold noise-induced nightmares.
The let-up we expected, or perhaps hoped for, does not come and 'Shit For Brains' throws big punches in frequent bunches and bulldozes the noggin into blooded submission. A hot molten torrent of misfitting power mongering with a chorus section that is disjointed, cruel and yet fully operational and effective. A natural expulsion of seething liberation that knackers the noise sensors and leaves one brutally fucked up. Next, and for anyone who has lived on an estate where heads are all down, squalor breeds squalor and the entire populace is on one downward spiral then 'Urban Decay' is the song for you! I have inhabited a couple of real shit dives over the years and so recognise the aim of this song and what it ultimately kicks back against. A quick shuffled intro, straight at it with a tight authority and a numbing desire to batter home their point and leave nothing in the preparation room. This is full-on pressure play, spiked to fuck, relentless and all bollocks bared with apologies not coming in any shape or form. The emphasis throughout is on getting each and every component to kick fuck out of its sonic space and bounce like a bastard off its comrade’s outpourings whilst, all the time, keeping a fiery unity ablaze throughout. Hefty!
'(Enough To) Make You Sick' says it all really, another disgruntled outburst that sees the theme of the CD alter not one jot. Is this a good or a bad thing? Well, I prefer variety, my eclectic tastes and desire to see bands push themselves is always at the fore but that shouldn't detract from a band battering away in blinkered style and doing what they do mighty fuckin' well. A bass wank begins, the gob abrades, the guitars cut to the core, the drums get the shit kicked out of them - we are dragged along with another sharp-suited, heavy booted boomer - not a lot more to add - efficient, calculated, impacting - have it! 'Prostitute' is the one I nail as the swamped song in the pack. It is more of the same, has no outstanding character and although as good as the rest of the roar riots it just seems to make the least impression. The fast sub-skanking start piques my interest but is soon blown away by the routine racing and I just wish the band would have dwelt a little more on this bouncing start. I am not going to get out my assessing knuckle-dusters here though as it is a very decent do that packs a wallop and knocks many bricks out of your resistant walls.
3 to go and I shorten the reviewing reins and get the rest of this collection of angst done in double quick time. Taut cables add texture and open the beefed up 'Riot Squad', another firm effort, this time with more control and a more orthodox application that sees the song go through the mighty motions and give the listener a good slap rather than a kick in the nuts. 'Dark Side Of Society' paradoxically sheds light on the shitty facet of our existing regime and plougs in with steaming fistfuls of hating anger and rubs the stinking lot in your wretchedly indolent mug. The message is clear, smash your rose-tinted glasses, wake up and smell the sewerage and then...kick fuckin' back. Simple hey. We shut down with 'Bedlam' (Trivia snip - a title of a Boris Karloff film tha' knows and what a pip it is) - a song here about a mental institution where no holds were barred and no hope was given. The brutality of the system is matched by the brutality of the song, a song that begins with desperate pleas and manic laughter before a flip into full irritation and cerebral chaos comes and takes us to the final oblivion with head flashing intensity. The band sign off in the same way as they started - I would have been a fool to expect anything different!
As stated throughout, this is a very exacting and tortuous tumult of high energy, high revolution disgruntlement. The band back up their noise output in the 'live' pit and, on an impending viewing I will certainly be paying closer attention to some of the songs rattled off here. If you like it hard and rammed home with vicious intent then get the CD or book a night at a Travel Lodge with Arthur Mullard - the result will be more or less the same!
DIRTBOX DISCO - POPPYCOCK
Some bands do not need an introduction, some bands are getting on nicely and need no help from me. Dirtbox Disco are rattling along, appealing to the party people and doing the business big-time. This is their 5th album release and boy, how quickly time has passed since they let fly with that opening classic I still hold up as one genuine beauty. Since then my verdict has been mixed but honest (important that) and despite not being caught up with the masses I can still give all the lads utmost respect and wish them all the best in their continuous adventures. Here goes something and nothing - blah!
We commence with 'The Bullshit Kids', a song that instantly corns and creams via that much flogged 'whoa hoa' trickery many fuckers are obsessed with - oh those silly sods. The song gets its head down and runs through a pre-programmed verse that is par for the course before the chorus is nailed with swift harmonised snags that will feed the fans further and leave the calculators clocking up a sum of 'routine and expected'. My somewhat sobered take on this initial tune shouldn't detract though from a steady start that will tick the box of crucial criteria for the ardent fan and have them singing along with leisurely pleasure. Nowt wrong with that but I have to give an honest verdict and for me this is a reliable start that grows upon the listener but is ultimately, more of the same. 'Fingerblast' is a better track, more choppy, alternating and with a very open, thermally embracing charm to the verse sections. That vocal lilt is superbly applied onto a solid bedrock of sound that helps move all into the wanking celebration of sound that is the bare and basic but beautifully delivered chorus. There is an inner element here that wins the day and that is the easy pop production and the throwaway trash can transparency that takes little effort to become involved with. Add a sprinkling of sugar, an injection of inspiration and the job is a ruddy good un'. 'Punk Rock Riot' is obvious crowd whipping fare and begins with a certain blue light emergency before spouting off and appealing to those early rebellious sensations many fuckers felt when struggling through the system of school, the perils of puberty and the formative days when music bombarded the soul and....struck a deep chord. This easy beast moves with effective tempo, good insightful wordage and tight-assed rowdiness that will infect anyone within eavesdropping distance - not a bad do at all.
Bloody hell, track the 4th already and 'Little White Lie' has a fresh and lucid lilt, a sloppy slush edge and all the trimmings that will appeal to the doe-eyed dick-waps feeling sorry for themselves. The smooth development of the sub-love droplet is well crafted and smeared over your attentive substrate with care. One of those moments the punks may not get (or pretend they do) and one that will have the more feminine members of the party pissing themselves with delight. It isn't a duff do, it has its place and although another example of the toss off and toss away tunery the band do marvellously well I give it a rating of mediocre. 'Working For Wankers' is an inescapable magnet that is one that all and sundry can relate to, will yelp along with and has the expected barbs on which to hang your crooning souls. The highpoint for me is not the cheesed chorus but the pseudo-skank-o-lite verse section that shows advancement into territory new, a capability of taking on new generic methodology and coming out smelling of Honeysuckle (Roses are one of my least favourite flowers). The mix of the stripped and ska'rred and the supply and demand turnover of the chorus emphasises all areas and this is a refreshing shower in an increasing turgid ocean of sound - ooh I need to come up for some air!
Next one and 'Fat Kid', a real sad song in many ways, one that indicates the prejudice in society, one that thinks those labelled 'fat bastards' are just fools to poke fun at when, in truth, there will be many reasons why these bloated buggers are the size they are. Over the years I have seen some appalling treatment of the overweight, many of whom aren't gluttonous pigs but are troubled individuals with character flaws and needs. This is a strong song many may take the wrong way, the hefty flow is driven hard, the lyrics harsh prone to ambiguity and I just hope people don't use it as a chance to point a petty finger rather than look at their own failings. A good effort and a solid inclusion that alters the slant. For balance - I beat a fat person once a week just for kicks and I do know several people who are fat fucks because they put too much in one end and suffer from a double ended disease called 'apathy and idleness' (ooh the controversy).
'Snorting Crack...Is Top Rack' tub-troubles itself before soilinmg its own kecks with a swift shit-out of disappearing attention. One of those that will become immersed in the pack and perhaps forgotten but when DBD turn up the tempo, get irritated and let you have it with more flesh on the bone, spunk in the scrotum nay...bell in the bishops rear, then the impact is all the more impressive. Swift, no-cock-arsing and to the point - crucial indeed. 'Lazy Bastard' could be about 99% of the scene if so intended but instead deals with one of those over-aged parasites who avoid work and self-supporting independence and instead rely on others to get them through each and every day so they can contemplate the hairs on their indolent arse. An inoffensive little number this (unlike the fucker the song concerns) and one that is observational, spot on the mark and moves with remarkable ease. A top pick for the pit, the crowd will love it - the catering corps are delivering the cacophonic cakes and the mentally lazy can get even more fat headed whilst I just sit back and take in the grand vibrations of a good wholesome track.
'Slapdash And Haphazard' is initially a rocked out effort but can't resist the temptation of falling into a similar line and dropping in many tried and tested, rarely bested, methods. There is an extra hook to this, a good 'fuck you' slant and a trifle more beef in the throbbing bollocks that makes me convinced. I like the interplay between the lone gob and the 'all for one' shout outs that, at this point, work well as a duelling entity and give the CD a new lease of life. Oooh 'Geronimo', is an overdose piece that gets rammed to the rectal rafters with 'Whoa hoa'd mania that surely must be testing the patience of many except for that cretinous race of cacophoneers known as the 'Bellendians'. A strange breed who guzzle the Spunk liquid with relish and seem to be partified to the extreme and in need of a good punk kick up the jacksie. Again we have a good song that tribally builds, before moving with pace and keeping all areas more verse based and pleasuring the masses with the usual slight of oral hand. If you are looking for regulated DBD dabbling then here ya go you overfed cunts - get rubbing to the rhythm. For me, no, I am turning off at this point, too much of the same pattern is bad for the head methinks, sorry but being force fed the same dish becomes nauseating I am afraid - blurrrgggghhhh Onto the lovely track known as 'Imaginary Friend' a liquid gold song that is a trifle more intricate and less formulated than many of its counterparts and has many whipped trimmings and brazenly raped rhythms that, as a long tern noise connoisseur and eclectic 'erbert who dabbles in many dustbins of dinnage, I should truly pinpoint and put the old steel-capped boot in. Alas I can't though, simply because this is a delectable dish of pastelised colours all animated with articulate brushwork to give the tones new life. The opening harmony, the expected snaggery, the tight verse and cute chorus all intertwine and contribute to a...pip!
And that my lords and ladies is that! Suggestions came from various sources that the band would be offering something new here but I disagree. Many chomping souls are pissing themselves for this latest release and yet I remain sober and immersed in many good vibes out there. Many tell me Dirtbox Disco are a punk band and again I disagree (as do the band don't ya know). All this, for me anyway, doesn't matter a fuckin' jot because these are the facts - DBD do what they do perfectly, DBD are jolly fine fellows and deserve everything they get and they will undoubtedly meet the needs of many with this latest release. I have kept fair and honest and done what I feel, I appreciate the chance to review their warblings and reckon this has many high points and a few that are overly flogged. You want honesty, you get it and hey, I don't even charge ya - oh ye over-pampered buggers. PS - up the DBD brigade, it does no harm does it? Well, does it?
BOYCOTT THE BAPTIST - BASH THE BISHOP
Some people are ill in the head. Some people have a desire to make a real racket and piss many people off. Some people are miserable fuckers but have a point to make. 2 of these people are found in Boycott The Baptist. A double-ended vibrator of power violence this corrupting unit come, go and leave behind their grinding, fucked up mess ringing in the caverns of the lugs. You know the kind of influences called upon, you know the intent poured in but what you don't know is what the fuck this fungalised git makes of it all. Read on, reveal and rub your rigid rod whilst at it you nasty pasty perverts of noise!
The first penetration heaves in like a rank cow on Viagra, it is merely an intro, I use 'merely' in a very wary fashion as this is a stinking warning but an impending storm. 1 minute of thick, dripping filth, a gloop that is laden with ominous essences to pervade the most cock-sure noggin - you had better hitch your pants up boy. The first song proper, a terse heave ho known as 'Closer To Danger'. Building on the pre-set clouds of disease the song eventually steams along with head-banging impetus and nut-cracking spite. The noise seems reckless, it may seen thrown out without a care in the world but...listen hard folks, turn it up to the max, this is power freedom clawing at your hidden senses - I like it, the beating gives me a hard-on - fuck off! 'Eels' swims in, rolls its tympanic scales, threatens with wires of war before slapping home its point with brain-damaged wildness that simply knocks the hell out of decencies. Slippy!
'Eyeheartgod' begins with an accusation, hits black storm clouds and merges us all as one before await an impending storm. The build-up comes, tension abounds. We get massaged with the malevolence but the expected downpour doesn't come. A cute touch or a faux pas - I wanted more. The chasing track provides a plaster on the irritated wound with full on thrash violence pissing on the gaping gash whilst giving warning against the straw headed good in charge of our world. 'Fuck Off Trump' is brief, bruising and without bullshit - like the stink or you too can go the way of the President! Nice! 'Grindcore Pre-Nup' is madness, a teste tonking clash that sees the band lose their minds in a melting pot of shit-kicking power rage. The throats are glass shredded, ripped down the middle and then re-raped. A short bout of fury, encapsulating the whole lunacy of the demonic sub-genre - I am far from a connoisseur but I love this one.
'Happiness Is A Loaded Pun' - feedfuck, doom sludge, danger rife and then...oh and then! The anus of the Heavens opens, torrential shit pours upon our desecrated bonses and we tilt back our heads, open our needy mouths and glug on the liquid filth. It reeks, it poisons, it disgusts and...it tastes mighty fuckin' good. Abysmally beautiful, intoxicatingly delicious - point made. 'Chalk It Up' fucks it up, is a dirtbox raping that tries to remain calm and groom the eavesdropper but it soon bursts from its own underpants of tolerance with screamoid idiocy that pisses on certain decencies, shit-squats on the face of that which is acceptable and...farts. A fart that has been building up and really vibrates the duffle-bag - don't say you weren't warned. The greatest disaster next comes with the stomach turner known as 'Minor Threat'. Perhaps the most careless piece, maybe the biggest flaw so far encountered on a pimpled arse of sound that has many gratifying extrusions to squeeze and get pus-soaked by. I am only liking the tail end of this tirade and so give it a split verdict - gotta be fair tha' knows!
'Pre-Pubescent Slam' is a hot-roasted treat, a concoction to pour over your genitals and feel the pain as it turns them to a sloppy mess of teeth-grinding foulness. This song points a finger at the plastic slammers and dancefloor dicks who don't know diddly and spasmodically imitate hardcore nuts in a parade of scene-seeking stupidity. Bernard Bresslaw opens (methinks), the chug rises, the tonsils are chewed up and spat out, the drums throw a hissy fit, the songs abruptly ends in a meat-mincing heap. Ooh! 'Thank Fuck You're Not A Cop' vomit mouths before predating your senses and then hollering out the title on burnt tones. The melee comes as expected, a wild and mentally crippled molester that puts its oily sweating mitts all over your ruined carcass and...indulges. Pure power abuse, totally illegal and in need of a night in a sonic cell to consider its own raison d’être. My willy remains upright by the way.
'The Birthday Grindcore Song' starts with some freckled face kids talking shite and mulling over the properties of grindcore - an example is given, we are out of here in 29 seconds flat. 'What ' is quicker - 6 seconds in fact...what the...!
'Yoko No No' is a dig at the hippy-doped clinger on and queller of advancement and goes at it with nipples on fire. As the buds blaze and after the turnip-chomping cretin has said his deeply profound piece on communication (he says sarcastically) the band hammer out the fury with swift screwing verses dashed with oral thermality before chorus chunks hammer thud and numb the cranium - you know what you are getting by now! Lastly and 'Zero Netforce' chops away, kicks, scratches, screams and gouges - it is a tame ending compared to what has transpired but I can forgive the tempestuous tyrants for being in need of a breather, oh mammy.
Despite finalising on a level par this CD will rip arseholes everywhere and if you like things off the leash and incendiary then this is for you. However, if you like to tiptoe through the tulips with fellow scenesters and pretend everything is great with the world then fuck off.
BOGGY FORMBY - WHEN I'M LICKING WINDOWS
The children are playing the street and the sound of laughter is soaring on the air. The sky is bright, the breeze warm and all is well in this safe haven of innocence. But suddenly a shadow looms, the mothers and fathers take note and rush into the street and take their offspring indoors as the darkness descends. Behind bolted doors all families take up their positions behind their netted curtains and tentatively keep alert for the cause of the shadow. It appears, in all its ghastly glory and the young infants gasp in amazement whilst the parents shudder with repugnance. A 30 stone behemoth of juddering deviancy this ways comes, a veritable pudding of unstoppable size. With glazed eyes the beast looks heavenward and from his dribbling lips comes the inane lyrics of 'with my little stick of Blackpool Rock'. The beast is in full flow, the beast is acoustically aroused, the beast is...Boggy Formby. Uuuuurrrggggggggghhhhhhhh! I wake from my nightmare slumber and see I have a CD to review - the choice was given, review or get bummed, I hope I have taken the less painful route!
The first penetration comes via 'Blackpool', a Macc Lads cover and done with a twinkle in the eye and with all the lunacy of the original. A chirpy start, an unhinged vocal slant and joyful innocence is grasped and the anticipation of visiting the resort of shoplifting, shagging, shirt-lifting and shitting in the sea is passed forth and we get that youthful tingle in the gut borne of excitement and...worry! A decent start but out-tinkled by the perverse rib tickler known as 'Deborah's Hotpants', a more than amusing insight into the lifestyle of a deviant with a penchant for tight pants and jigging around one's living room like a mindless semi-aroused twat. After a shaky start the fluid of the songs drops for the cock of the player and we are impregnated with an emotion that insists...we grin (albeit inanely). It is a charming bout of idiocy and I am old enough to know better but...ah fuck it. A cracker that abruptly ends - darn that Ken Barlow and his friends! Next and the CD track-listing is out of the window (such is the state of DIY) and we are looking at a track entitled 'Fat Bastard', a mockery of Sweet classic 'Blockbuster'. This has its magnetism, is a foul mouthed attack on the overweight, a gluttonous git who has never had enough. The flow does stutter in part, is far from a polished poke at the podgy but, hey it is what it is and when played in the 'live' pit is a genuine sing-a-long treat.
A quick burst of filth and a vulgar serenade for the slags out there with 'Fuck On First Dates', a stomach heaving episode of manly cretinism that will appeal to many a goggle-eyed goon who are on a muff mission to nowhere and only have needs for the nob down below. No matter how abhorrent you find this it is cutely constructed and ends, perhaps like the wannabe hunks, as a flatulent crumble with no end orgasm to remember. Not bad but not decent either. 'Honolulu Baby' is a cover of the Laurel and Hardy gem that comes from their finest flick 'Sons of the Desert'. Mr BF does the song proud here with a lunatic innocence and a charm tinkle, twinkle ideal for piss-pots to jig to and perhaps the lasses to get up and adorn themselves in a grass skirt and a coconut bra and do their swaying thing. I like this, and move on into the next track buoyant! 'Leaning On A Lamp Post' is an obvious inclusion and ticks all the right boxes of cretinism although it is not the smoothest ditty and does seem to be only just held together. It is short enough though to avoid a kicking unlike those pesky midgets in society - short too but very much in need of a beating - devious little fuckers.
Another L&H classic, this time from the movie 'Way Out West' and 'Lonesome Pine' is the name. Short, running out of gas and perhaps the weakest runt in the pack, perhaps the worst inclusion of the lot which is a surprise indeed - bah, it had to happen. 'My Ukulele' is double entendre gone mad with a special little jaunt had that is one of the best tickles of the lot, done with all the Formbyfied jest and cheekiness we came to love. This is one to join in with, smile along with for sure and to just fuckin' enjoy. Chirpy, knicker-elastic twanging, goosing goodness that trips along with saucy postcard idiocy with a positive message for those with glum countenances and hanging dewlaps of misery - great stuff. Next, the mind melts, the artiste finally reaches the zenith of the mental breakdown and delivers another cover from a mind crippled by Mince Pie abuse and general dwelling on that which is dubious. 'Rhinestone Cowboy', is the work of a lunatic, the dabblings of a man who needs to get a job and have a word with himself. It still achieves a tittered response though - I must be heading to the nut house myself. 'Stand By Your Man' is rubbish, a real low point and one to skip over. There is no way on earth that a 25 stone dole-ite should be allowed to dabble with tunes such as this. It seems almost sexually satanic and raises the question as to what this gentleman gets up to behind closed doors. Ooh heck, shudder me shaft! No, joking apart, I don't like this one, pure moronic music borne from hands warted with scrotal abuse. 'Wankers Paradise' is filth incarnate, a bell busting tinkle that will see the rub-o-mania deviants dream of spunk laden seas and teste-throbbing sands where they can lay back, indulge in their one armed wrestling and let the life fluid drain away. This is an escapist tune, a sweet flowing peregrination to lull the gullible into realms of plank yanking peril. Oh heck, I am booking a first class ticket as I type!
A snort, hesitant strum and a gentle gruffness comes as 'When You're Smiling' charms its way into our tickers and does its terse and tuneful business. This one kind of re-emphasises that this CD is about fun, nothing more, nothing less - sometimes crude, sometimes a mess - just smile folks. 'Wonderful World' is bordering on blasphemy, a song I hold in high esteem and is a song that cannot be imitated in any shape or form. What transpires here is a mere homage to a work of genius and all vulgarity is avoided and a nice drift had. Very respectful indeed and just as well. There are no rules but a mockery of brilliance would have been ill-timed here.
The next 10 tracks are all the Bogsters dabblings and are a mish-mash of filthy goings-on, idiot experimentation and something that will test your very nerve endings. From long winding drifts such as 'I'm Morgan Freeman' to short gratuitous exposures concerning early morning fannies, touching lasses rear vents, flashing knickers for 50 bob (naughty, naughty Lisa) and other such madness. From coffee table cruising, jazz jizz, lunatic fringe utterances, attacks of rectally fiddled chickens on amphetamines to moments that border on something akin to sanity (only just mind you) this is a titivating collection from a man with too much time to dabble, too many Arthur Askey porn mags to contemplate and too many mind bending tablets at his disposal. Many songs come and go and fade out like a fishes head losing interest - cripes, one doesn't want to dwell too deeply.
That is me done and my verdict is that this is a good comic listen and is worth a punt for anyone who wants to listen to something corrupt, cracked and totally diseased. It won't be long before this dabbling deviant is behind bars so maybe buying this will be a charitable donation that can buy him a masturbation manual that will help pass away the hours whilst incarcerated. Better that than to have Big Frank doing his anal business night after night - then again!