THE CHOCOLATE WATCHBAND - THIS IS MY VOICE

The Chocolate Watchband cruise in from California and play out a psychedelic mix that is blended with tonal shadings that transcend time and make their proto-punk vibrations highly relevant in today's multi-faceted musical world.   Formed in 1965 the crew consider and copulate a range of musical arrangements and let it slide forth on naturalistic angles that flow to the heart of the eavesdropping enthusiast.  I am a great believer in mixing the vibrations and many 60's sounds are spun amidst modern offerings and I hope, that some semblance of insight is had - who the fuck knows?   Here I pootle in robes of swirling majesty when hazy, lazy smoke chilled bones and things seemed…less uptight!

'Secret Rendezvous' scuzz strums, heightens itself from a perspective of elevating persistence with the inner rotation of the rhythm embracing and with a call for unity done with sensitive charm.   The colour chart of cacophony is carefully deliquesced and as each shade converges and  each tone drifts into its neighbour, a montage of delightful warmth radiates from cushioned application of yore.  The band have the mix exact, the embracing qualities are multifaceted and the scrunched aspect of the vocal delivery adds a character that could have been easily lost.  A song from the substrate of reality, followed by the exotic tonality of 'Judgement Day'.  This sweet sultan of serenading charm comes from hazy distances and approaches with a reclined sun-burnt effect that worms its way into ones listening framework and leaves an impression of something more commercialised and perhaps a little too westernised for this punk bastard.   I can see where the rays are shining from and what areas they are attempting to light up, I remain in the shadows.  'This Is My Voice' considers matters and themes set, follows the course and is in no great hurry to define anything new.   This is a slightly exotic slice of soothing noise and is a mere foamed accompaniment to things far more mellowed.  The song breaks clouds, showers the children, opens vistas of splendid joy and celebrates with a sound that is the best so far.  A very reclined and rhythmic methodology is used with a slow caress of the soundwaves had.  There is, within the mix, a stubbornness and insistence that things will remain in a status quo, this solidifies the backbone of the song, I think it is an element that works quite surreptitiously and also successfully.

'Trouble Everyday' enters on cushioned soles, wanders a highway draped in bluesy tonality and struts with westernised smokiness that adds an atmosphere of subtle shades.  The approach is once more reclined, leans back and ponders, the sun-touch on the skin is clement rather than harsh and no matter how you look at this one, it is a completely inoffensive offering (which could be offensive in itself).  'Take A Ride' cruises in, taps away and carves out its own runway in mid-paced style and without a seeming care in the world.  I find this one a trifle insipid, I try to ride alongside but veer off in search of something more lively.  There are many who will jump in the vacant slipstream, I just wanted a wakeup call at this point and although all textures are nicely blended and the quality of the mix is spot on I find myself out of kilter.  'Talk, Talk' quietly tiptoes in, poses a question and delivers a tamed and restrained groove that is considered a few notches up from the last episode.   An extra energy and unpredictability is thrown into the box, the vocals have more authority as does the general gusto of the song.  'Bed' is the best song of the last four and replicates a feeling of over hung-over idleness that no matter how one tries, one can't escape when the booze has flowed and the blankets are just oh so fuckin' comfortable.   The creeping crush of an overwhelming emotion is dealt with in usual Watchband style and the pushing pressure to move ones arse is tangible throughout and the recognition of a situation snagging is spot on the mark.

Mystic tinklings come next via 'Bombay Pipeline', an instrumental based on foreign climes where heat sears, snake charmers summon writhing serpents and flying carpets climb on thermals supporting genies of joy and magicians of mystery.   This is a moment to recline to, to puff on the Hookah and duly absorb. No  aces up the sleeve here, just a respite from the vocal assisted rhythm and a chance to dream.  'Desolation Row' is a melancholic snippet that is borne form twilight kissed memories that look back with a paradoxical favour.  The folked drift is gentle, unflustered and with a tear in the tonal peeper.  The words weave, become ambiguous, lap upon your shores of consciousness with warm favour - dip your cerebral tootsies folks, there are no crabs of consternation to fear.  The pinnacle of the whole album comes next with the Stonesy blue tint of  'I Can't Seem To Make You Mine', a quite marvellous masterpiece that gets each and every applied shade just right and exemplifies how good this band can be when everything falls into place.   This has been chosen as the Song of the Month on my website, I need add little more, there is something just so comfortable and thermally gratifying here and I love it.  The final effort is 'Til The Daylight Comes', a song that starts with the chilling idiocy of President Trump before a tender tonal peregrination takes us to the final silence with hope still in our hearts and a subtle defiance not to be underestimated.  This is a definite finale piece, one that will suit a 'live' set for sure, I would have opted for something more flamboyant, angular and upsetting but hey, that shouldn't deflect from the consistency captured and the style that will have won much favour so far.

The CD as a whole is a complete package and although I am not thoroughly taken in by the vibrations I have enough nouse to acknowledge strong musicianship, a flawless application and many a good tune, one of which stands out with great prominence - my bit here is done.

THE HECTOR COLLECTORS - YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE NOW

Pop punk done with tonal generosity and an insightful tenderness that falls in candy floss showers from the urban sprawl of Glasgow.   There are no barbs, no rib-kicking bomb blasts or spitted and snotted explosions here, just bops from the bubble gum machine done in accented style and with a noticeable twang that comes from a very small niche indeed.  GUMS, Little Love and the Friendly Vibes, The Plimptons and to a lesser extent Colin's Godson are all remembered as I listen to the resonations here, I reckon I could be in for a treat.

'Drowning In Dorito Chips' is the first nibble offered, it bubbles along on key nervousness and wraps around a central spine of sub-comicalness that shimmers its arse whilst hollering with a gob concerned with things seemingly unimportant to many but at the top of the agenda for some.   The song has a glammy feel, it multi-sparkles  from a sequined substrate where long haired louts bound on their platformed feet and thrust their generous balls in the face of many a bewildered onlooker.  We get a nice sensation that finger pokes the flesh! The main gripe I have is that the song travels on for far too long and so concentration wanes and the effect is diluted - an error methinks but I still like this one!  'It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A 25 Minute Response Video To Destroy Your Argument' is a shorter song (although judging by the title you wouldn't believe it) and is played with tender lovable hands and comes over on airwaves of comforting ease that gently sidle their way beneath your stance of indifference and tickles out something of a pleasing response.   The localised vocalised lilts and the rich textured string manipulations move with a certain sub-festive warmth and that is a key factor that keeps the eavesdropper intrigued here and intrigued throughout the rest of the CD.

'Content Farm' gets straight at it, pootles along on lightened tones, rolls down the river of rhythm and keeps things nice and squeaky clean with a delightful lilt with crisped guitars and a loose skin stroke keeping all in order.  There is little to add, this and many more are just trifling gems to pick play, indulge in and enjoy.  'Bullies' is a twisted outlook with the tongue in the cheek and a fine pertness that has a glint in the peeper.  This relaxed and undulating groomer is a magnetising tickler that has no great technicalities to get your tired tonal teeth around, no heavy chordage to wrestle with and certainly no profound depths to swim through.  No, what you have is another uncomplicated effort destined to be played in between opposing noises and duly appreciated as a result.

'White Knight To F5' and 'Just Lovely' are a couplet crapped forth with slightly opposing attractions. The first is a minstrelised middle-aged piece played with quirked humour and a Python-esque idiocy that makes one wonder where the fuck these guys are swinging from.  It is a comedic cutlet of abstract geekiness borne from minds immersed in TV quizzes, horrible-historian lunacy and who knows what else.  The second snip is cracked, played with a bare affect and stated and full-stopped with repeat yummy appreciations.  The bass beetles along, the drums are happy-go-lucky, the sub Stylophone hybrid attack is mentally worrying as is the harmonised switch to times of yore - ad hoc gone AWOL but all designed to keep you guessing.  The keyed breakdown is a mere reflection of the minds involved!

4 quick overviews next, 'The Ad Hominem' deals with the problem set without pootling around the peripheries and creating a deflective argument without point.  We live in a world of deflection, this song sweetly deals with matters but perhaps the players are all bastards and their motives are not to be trusted - cue Kenny Everett and some big busted interplanetary bint - are you distracted?  'Overton Window' swiftly rolls in, is the eternal chirpy chap and skips along on sunshine heels and with a smiley face carefree approach that needs little dissection.   The guitar sequence is a touch 'Marr-esque', the general gist a tonic to raise any doubting and dreary spirits and all I can advise is that you just enjoy and don't try and read too much into this sonic situation.  'Cognitive Dissonance' is a sufferance many of us fall victim to with the left and right, front and rear, top and bottom of the grey sludge always debating and coming up with no final answer - ooh me noggin.   The song, is a reflection of the turmoil and is a clutterbucket throwdown with an almost reactive naturalness that has no determined thread.  Within the wire work the skins are slapped and the vocals rise with an inner contest of challenging viewpoints and perhaps, ideologies.  The end result is hard work but it captures the mental flux that never ends.  'Edgelords' completes the quick quartet, is a fine jangle and cracks on with a floating backdrop of harmonised hollers that border on things youthful and festive - fuckin' hell, there are visions summoned I am trying my best to suppress here.  The composition itself is a pleasing effort despite the images I have of St Winifred’s School Choir nudging the peripheries of my fragile mind - don't fret, tis a personal problem methinks.   A sing-a-long moment nonetheless - quite sweet don't ya know.

'Abandoned Website' is a sadness provoking episode and whenever one tumbles across a website that has been stranded in the great computerised cobweb one is always left with a certain melancholy and the searching question of 'why'.   The reasons and answers are innumerable, the glimpse of something akin to immortality is had and the remembrance of on-line mistakes and deserted hopes are always at one's heels.  The band take their own look at matters, capture an emotion and twinkle away with their identity bared - tis no struggle to listen to this shit, have some.   The closure is an observational sub-musical monologue and an arrangement of thoughts incessant.  'Leeson Windform' is a creeping montage of fragmentation that, at the end of the verbal weavings, leaves one with a feeling of 'pointless'.   All the things we indulge in, the many tasks and mindless movements are all sorted and filed in the tray of 'tossology' and put aside with no ripples made.   The song eventually floats along with a 'sub-fuck-it' serenade - I am in a state of confounded confusion - I am troubled, is that a good way to finish?

The Hector Collectors are laden with autistic traits, OCD suggestions and a damning geekiness that must surely have worried their mothers.   Whilst many threw bricks, wanked off and set fires I reckon these guys were trying to crack the code of the ZX Spectrum, unravel the key to playing naked chess without the use of a hard-on and reading such fine literature as Look-In Magazine and Magnus Pyke’s Christmas Annual.  It takes all sorts, on the back of this CD I am glad it does - we need angles.

NAG - NAGGED TO DEATH

A walloping mess of alive and kicking aggression hammered out by a trio of temperamental toss-bags shot through with wildman instinct and virulent ill-favour.  The band come from Norway, an area that has radiated several similar packages of hot spitted construction that has come my way and been duly tossed around the assessing palette.  I spin, re-spin and spin some more - I must be a pervert.   This is the end result of another ear-bashing episode.

The opener, 'Sigh', is anything but.  This scorching intro is tympanically twatted, urged on with cranked up angle-grinding guitar work and shit upon with high voltage vocal necessity that has been left to stew for far too long.  This is a status setter, a throw down of a white hot gauntlet designed to send out a death sentence to those who dare listen too closely.   This is a power-mongering opener, wild, vicious and bang in the zone - it is now a question of how long one can last and will the band alter their attack.   'In The Know' is more of the same, a destructive cancer invading airwaves of decency and eating away at all things popped, processed and pathetic.   The band do not hold back here, they make audible filth grow rotten, create a shambles that has spirit, summon a maelstrom of mayhem that breathes fire and confounds.  The song is done in true hardcore style and is short, to the point and slamming - it takes all sorts, thank fuckin' goodness.

Next 2 fuckers - 'Nagged To Death' is upset incarnate, riffs with rabid vulgarity before placing each slap and slam with deliberate vindictiveness.  From each and every footprint left rises searing steam and a trail of utter destruction.   This one is for the more absorbed, the ones deeper in the pit than I have ever been or in fact am willing to be.  'No Rest For The Blessed' skewers the sense like a toothache gone haywire.  The initial twinges are given respite via opened holler moments before a cataclysm falls from kicked to fuck skies and we are drowned in an avalanche of shit infected rain.  The storm is unpredictable, we are allowed to regain our breath before the next downpour obliterates - the band are taking no prisoners and at the rear end of this one they mount a dais of devilry and deliver the final sermon to damn!

'Sorry' and 'Black Wizards' next, a double dose of demonology, the first starting with organised deliberation before dissolving into an acidic shit-storm of utter vandalising chaos.  The burning heat comes with punishing clout and is perhaps the zenith of unleashed mania so far - it may be too much for some, it is obviously an acquired taste but man, the band don't half nail it.   The second rhythmic rupture is within the strait-jacket of sound set, it may thrash and writhe and spit sable blood but it is very much controlled by dictators who know how to handle the toned trouble crated.  Two slaps in the mush, the initial whack is the favoured one this time around!

2 more, 'The Story Of My People' begins with neuralgic pain invading the flesh before a great riff and rape roar-fuck consume the very soul.   This moment, the following demonic filth swirl and the moving morass of ill-bred intoxication feed my inner breast and I reckon I may be just listening to the song of the CD.  'Rainbow Children' seemingly summons beasts from beyond with a demanding accent that beats out blackened plumes of fiery need, a need that needs quelling via a phallus of fucking unabashed brutally.  A song to take up the shitter, a song to draw blood, a song to crush.  This, once more, is pounding material, all a reviewer can do at this stage is wonder if you can take it or not!

And so on - 'Who Will Save Us From Rock 'n' Roll' steamrollers in with gears in neutral.  The progression over the substrate is slow before a quick holler, a flick of the stick and pistons pump and hiss with blazing temper and crush all beneath the correcting wheels of hating intensity.  'Dumb Little Life' is the better track though and the new pick of the puked pops.  This one really vomits forth a spitting and spiteful energy fuming with a snagging barb-wire nastiness that is borne of frustration and a desire to hurt with acoustica.   The hollers from darkened pits, the damning and diseased dirt-throwing and the all-round decadence in the discordance have me appalled and enthralled - what a combo!

And to the last 3, 'Forever You' drills into your misshapen skull with blood-lusting evil before taking out a hack-saw and removing the top of your head in a reckless, splintered style that real disturbs the nucleus of noise.  Another painful piece that arouses the quivering private parts - I think I need medication.  'Fatherbrand' is a dirty devil following suit and ploughing along the same razored alleywaysalready wandered many times over.   A little too disjointed this one and disappears into the memory banks a little too easily and without leaving any rhythmic residue.  Perhaps my least favoured, a pity as the penultimate positioning is an unapologetic place to reside and here the punishment is perhaps overly austere.  The piece does offer a screwing moment of instrumental power to close - it is some salvation.   The closure comes with 'Ordinary Men', a final bloodbath of 'get fucked' toxicity that has a spasm, self-screws, explodes with black orgasmic horror before fuckin' blowing a hole in your senses with one last show of stubborn strength not to shy away from.   This is an ideal closure to a CD of extraordinary hardcore intensity and if you had any doubts prior to this scorched earth production, your opinion will now be changed.   A scintillating expression of all things gone haywire.

Nag have trespassed, kicked up a stink and left me impressed.   I wouldn't chase music such as this but when it comes my way I am happy to take time, consider whom it is for, the intention, the need and then...spill my scribblings - I hope here I have captured the chaos and the cacophonic mania - if you like it hard, now is the chance to get well and truly fucked.

DEVILIN ME - I'M TOO YOUNG TO BE THIS OLD

Tribal seethings delivered in perhaps some of the most punk ways imaginable.   Take some tympanic elements, a few chains and a frustrated soul and let fuckin' rip baby.  What you get is a 6 track rundown of quite marvellous affect.  Caveman clout without the disguise of musical adornments and without the distraction of tonal manipulation this is a totally transparent escapade by an insatiable need that just wants to just get fuckin' out there.

'I Need A Fuckin' Holiday' is a stunning start, a carcass shaking lesson in how to get the bare basics, toss them into a melting pot of utter frustration, add some gung-ho bollocks and fuckin' do it.  The framework has been stretched to the limits, patience is a commodity worn very thin and the artiste at the helm is keen to break away from many of life's shackles.  The formula is uncomplicated, is from the beginning of musical time and thrust up your listening shitter with feeling - 'have it' ya doubting over-technical twats.  'Forgiveness' moves like a shambling Shoggoth looking for revenge after escaping a sentence where justice was warped.   Here we see a ruined beast confess to failings and fuck-ups but unwilling to seek solace in a pardon or a chance to be excused by a bastard laden with fraudulence.  The mistakes and misdemeanours are learned from, that is enough, the strive to advance far from easy but hey, the effort trembles the tonal todge – oh yes.

Next and a Big Chief Shitting Brunton tribally emits his sonic smoke signals with livid persuasion and much large-chested (mmm, tits), heave-ho.  'E. S' A.' begins with 'HOW-esque' vibes and I expect Fred Dineage and Bunty James to step forth an answer a riddle that I have overlooked once too often.  This song is a kick-back against the pen-pushing judges who play God with work ravaged bods and dictate what they deserve and what they will get.  The anger is tangible, it grips the listening gonads and squeezes out pips of understanding in no uncertain terms.  The roar-master is upset, with minimalism and meanness the point made is beautiful and necessarily cunt-soaked – ooh me privates!

'Fed' slaps down, shuffles, slowly states its case and pays homage to a saviour in a raw and emotive way that indicates what can be done with a little effort and a DIY 'have a go' attitude.  For me punk is always about encouraging anyone to crack on and to do in whatever way you want.  Too many have become overly technical or striving to please a crowd and thus selling out their inner dogs of war.   Get up, do what you love and if others get it all the better.  I have great appreciation for this noise-making, here we have a more considered effort that perhaps doesn't hit home as well as its counterparts but hey, so fuckin' what'!

Last two - 'Run' stutter starts, clears the chest, finds a nice easy chorus angle to breathe extra life into a song regarding loyalty and reliability.   A great piss-up sing-a-long bordering on something shanty-fied.   A very simplistic song but it keeps matters rolling the right way methinks.   The closure continues the eternal conundrum of an aging carcass against an non-aging head.  What the will wants and what the body will do become poles apart and a frustrated end result is had.  'I'm Too Young To Be This Old' fights back against that nagging process, is one that many rejuvenated fuckers will want to join in with and duly deny many years that have seen the aching frame become ragged and worn.   The arthritic joints may twinge, the prostate not spurt forth its liquid like a fire-engine and the eyes not focus as well as they used to but hey, with gems like this there may still be hope (well, I think so at least).

A lovely effort done with good reason, good spirit and a dirtbowl DIY attitude that will forever get my applause.  If punk is anything then it is about embracing efforts such as this rather than all the usual spillage that goes through the fashionable and acceptable loops built on socialising and being in the right place at the right time.  A lovely change in chuggage, all I ask now is that things are stretched further and the approach altered to keep the listener's juices flowing and the creator...creative (gotta keep these buggers on their toes).

THE SENTON BOMBS - OUTSIDERS

The disciples of the musical drain fall foul of their own insularity and as a result defy any form of eclecticism and so duly self-pigeon-hole themselves, become slaves to a suffocating scene and thus miss out on many flavoursome units doing their stuff and doing it mighty well.   The Senton Bombs teetered on the precipice of oblivion as many heads failed to take time, dabble in pastures new or take a chance on a band opening with great quality - not so here.   The band have long been a Fungalised favourite and to see them move from the cloying A to the promising B and in-between take chances here there and everywhere has been one of the minor joys of my musical journey thus far.  The band come from the spunk and shit laden town of Blackpool, they have peregrinated along the highroads of noise with lovable attitudes and are one of those bands that deserve every accolade they get.  Having said that, this review is no formality, my weapon of respect is honesty, sometimes that can cause a problem but it is the only way to operate.  I spin the disc, I compare with that what has been, that I suspect may come, and that which is the very 'now'.  Fuck it all and fuck you if you don't like it, this is my take on the melodic matters proffered.

'Outsiders' is a perfect way to start, a forthright stance stated about where the rockers hearts are at and, if you ask me, one of the best places to eternally be.   The 'inside' is suspicious, sinister, laden with false back slaps and of a quite ambiguous and untrustworthy aspect.  On the 'outside' one can get balance, keep rooted in reality, assess the situation in a far more objective way and...most importantly, be oneself!   The song itself is a regular heartbeat of authority that promises and will undoubtedly deliver.   The musical score remains regimented, highly disciplined and with a production value to salivate over.  The vocal excellence is clean, real and in tune with the rocked up stride.   Immediately the non-conformists are given hope, the battle cry is a blessing and as we enjoy we should take heed.   From this solid start we get the masterclass of 'Who We Are', a bubbling behemoth a slick sonic sensations that flexes muscle, prowsl your aural caverns and duly quakes outward a most natural and gratifying response.  This is a quality cut par excellence, a flag-flying example to wave above the heads of the doubting Oi Polloi whilst loudly proclaiming 'I fuckin' told you so'.   The bass is an under-adhesive of inescapable quality, the guitars twist, turn, create excitement, whilst the skins are impacted upon with great command and joyous exactitude.  The vocals rise above the norm and perspire a reality soaked professionalism that is a credible distance away from that which is processed and pathetic.  A stunning masterclass of progressive noise is what long term followers are blessed with, an instance in sonic time that proves that sticking to ones guns, practicing hard and not being afraid to push one's buttons pays huge dividends.   Perhaps one of the songs of the year!

The deliciously intriguing title of 'Violet Black' walks from a backdrop, hits a lick and hits it running before the first verse cascades over the eavesdropping carcass and literally bowls one over with its fast moving desire, the articulate majesty and the liquid slip into the utterly thrilling  chorus.  It is this fluent approach that has me bouncing, has me dragged into the chord clattering melee completely convinced.   The band hailstorm tones with an arousing passion and slip through the multitudinous gears with highly palatable nonchalance.

A hat-trick has been completed by a strike-force to consider.   The front-line attack as blown to smithereens the nets of resistance, I am between the sticks and am happy to see this happen, fuck it, I know when I am beat!

'I Am Ablaze' clobbers the senses, throws the noggin down and sugar surges through the first verse before wildly abandoning all procedure and allowing a catapult sensation to take hold and a genuine release to take place and lead us into a pre-orgasmic session that duly perspires...blood.   The trick is repeated, we are mown down under a six-string attack where white heat incandescence sears the velvet surface of sensual sound and we are left exhausted.   The band promise so much, the band deliver with a little something extra - yeah they are gonna blow, and blow they fuckin' well do.   'Reckless Youth' is a strait-jacketed behemoth which exudes a tantalising texture of reminiscent grandeur that wins over the head, the heart, the very soul.  Awash with a pathos that gently nettles the listeners senses, cut through with a pride and resolute sanguinity in what has been and what shall be, the players capture the sought after acoustic apple with firm hands and the acoustic juices squeezed forth taste mighty good and intoxicate without fuss.   A subtle curve is created,  the band swish and swirl through varied cacophonic curtains – no problems encountered.

'Bury The Hatchet' is an initial beauty, one of those instant nut-grabbing noise-bursts that gain choice recognition and, as it turns out, fervid applause.  We trespass once more over verdant countrified vistas where cultured and pre-thought ideas are lain down and musically spiced up.   The thinking behind this track is tattooed with a fulfilling forgiveness and flecked over with a subtle honesty that, in my humble opinion, is an ingredient not to underestimate.  The guitars catch sunbeams, the skins palpitate with vigorous vivacity and the vocals are thermally soothing and offer a liquid lucidity of a truly rewarding standard.  Stunner is my verdict, dare you disagree and be labelled a tone-deaf fool – I think it best not to!  'Remind Me Of The Moon' softens the methodology, eases a love-soaked strawberry and lets carmine life-blood drip forth with Pollockonian carelessness whilst, at the same time and most paradoxically, exuding a delicate fine-spun care within the overall grasp.  The sway is rock-operatic in many ways, the oceanic swells capable of heaving hearts, the blend of all components complete enough to move one's world.   I am no soppy git, I like things rammed home in bare arsed terms with more clout but I am also no chump chop with iced veins - I duly tip the titfer in appreciation.

'Dead Revolution' exhibits the fascinating progression shown by this band so far and puts over another glistening example of power laden accuracy that chops away at your epidermal layers and reaches inside to destroy your nucleus of doubt.  The kiss of rebellion has been received, the band call to arms in their own polished style but do it with a conviction that matches anything more hollered and blatant.  Here the bass thrums with immovable prowess, the skins are knocked about as one would expect, the guitars are scurfed, scratched and groomed beneath the command of dictators in charge.  The vocals are urging, smooth and culminate with aplomb - I love it.  'Video' is a song of touching tones set upon a gracile dais of petal-light fragility that turns in a self-created waft of oh so tender oral warmth.  Regrets are suggested, movements of stance are subtle, soft tiptoes make headway, a certain hope-free liberation is achieved, all the while The SB Machine metamorphs into a stealthy sonic creature eyeing up its next victim and ready to pounce.   The muscularity is magnificent without being vulgar, the threat gentle but with great potency, the outcome is of a naturalised machine running at their own pace in their own furrow - it is wonderful to witness!  'Under Offer' is the penultimate piece, it comes on the auburn threads of twilight scenarios where we prepare to settle and contemplate that which has been and that which we hope will come.  Suddenly the solitude is banished and the night is upon us, whereupon a nocturnal energy kick is adopted and the strut is taken.   The colour change is stark, from gentle swirls of pastel procrastination to blatant black and white attacks of 'fuckin' do it' desire, I find myself mesmerised by the alteration of the acoustic intrusion and feel blessed to be aurally witnessing such elegance and erudite creation first hand - need I say more!

We finish with 'Wake The Maker', an execution that takes place without flaw, rocks its cock with unashamed abandon and works its way along the 5 minute 31 second running route with genuine joy and truly gratifying ease.  This one indulges, wallows in its own success and poses the question impossible.  In the great scheme everything is pointless, all the crap and crud that is kicked up counts for nothing so why not conduct oneself with ethics intact and a desire to do something decent - like playing damn good music for example.  As the song drifts on the final waves that lap around the feet hiss with foamed success and rather than textually trespass for the hell of it I will sign off satisfied and hopefully leave you intrigued.

The best SB release to date?  I think so!  The product of a band at the zenith of their powers?   Oh yes - it seems that way!   The Senton Bombs are one fuckin' A-Class outfit?  I fuckin' know so!

THE LEGENDARY TIGERMAN - MISFIT

A one man showcase of multi-dimensional plucking, fucking, banging and twanging all combined to create one long hotpot of aural inventiveness.  Old and new, macho bullshit and cock rock are thrown in, some will undoubtedly turn my guts, some may very well appeal - who knows?   The solo career began 18 years ago, I expect things to be progressive and of a standard that reflects the journey thus far - one thing though, if it appeals you will know about it, if any shit ensues you will be equally well informed - transparency and truth are the only weapons I have, let us go to war and play fair.

Engine switched on, clutch released, inner guts ready, 'Motorcycle Boy' hits the road, cruises through a chug of intrigue before lowering the gears and whispering through the wind without stress.   This free-wheel sub-infused silence holds potential and promise and when the repeat fusion of happening tonality and choral relish is blown free from the exhaust this well-oiled machine exposes it's complete arsenal of fascination.   A wonderfully concocted piece of rebellion with a cock-sure strut that really does the business.  The dismount is sanguine and we slip into the sexed up 'Fix Of Rock 'N' Roll' with blip. This is a grooming and assuming piece of predatory noise that in some parts oversteps the mark, in others hits the nail on the very throbbing head.   The movement is akin to a prowler on the hunt, the shadowy shadings are both grey and garish in a paradoxical sense thus keeping the listener very much in the hidden observant recesses.  From these sable vantage points we see a stealthy sonic beast seek and sensualise with each and every pore perspiring hot molten intent.   It is a very odd 'mood' piece but throughout it is more than apparent that each and every note is placed with a certain exactitude - please consider!

'The Saddest Girl On Earth' is an odd character with a semi-muffled magnetism that grooves from distant skylines of radio-waved tinniness.   The tale unwinds, is narrated between short episodes of musical motions that add the factor called contrast!  This is one of those moments I come across many times in my reviewing journey when real fault can't be found, an appreciation of the song can be had but the hands are held aloft and a statement of 'I don't like it' is had.  I hope you get the drift!   The same can be said of the chasing number, namely 'Red Sun', a whisper and wallow escapade with Sahara'n touches and thermally elevated tones done in the most subtle fashion.   Atmosphere is high, the radiance felt but again I feel as though I am trailing in the wake of the rhythm.  The chant summons conjures demons of fire that dance to the beat, I am happy to sit on the outside and watch others indulge.

'Sleeping Alone' thinks, tiptoes, keeps things stripped low with more adorned episodes thrown in to add a contrast factor.  The sidle from the strong to the subdued is sweetly done and the whole movement is composed with much care and rewarding effect.  The artist obviously has the ability to change tack when so desired, an option that could put all efforts in good stead…perhaps!  'Black Hole' is a more concentrated effort and one with a whole lot more strain in the brow.   A hard fought release seemingly from a constipated cauldron of desire.  Again we get a formula of the sparse to the suddenly saturated, I think the artiste has found his niche, at the moment I am happy to go along with it but my Fungal patience is an awkward facet and I am always on the hunt for curveballs, change and danger - for now though, my thumbs are hesitantly raised in appreciative acknowledgement.

A batch of 4 blasts are snatched at, 'Holy Muse' is the backstreet walker, shifting within the nebulous mists of disturbing alleyways where an unsettling accent is whispered.   An innocence is lost, a submission to a darker side is had and all the while the artiste seems to wallow in the situation but at the same time be invaded by doubt.   An odd one for sure, riddled with sleaze if you ask me!  'I Finally Belong To Someone' hesitantly enters, shakes off the recent troubles and finds its own feet with another colour contrasting trick that impishly jumps from the pastel box to the bucket of that which is garish.   The twist and turns, swells and sinkings are all indicative of the player’s methodology and here we get the same application and high standard production values - although I am now in the mood for a dramatic turn of events.  'Child Of Lust' is torn from the same material and brings a 'fuck you' rather than 'love you' slant to the tuneful table of which I am sat at the opposite side.  From a non-shaggers perspective I am out of sync here and abhor the meat on meat madness that pervades the social fuck up many try to justify with claims of 'liberation'.  Concentrating on musical matters after my tantrumised tangent I find things passing me by due to a lack of variation in each melodic gift.  Again mixed with ideal care, if this is your thing then you will be on a consistent high, if you are on the back foot a tumble may come anytime soon.  The last of the fleeting 4 is 'About Alice', a bubbling number that is the best of the quartet down to nothing more than the effervescent feeling and the strong desire to rise from the pit and feel the gush of lifeblood awaken a battered carcass.  Undercurrents of something exotic pervade, a bold extravagance is aching to fully manifest itself, this one grows in stature with a twist of the volume button and a determined repetition.

One song left and 4 bonus tracks, as a man of decency I will deal with the last one and leave the added extras for you to indulge in without opinion or sway.  'To All My (Few) Brothers' could be verbally vandalised as 'corn', it could be a closure that cops out and says thank you in the briefest way but it rounds matters off nicely, refuses to unnecessarily fuck about and signs off in sincere style.  As I say, there are 4 extras, it would be rude to do it all myself, I am a busy fucker and so I will sign off here.   The CD is a hit and miss adventure for me and in truth not one I am truly inspired by.  A chalk and cheese occurrence and one that happens quite often when one is ploughing through so much sonic shizzle.  Don't underestimate the quality of touch though, the application and the effort - just don't ask me to agree with all those that gush about this one that's all. 

PUNK 4 THE HOMELESS - COMPILATION VOL 2

The Punk 4 The Homeless team are an incessant force and do what I believe in most - push punk rock and other DIY sounds from the arse end up and do it with an undoubted and tireless passion whilst raising conkers for those in need.  They mix and match the sounds, they refuse to cater for the populist culture and they come up with many exciting discoveries along the way.  The people involved are decent, the ethos sound, all I need do now is listen in to this second collection of cacophonic corruptions and share my thoughts.

Track one and Terminal Rage shit spirited blood from a howling arse that rings true and takes no prisoners whatsoever!  'Class Crime' is what it is, a gutter-gobbed attack on those who burn bridges, take the piss and make sure dividing lines are etched deep into the soil and there to make one and all 'know their place'.  My advice, and the advice of the band, is to fuck em'.  This is a wonderfully screwed up episode of vomited irritation with blood pressure levels through the roof, the weapons of war firing hard and the essence of an all-out attack obbvious.   The opening machine assault sets the scene, the conflagration that follows is white hot and all consuming - fuckin' marvellous!  Sods Law have the unenviable position of chasing the masterclass of ire and do so in their own style with the plea of 'See The Reality'.  A ditty here that insists upon a copulation between the old and the new and is encouraged by a healthy punk strain shitted through a scurfed sonic mesh that splatterfucks in a controlled and measured way.  The march skips forth, there is a dirty edge to the honesty and without apology this one comes, goes and leaves one...pleased.   DSA next and what quality punk pirates they are.   Here they blister membranes from the off with an electric thermality that sparks, flashes and shocks the listener into a fuckin' bang on response.  The heads are down, the slipstream generated looped around with glee and the end accident offered is a lunatic-fringe blood glory to ruddy well bathe in.   Fast, to the point, screwed and with a perilous danger!  'Head on Collision' blows air through the exhaust, clears many tubes, turns the head sideways and makes one take note - cracking stuff.

From here we make sure the variation is kept up with 'Jesus Hooligan' offering a caveman assault of gratifying proportions and The Underdog kicking in with a blues laden horror glimpse of clowns on the prowl.  The first song, namely 'Ain't Got Time For This' is a ransack and rummage of the minds cesspool where disgruntlements build up and eventually poison the soul.  The release of vitriol is ruddy splendid and appeals to my cantankerous soul no end.  It is a rant, tub-thump assisted and full of spleen-venting mania - enjoy the spitback folks.  The second song is a cooled creeper that I am well familiar with.   The shadings are subtle, the narration sweetly done, the insane suggestion shaking the chassis of stability.  I am fond of this creator, this is a necessary inclusion, the airwaves are bending many ways - embrace the full package and watch out for the ones with the painted faces.

The Rioters stagger in like-uncertain cripples on acid and have me worried.  Eventually the song that is 'Cocktails' finds its style and comes forth on tones that remind me of a blend of something sub-anarchistic, something irritated and something very direct.   The flow is found, there is very little deviation from the path of dogmatic resistance and as a result they cough up a globule of barbed affect that is tempered by care in the conviction.  Again, a fitting place for this niggler is nicely found and the simmering thermality is certainly not lost on me.   Healer Of Bastards' hammer in next and do what they do in no uncertain terms.  'Forgotten' is typical razor-edged fodder, squeezed forth through a sphincter of tightened affect and destined to drill into your conscience without much resistance.  The busy, hustle and bustle style is what the band do and if, at any stage throughout this CD, you were thinking of nodding of, you will certainly be roused by this one.   All action, balls bared and with an ethos!

Next and that delightful impish 2-piece known as The Webb.  A veritable blessing to any gig this double act are wired up and plugged in and ply their gothic-tinted trade with 'Born Fed', an automated echo chamber of ghostly intent that coldly states a situation that sees horror incarnate invade the religious routine the masses are beaten with.   The rod of correction is rhythmically brandished, it pulsates exposed areas and sends the ultimate message to all and sundry 'think for yourselves'.  Lovely!  The politically prickled pirate that is Joe Solo enters the eclectic playground next and rolls his marbles of rhythm with significant pertinent accuracy, hoping all the while to derail a few formulated ideals and get people reconsidering.  This guy is a 100% doofer, he is off his arse and motivating - I love that.   This tickle reinforces fading spirits, calls for a renewal of strength and is dealt with by some very passionate and approachable oral tones.  'Now's The Time To Rise' is a very pertinent piece that calls for animation rather than apathy.  The harmonica adds extra emotion, the composite is duly complete.  Paul Carbuncle follows and equals the essence with his own special brand of one man wanking.  'Rivers Of Blood' is sweetly executed and played with clarity and sharp insight whilst all the while getting a message across that is crucial and against the media swill that swings thinking too far to the side of hate.   The tonal touches are dark, the string attacks frustrated, the verbal delivery clear in all ways.  The man at the helm is another thinking plucker coming up and facing facts in a very listenable and tangible way - good on these two instrumentalists for adding extra reality to the dish of sonic spice.

Into the home stretch, Freedom Faction are a band I have done a bit with in the past, a band who have gone through many guises (some good, some not so good) and a band who now re-enter my cerebral airspace with a molesting mammoth that tramples on all resistance and heaves over the aural membranes and sets them all a quiver.  This is a sinewy episode of forceful muscularity, perspiring with every bend of the wire, seething with every slap of the skin, with every roar from the throat this one is designed to hit home.  The bass riff is strong, it lights a touch paper, the rest jump forth into the conflagration - excellent!  White Skull Death Snakes Of Death come, riff it up like rabid vultures looking to pounce and feed upon your innocence.  The hybridised metal/punk/mayhem is spat with wild passion and opposing force.   The mania is washed away by a stagger, the head is confounded, there are no rules followed and this curveball is received well by yours truly.   The band dabble on the edge of religious insanity, they stay on the right side of decency (just), what they bring to the cock-eyed table of malcontented melody is very obscure and very testing, they do what they do with vigour and unpredictability - the final showdown is just how they roll - nice!   Radioactive Rats bite through the cables of your conscience and electrify your nerve endings with a direct amplification of rustbucket punkery, slammed home with an authoritative application that is driven into your awaiting carcass like a double-domed dick from the depths of Satan's underpants.   Hot-pronged, throbbing and with snapping jaws this venomous screwed up mess is there for those who like things hard and with spite - don't say I didn't warn ya.  The whole collection closes with South Holland Indecency Team and 'Boys From The Dwarf'.   This last throwdown splashes in with a CID Subsy intro before cutting to core of matters and slamming and slapping onward with unstoppable aggression that is well-timed and all compressed down into one explosive fist fuck.  It reaches right up into your undercarriage and rips out one mighty fistful of resisting shit, you may be left battered, bruised and bloodied but you will be fuckin' well grateful.

So the second volume comes, does its stuff and gathers together a fine mix of music that is there to embrace and encourage.  Some compilations are too long, this one isn't. Some compilations fail to offer variety, not so here! Some compilations miss the point, I think matters have been bang on the mark.  Some compilation CD's are a joy to review and some answers are fuckin' obvious!  I hear Volume 3 is being worked upon - cripes!

HUNG LIKE HANRATTY - WHAT YOU SEE IS WHAT YOU GET

Hung Like Hanratty have fulfilled their early promise and are now bringing a smile to many a spiky tops heads whilst playing their own brand of music that has more substance than duly given credit for.   The team may be mentally disturbed, may have a need to put a finger in the punk rock plug socket and are always destined to touch the odd nerve or two but they deal with issues we can all relate to, never beat around the bush and drive forth their songs with a glint in the eye, a tongue in the cheek and much punked spirit.  The scene is divided many ways, along the way it has lost much of its backbone but sometimes it is good to have the odd dabble away from the bollocks and indulge in some idiocy.   I pick and choose, Hung Like Hanratty are always worthy of my time simply because they make me smile and have proven to be darn nice chaps always willing to support - that says more than the music to me which, in the big scheme of things, is a mere aside.

The first ditty to tickle the titty comes under the name of 'Clampit Town', an effort that scoots in, takes the bull by the horns and shafts out a song of easy 'pick up and play' intention whilst sticking the boot in the guts of those square-headed, boss-eyed throwbacks who disgrace the council estates streets and duly breed like pox infected rabbits.  The intro is snazzy and happening, the verses are stated but sweetly embellished by the lunatic 'ooh ooh's' and the chorus is simple, snatching and produced with good bollocks exposed.   This is HLH all over, now with extra trimmings that shows a band on the upward curve - nice.  'Lawyers For You' continues the quality with a light crisp string stroke and some advisory words that soon get all heated and dragged into a musical melee that is brisk, blatant and wonderfully vulgar.   The accidents at work wankers who swoop down on the unfortunate and use their pain to fill their pockets are given a hoof in the conkers here with an episode of nut job nonsense that has a quite pertinent point.   Again the blend is magical, the contribution from all players exposed and without flaw and the basic verbals are what make this fodder to throw down and forget about certain idiocy that mars the scene.  The foreskin may be caught in the zipper, the shit may be filling your underwear but as long as you can ping and pogo to this you are doing alright - think on.

'Disabled Parking' is once more politically on the ball and spotlights the snivelling shits who not only take up space but waste it as well with their fuckin' annoying existence.  The song goes straight for the jugular, the 'la, la' inclusion cools the ill temper and adds a lilt to latch onto.   The message is rammed up the listener’s shitter with brutal force (ooh nice) and as we contemplate and crap out our considerations we find ourselves squatting on a throne were disagreement is not an option.   The unaffected turds of straight talk curl down the u-bend of realisation with fluidity and as the chain is pulled the musical accompaniment to the flush is well received.  I stand up, wipe the chuff and reckon the job is a good un'.  My pants however are whipped up with haste as the next song brings visions of dabbled duffle-bags and rogered rings with 'Harvey Weinstein' coming forth on a high blend of classy production and the usual blatant sniping.   The rapist under the spotlight gets a nice exposure via a relaxed rhythm and a quality composite of delightful idiocy.   The shit-stained digit doesn't forget the groomed, those who are now where they want to be and decide to turn the tables on the perverted prodder.  The industry is rank on all fronts, this fine song will help ease your disgust.  'Stop Playing With Yourself' is a pinnacle, a song that razors inward, is rudely interrupted by a self-induced orgasm that each and every time sends a titter forth (I think knowing the emanation is emitted by a man unhinged tickles me most).  The musical application is non-stop, the message blunt, the bell and the balls squeezed like fuck and forced to squirt a sonic excellence that is straight into the cerebral shitter and out the other end (cor).  The pulsations, the anger, the direct fuzzery all combine to blow one's bollocks off and take some relief from the more political side of punk.   Quite ruddy brilliant if you ask me and just what the Doctor of Deviant Distraction ordered.  The final flourish of fast-track verbals and support serenades is sublime and shows a band advanced.

'Shut My Gate' is another fine example of taking a simple irk and using it to produce effective, therapeutic noise.  The Damned-esque repeat rattle start takes no prisoners and rather than have a stab in the back it is the thing on the hinge that matters most here.   There is no fuckin' about, the slip between sensations is done with precision, the musicians are allowed expression and a certain liberation and, as a result, we are getting the best music possible from a bunch of glorious goons.  'Neighbourhood Watch' casts underhand aspersions, spies the spy and exposes them for the public peeping toms that they are.   The Percy Sugdens of the modern day are on the prowl, watching, listening and...reporting.   This song rolls back and forth and has a lick that is incessant, simple and destined to get the job done without fuss.  'Evil Clown' takes a theme well whipped, tumbles in on slapstick somersault strings, nails the first verse and then drops into a well-executed bout of cornball catchiness the pisspots and pogoers will fuckin' adore.  The US President takes a whipping in this twist of tomfoolery and although the song lacks depth and profound political awareness it talks to the man in the street and carries on in the HLH way.  Again all is clear, the main backbone of composition is without intricacy, the song does what it needs to.

A creeper next, a groovy cool cat with untrustable threat, 'Outer Body Experience' is a song that relays the switch off accents of trying to do a bit of quiet shopping before being rudely interrupted by a pesky salesman who is desperate to make his deal and secure that oh so important commission.  The pressure is felt, the predator stalking the prey is there for all to witness, the final explosion is more than understandable.   This is not my favourite song, it lacks a zest and the usual tickling punch but it adds an angle so all isn't lost.  'Keep Your Cat Off My Garden' is another matter though.  This is a cracker, an anti-moggy raving that goes from the settled to the simmering to the full on enraged.  All the while the band provide a cohesion between emotions, adorn with fine tuneful tomfoolery and once more throw in the obvious snag that will have the crowds transfixed.  I am not a cat lover, these feline crapping machines and bird murderers get on my tits and there is a satisfaction at the end of the tale to titivate those who prefer things wild rather than so-called domesticated - I must get myself a Land Rover!

Cripes, 4 to go, this has been a pleasure, akin to the night I spent with Bella Emberg and that free-butter supply - ooh heck!  'Taxi Driver' is a big unadulterated V-sign followed by a pertinent question mark that asks why oh why is the law of the road so skewed.   The commercial devils who flout common sense and courtesy and sit within their tin cans are, in truth, arrogant arseholes and vulgar money making morons that, as per, cause the few decent ones to get tarred with the same shit-laden brush.  The song exposes, expresses and illuminates, it is a liquid lilt that smoothly does its thing and leaves us gratified.  Another thorn in the arse well plucked methinks, Dr Hanratty always have the cure.   'Ten Bob Millionaire' is a vicious fucker with a loud and proud riff that moves on with orthodox punkiness and is zested up with a first verse pepped and poked with great joy de vivre and a breeze-blown affect I am quite happy to get wafted by.  What a free-flying song this is, one to smile with whilst assassinating the dubious characters of those in a situation of seeming power.  They are all tat and tossery with no substance, it is a flimsy cover that hides real truth and a lack of any internal strength - to all who defy, let us play this and thank fuck we are still holding on to who we are.  'Mr Boring' is the penultimate song and is, I have to say, one of my favourites.  The key here is a scenario we all know and how the portrait of the piece is played out with language unaffected and as real as you could wish for.  A touch of poignancy invades for the insipid character under the spotlight as well as a few regrets at having missed the chance to kick such a fucker up the arse and well and truly wake them up.  We all have known, or indeed know, a 'Mr Boring', one of those draining straining automatons who lack a common touch and leave one utterly void of hope.   They come, they spout their tiresome swill, and then they move on to the next victim.  They may have great parsnips, they may have a few troubles with the old prostrate but man sometimes enough is enough.   With sadness and a smile I indulge in this beauty over and over - what a penultimate piece to savour.

We close with the statement intended 'What You See Is What You Get' nails it and slams the lid on a quite fine CD.   I need not over-indulge here, I need not spunk more textual praise for the sake of gratifying my gushing gonads - this is a solid closure that shows there will be no change in approach and ethos, although the upswing in musical nouse is obvious.  The following fart kind of emphasises all that has gone too, albeit in an idiotic and pointless way which again is exact and obvious.  The band have found a crest here, ridden it well and helped us climb aloft to enjoy the surge - long may it continue, long may Hung Like Hanratty annoy, titivate, piss on the PC nonsense and keep people smiling.  Sometimes, even this awkward and cantankerous bastard needs something to amuse himself - remember masturbation and shoplifting do have their limitations folks!

BLEED - BOMBS AWAY EP

I have a lot of time for the Bleed mob.   They are fine upstanding lads, crack on with what they do and do it on their own terms and without apology.  The sound is hard-hitting and designed for short sharp bursts rather than longer escapades.   This is an EP, it is what the band should be doing more of - come, tear a new arse, piss off.   I plug in and play, these are my thoughts on the latest spillage.

'Bombs Away' indeed, and the first tracks gets on the Bleeding bike of forthright fuckery and switches through the gears before free-wheeling along a very smooth road of an incessant slanting that the band breeze down whilst spouting their highly efficient vitriol.   Here the guitars move with greased unity and are accentuated by some manipulations done with exactitude and an instinctive generosity.   The band, when flowing like this, are in a mode not to be messed with and keep their crusts down and are like pigs in utter sonic shit.  This is a very capable and effective bout of bollock-stamping noise and I move on to track two happy to be back in the 'Bleed'ing mire.  'Nobody's Fool's is testament to the bands stubborn streak, their refusal not to get side-tracked by much in-scene bullshit and to keep playing what they like whenever they get the chance.   Despite being overlooked in many quarters let me tell you the band always give 100%, are easy guys to work with and come, go and always deliver the goods.  This second snippet is spruced up with a good underscore of bass and sticks that combine to provide an essential heartbeat to a noise that borders on many sub-genres but, all the while, maintains its own identity.  Pick up a CD and play and one knows that the speakers Bleed.  This is another direct, no bullshit piece driven on spirit and stubborn bastard attitude that, in truth, you just gotta admire.  Full to the brim, unapologetic and without flaw - wham.

This three track tickle closes with the anti-political swing of 'Duped'.   This heavy booted stomper has a slightly more considered and positioned lick and comes forth with a message to all those swayed by the sublime and sickening propaganda machine that has them by the short and curlies without them even knowing it.   Yes, fuck left, fuck right, fuck the middle ground, fuck them all - walk tall, walk with an attitude of trying one's best and avoid sticking with the 'in' crowd.   The band slap this one forth and you can hear the belief in the words unlike many puppets who preach and yet off stage live lives of idleness and self-contented security.   For me this completes a sound 3 way walloping, that is all I can ask and the production, play and passion are all spot on the mark.

In the past, bleed have diluted their effect by releasing CD's that overdo the forceful feeling and so leave one exhausted.  Here they do it perfectly, a short and active snippet designed to cause pain but leave you gagging for one more kick.  It is the way forward for this lot and a few split CD's with bands of a gentler persuasion would be an even better way to progress methinks.   I still think they should delve into other genres more often than not but hey, I ain't complaining about this one - kaboom, there go ya genitals!

HEALER OF BASTARDS - JUSTICE

Feet-dragging fuckery is not what I like but that is the case when it comes to my review of this CD.  I have left it, lingered and been distracted and am, if the truth be known, way behind schedule - I best fuckin' crack on.  The band come from Brumland, they play hardcore music, the players are well-versed in what they do - get the picture, onwards I go.

'No One Can Breathe' is aware of the abuse and the neglect we have pissed forth and therefore brought our planet to its knees with toxicity levels high and many natural glories all struggling against the filth.  The song blows in with pace, verbally nails matters and I suppose, has the sickened satisfaction that the outcome will never change - human nature will always dictate.  This tragedy brings about an irritated response, the band pour forth with a foaming accent and make sure that your attention is initially grabbed (along with your nuts ya bastards).  Not a bad opener, onwards into the flesh of the fuckery we go!  'They're Watching Out For You' is a mean mover, loaded with pace, like a cheesewire cutting to the core and ramming home a message that regards the red-coated cunts who kill for sport and tally-ho with tosspot ignorance.  The sonic sabs at the helm here deal with matters with a harsh driving sound that at first doesn't hit the hot spot (ooh Michael Barrymore I am sorry) but just fuzzes out and leaves no lasting memory.  Several re-spins, a follow of the lyrics and pick up on the nazziness and guitar twinges and Bob is your fuckin' Uncle.  The essence, the urgency, the controlled aggression - lovely!

'Who's To Blame' fucks about, clatters batters before picking up the baton and hammering forth on hot roasted acoustics that regard the responsibility of the environmental destruction going on here, there and every fuckin' where.  The disgruntlement with corruption comes across in a galloping song that oozes energy and at times, untamed flurries that take a little adapting to.  The bass is an effective element and trembles with vigour and sets a tempo that all components can bounce off.  The ferocity is consistent, the melodic charms for a certain niche market - the end roar seals the deal.  'Forgotten' warms itself on coals of questioning concern before the band roll in with fervour.  The drums plaster themselves over the walls of the orchestration, the strings skid and shuffle with urgency and the occasional alteration of drive all shows a band with much to get off their chest with seemingly a limited time within which to do it.  The band, at times, overdo matters and add too many spices to one mix, as is the case here.  Individually matters work, as an end construct things are too patchwork to convince - I move on.

A snatch of 4, 'Excuse To Kill' drives as per and offers little in the way of alternative arrangements although there is a greater recklessness within the weaving and it repeatedly rams home its point with brutal honesty and a full on belief.  The awkwardness of this one creates the appeal, I think it has something to do with me being a cunt!  'What Is This Place (Not On Your Own)' is perhaps the best song released by this band so far and has many textures to uncover and get ones grip upon.  There are gear shifts, a sing-a-long hook to grab the most indifferent and a vital zest within the workings of the effort to have me utterly convinced - I really hope I am not on my own!  'Wage Slaves' bites hard on the bone of contention that exposes the need to be tied down for the curse of the coin.  Luckily I escaped that trap for 17 years and now do my bit in fair style and at a place that does something positive.  Many are against the grindstone with no escape, this is for them, the ones who are down and fucked off.  The escapade has the usual qualities and the incessant roaring the band are very much reliant on - the screamoid moments thrill, the guitars sound too similar to what has been, a different tonality and greater rust would have been a nice touch here.  'No Borders, No Boundaries' is a touchy subject and is what it says on the tin.  I am a great believer in freedom but also realise the human race is laden with piss-takers and users and abusers, give em' enough rope and the fuckers will hang themselves and anyone else nearby.  It is a quandary, one that the HOB lads seem to have decided upon and do so with great force.  They holler, rattle home the point and still leave me unconvinced.  Unconvinced by the subject matter, not the noise that is! 

'Half Price Humanity' is a good number, alive with animated musicianship and bursting at the seams with kickback disgruntlement that spills over into the players output.   The bass is thriving, a real life-giving component to a product of high rhythm and fluent hardcore music making.   The strings almost ad lib and the drums are as natural and as off the cuff as you could wish for.   Austerity is questioned, the band are in their element and this moment, if anything, captures all the finer points of a good value crew.  Yes, I am into this one and appreciate the talent exhibited.  'Stupid Homophobe' is troubled at the universal ignorance, twisted by an intolerance based on insecurity.  The roaring crash that hits home is spasmed, wanked with ardour and highly vicious.   The resistance to those with prejudice is nailed and the electro-fuckery and hectic mayhem brandished by players immersed is pertinent, at times overwhelming, but totally justified.  'Pit Bullshit' deals with the dogs of ill-fated destiny because the human race has bred these freaks and many now use them as a status symbol.   For me the solution is easy - breed out the breeds and stop making dogs something they are not - a fuckin' ornamentation, a fighting penis extension or a proof of your machismo nonsense.  Too many are distorted and designed and that, in itself, shows another joked aspect to the human selfishness.   The song deals with the point, delivers in double quick time but doesn't bite as hard as it could do.  Several plays reveal the opening gambit to be of the greatest strength and the foaming passion still relevant.

2 left, a change in tack is needed, we get 'They Are Drones' and 'Bastard Species', the first of these takes its time and builds upward to the screamfest.  The resultant tumult is fodder for the initiated and will please them no end but will win no new converts.  'Bastard Species' is a great closure and sums up the bands stance and mental state to a tee.   Both tracks sear, but it is the closing burst that wins greatest favour with the chorus showing where the band thrive and how they can combine liquid moves with loud mouth ravings.  Both tracks get their points across though, slam in the final nails and leave us...well, that would be telling…and so I will!

My overall opinion of this CD is mixed.  The band do what they do mighty well in the 'live' pit but here they fall into a trap of repetition and over-indulgence of the same methodology.   As a result the songs that startle are diluted somewhat and focus is lost at times and certain songs get less credit.  The band have a vast wealth of talent and things to say - I think all they need do now is vary the violence and punch from assorted angles.  This still has a few good moments to ponder though but, as the headmaster always said to this punk pig - 'one can do better'.