One of the best bands I have seen in quite a while, Centurion Sect came out of the blue by the usual odd happenings and jumped on a Fungal show that was almost last minute - well thereabouts.  The band were added to a line-up and, if truth be told (which it always should be), they nailed it.  The band come from the fine seaside town of Whitstable in Kent, a place where that fine actor Peter Cushing resided for many a year.  The bands output is a collection of oddments and observations nicely delivered via a tongue-in-cheek but pertinent style.  They have a vibe going on that one would have found more readily in the mid-to late 70's methinks, here is what it sounds like in the modern day.

'Novichok' is the first song, a perky prickle up the arse end of eavesdropper, a song bouncing along on fine alternative tones and lyrics of nonsensical essence.  The nerve agent in the title is altered to take on the form of killer confectionary and will no doubt appeal to those with an eating habit or who are turning the scales quicker than Buster Bloodvessel on a burger bender.  A healthy slab of idiocy this with an earthy feel to the radiated rhythm.  The curious vibes satisfies, the jumping bean style gets one in line, I am happy enough with this, I move on with the conk of curiosity trembling.  'I Am A Drone' is wishful thinking spunked forth with a repeat-beat relish that sees a deviant mind exposed.  It is a mere confessional, an admittance of a mind pondering the impossible.  When we were kids we wanted to be invisible men, now it is all 'techno tooting' that has taken over - ooh these advanced perverts.    This is a crisply strung song that is like a pair of Jimmy Saville’s Quick Release Tracksuit Bottoms - easy to get into.  Next, and barging its way in is the 'Crazy Fat Kid', a grand entrance it makes too.  A chomping song in many ways, picking up a thread I thought was left well behind in those stressed filled school days that usually involved a bully, a chunky chap and much name calling.  The vibe is garaged, fully weighted with a rehearsal rawness that escapes beneath the crack under the door and rises to assault our lugs in a bold and brash attitude.  Elements of surfed guitar spill in, a repetition will have a few lesser loons swinging - I think it does what it sets out to do.

'I Love The DWP' continues matters, flies in the face of the usual procedure and twists on its head the expectations you may have cultivated.  The band are soaked through with sarcasm, sweating with ironic idiocy and come across the airwaves with a construction that tickles pimples that are usually left neglected.  Despite the angularity of the output the band keep things sharp-suited, well booted and thrusting with an admirable tightness - not a bad do at all.  'Big Red Button' taps in and moves with snazzy vibrancy.  The vocals are momentarily left to sexually suggest that there is a device that is there to tempt but is better left alone.  The button is portrayed as a phallus, is dangled before our attentive neurones in order to expand a few blood vessels and get something of a reaction back.  I think the reaction will be one borne for hearts soaked through with ale and ones looking to have a good old sing-a-long - and why the hell not!

'Punk On A Mobility Scooter' is stutter chug nonsense highlighting that age doesn't matter and a wrinkled old bat on a scooter can still tear it up and keep the punk ethos alive (barely) and kicking (with the odd arthritic twinge).  You can't help but titter at the visions this ditty brings to the forefront of the mind and with a scuzzy, fuzzy musical escort to the wordery and the usual stated not sedated vocal style I reckon this is one of those songs that will get the 'live' crowd cooing.  'Pig Head' screeches in like a freshly bummed porker.  The crawl that comes is suffering, highly troubled and perversely tribal.  Vegetarians and voters of that tory fucker with a penchant for all things sporting the crackling factor will hate this one but those with a sense of mischief, an ear for the angled and with a gut aching for their next 'baconised' fix will no doubt love it.  Despite its abrasive strains and spirit it is easily joined in with and 'oinks' with impish intent.  'She Works In The Chippy' has a fresh and fruity start, almost akin to an old rock and roll record many of us jived around to in those pre-punk days - oh aye man, jitterbugging and jacking off - what a combo!  Anyway, this perky little treat of sound melds together the bubbling chip fat of sound with a gravy of idiocy that sees a man in love with a donator of the blessed deep fried potatoes become in  danger of getting his todger fat splattered.  No great shakes of the salt cellar of sound come, the vocal vinegar sprinkled is safe enough and the final wrapping contributes to a serving that retains its flavour - not bad but a bit more frivolous fish wouldn't have gone amiss (oooh I sound almost like Mickey there, the sex-addled sod).

A song aching to be joined in with is 'Tourette's', an obvious attempt at clearing the chest of idiot foul-mouthed necessity but here done with a skid-string jazzism and an angularised jizzism that sprays its maniacal crudity every which way it can whilst finding room for some biscuits on the tits.  It is an irresponsible tune made by minds with too much time to deviate and hands with too much time to musically masturbate.  The end result - is a grinning Fungalpunk, a grin borne of mischief and appreciation of a good piss patch of sound.  The follow up to this nonsensical number is 'Hen-Night', a crooked and crippled number that limps along like a one-legged whore with buttock cramps.  It jerks, judders and slips and slides through the mess pondered as visions of slags, old bags and sex-starved hags all fall arse over sagging tit before one's tender mind.  I am not overly keen on this one, too much of the same thing, a lack of flow and obviously crude - plus my idea of the goings on has always left me somewhat depressed.  'Road Kill' is a nasty piece of work and uses an abhorrence as a way of attaining a certain erection of evil, nay a state of appalling arousal only the truly perverse will enjoy.  The songs runs, rapes and runs around many thoroughfares of mental ill health before having one last spurt down the final highway of corruption - I ask you honestly, is this where you get off?

'Nazi Disco' leads us by the trembling hand into the upsetting final stretch, a clutter-fucket, hate-bucket number fizzing over with nerved agitation whilst the right winged bastards get off on Bisto bombers and blow their already damaged minds - or something like that!  This is a tetchy tune, built on un-trustable instability but something within the manky weavings hits home and pleasures my dubious side.  Do you know what - I am giving this a thumbs up - a clanking troubler and delivered with devilment - nowt like it for keeping one on the toes.   'Cuntsters' could be about any bunch of nauseates but this one goes for the jugular of the germs in power who send out their infecting spores and make this land a stinking shitheap in which we are destined to choke and fail.  These 'Munsters' from Hell are given a roasting via a tune most appropriate and one that adds a light-hearted counterpunch to the oral viciousness.  The vocal nastiness is fully justified though and the list of corrupt and egotistical power-mongers deserve to have the balance addressed and their names dragged through the sonic slutch. A good air-clearing fiasco this - nowt like a bit of open air laundry - suck on it!  We finish with ''Revenge Porn Helpline', a slow and sultry start welcomes us and gives us a slight insight into the state of things in today's mucky world.  Revenge Porn is out there, it is the work of the diseased, the desperate and the dick-addled deviants (both sexes by the way) who need to get a little respect and morality in their lives.  This is a shifty little shitter of a song and makes ones skin crawl whilst making its seedy point with a caress, a kiss and a...penetration.  Nasty man, nasty!

I was stupid enough to dabble here, I have paid the price and had my moral fibre molested.  There is one question that, when answered, may sum up about how I feel about what has transpired thus far - 'would I book the band again?'   The answer is honest, perhaps embarrassing, maybe a reflection on my cerebral state - it goes like this - 'yes' - thank you!



Drifty and dreamy, loosened and languid hippified strollings taken beneath summery sonic skies were swallows soar and swifts swoop in slo-motion uniformity to the flow of the music exposed.  These LA based minstrels present before us a retro-kissed sampling of sonic persuasion that deals with many themes whilst all the while striving to turn things to greater positivity and keep the uplifts warm and secure.  The band use techniques that many of us will be familiar with but they bring a certain cleansed and charming product laden with easily digestible songs that I find quite encompassing.  From one CD that sizzles, to one that soothes, from one that bubbles blood, to one that cools the stress, from one that forces one to smile, to one that causes one to snarl - it is a merry journey for the reviewer and here I take a pathway that leads to...ah yes, to where I wonder.

The beginning is entitled 'To Kick In A Lover's Door', not what you would expect but the crisp and slightly tinned strokes of the strings soon banish any divergent thoughts and we head forward into a well-calculated and prudent construction that has a paradoxical suggestion of that which is frugal and that which is acoustically affluent.  The oral offerings above the languid but moving music are lucid and well-lilted with a feathered anguish lightly breezed throughout via a hesitancy of action that is the name of the troubled game.  The song feels complete and is delivered with subtle authority - I move one...hopeful.  'I Wanna Say To You' feels, to me at least, like a copulation between things borne from an Oasis laden with roaming Beatle-fied under-rhythms.  The first tonal suggestion turns me off, the second forces me to stick with it and as I dabble deeper I find the dreamy dropped-out state, the crystallised guitar flicks and the rustling skins all contributing to a sub-weight that persuades favour.  I ponder some more, consider the slow whirlpool that tries its best to hypnotise and recognise something 'Byrd'-esque which also appeals.  I walk away with a 60/40 favour - I may be underestimating matters.  

'A Little Glimpse Of Death' is a marvellous little snippet of moribund melody that floats in on a cushioned substrate of searching sound enhanced by flickering guitar motes from realms of suggestive brilliance.  The oral gift is fragile but radiates a certain inner firmness that carries us along in an almost funereal style that is kissed with lunar hope.  The song culminates in a beautiful repetition of the title, a quite convincing moment to be sure and a combination of that most feared and that most welcome - cute!  'Shadow Of A Girl' is slow and deliberate in its stride and in no rush to get from A to B.  The slow heat haze that rises around the pondering framework of the song is introspective, poetical and melancholic and spends thoughtful time on love lost, times fading and a relationship now turned frosty.  The wire caresses, the skin strokes, the vocal blessings are all submissive to the over-riding emotions thus creating a final melting pot of what could have been rather than what was - and vice versa - lovely!

'Flowers In The Spring' brings instantly reclined invitations before even a note is borne.  The song smacks of many a folked and long-mopped headed expulsion that rose on acidised thinking and over-observed instances.  The oral inclusions and musical escort stride as one but remain clearly separate components thus holding crystal clarity and a well-showered freshness.  I like this one, a firm and pollen graced flutter from a summertime meadow where everything is done with languidness and a touch of sun-dried lugubriousness.  'Pages Of Your Journal' pursues the previous charmer but comes with too many country-fied aromas and with too much deliberation in the sonic step.  Again, another laxed and low blazed affair, this time with the simmer giving off too few essences to attract my major attention.  The sluggish style emits a torpidness of tune that does little to provoke Fungalised interest - I skip on, I consider this one a let-down. Thankfully 'When I First Saw You' picks matters up, goes back to the more unequivocal optimistic strains discovered in earlier donations.  Again the strings are blessed from up on high, the drums are enthused and as we waltz along with the serenade all areas stay spacious and readily animated.  The motes of the melody swirl to create a certain subdued kaleidoscopic affect that is far from offensive.  The added harmonica increases the folk appeal and adds deeper texture - a very easy listening experience, of that I am sure.

'She's Sleeping Now' is a touching moment of considered prose that moves in wafted waves of lullaby lilts that massage the aural membranes and persuade appreciation.  The opening simplistic fascinations draw one in with irresistible allurement.  The acoustic embrace offered becomes a comforting hug, the hug exudes strength, the strength comes in many forms, it more than suggests a band on their game.  My spiked angles should be blunted by this noise, eclecticism however wins the day.  'Too Lost In Love' is a minor exhibition of acoustic art executed with minimalistic undercoats before being overlain with the most considered strokes that maintain the stripped down affect whilst adding enough tonal texture to grant aesthetical pleasure.  The turn of the song is borne from blinded hearts where adoration drowns out distractions and an all-absorbing sensation is perfectly captured - winner!    'Wade In The Water' is a tentative paddle into pseudo-religious rivers of questioning accents that turn tables and put certain routines on their head.  The song is orchestrated and floats without a care, it seems to have no idea where the end situation will be, and the fact that no toss is given perhaps adds to a tune that is best used as a switch off moment.  'She Glows' is a brief musical oddment that whines, repeats and fades out - I can't see the point myself, maybe I am missing the obvious!  We finish matters with 'All The Things That Happen To Me', a song that stays within the set boundaries, lethargically advances with little fuss and perhaps, in many ways, falls into the shadows of its many fine predecessors.  I find little to say at this late juncture - no outrageous 'Hallelujahs’' no roaring claims of 'fuckin' shit' - just a flow going sensation that sees the CD fall into the final silence.

What a sweet surprise this has been and a pleasant interlude to the more riotous rackets I surround myself with.  The tones are welcome, the thread of the melody a joy to follow and as I unwind and indulge I would suggest that you do the same.  It isn't punk, it isn't head melting noise - it is what it is and that, now and again, is all I ask for.



The Apocalypse Baby's can't get gigs.  The scene has left them stranded and they are struggling like fuck to make any headway.  Ok so several members are perverts, one has a murder charge hanging over him and 2 of them once held a 'Bring Your Own Rubber Benny Hill' party that went tits up and resulted in 4 people burnt to death and one in need of a penis transplant.  For the scene to hold the players to ransom for these mild offenses is insane and so, like the supporter of the deviant that I am, I gave them a recent gig, had my socks blown off and was sent home tingling (the tingling had nothing to do with the music but further details may get the band in deeper hot water). They are playing another gig for me next year, have given me a CD to molest and maul and, after much fiddling I have come up with the following verdict - 'Kenny Ball had wonderful plums'.  Beside this verdict I have another, it concerns the CD - here we go!

'Fast And Loud' is not a description of Hilda Baker's amphetamine based love life but the title of the first track.  The band bounce straight in, zip along with a mix of that which is slopped with attitude and that which is popped with subtlety.  The band are fired up, this one needs your 'nob twiddling' assistance, especially in the area marked 'volume'.  The breeze given off is tidy although nothing new under the shit-stained sun is had.  I have stripped to the waist and soak up the rays anyway, there is warmth, my carcass goes pinky, perhaps something a little more perky would have been welcome but man, the more I listen the more I convince myself I may be wrong in my initial judgement - what a twat!  'Politically Incorrect' is a title that puts an arse on the line and sticks two fingers up the rear of the PC fuzz and their fuckwit thinking.  I am doing an anti-PC gig soon, I shall be blacking up, bumming an amputee, knocking seven bells out of a midget and holding a 'wank a womble' contest whilst throwing darts at Muslims and farting in the mouths of pregnant Jewesses.  I reckon the gig may get pulled.  I care about free-speech, I care about decency though - here lines get blurred and people turn freedom into shit.  The AB boys are disgusted with the state of play and the holier than thou Gods of morality - they fizz out a tune that begins in 'Carry On' style, sharpens its fangs as the weavings progress and hit home with a good melodic burst  of energy.  It goes without saying the delivery is tighter that a gnats chuff, or should that be tighter than a Jew with budgeting issues - ooh me wrists! 

A quick gallop through the next 3 with 'Drop The Bomb' a spit back against the whole shebang and highlighting how too many are self-absorbed, not giving a fuck and letting their world around them turn to utter shit.  The 'me, me, me' attitude has helped the spiral continue downward and what we see here is a pop song soured with disgust and thrown out with a wonderful double-edged flavour.  This vein continues somewhat into the chasing cutlet known as 'Up Against The Wall'.  Here we see the privileged get targeted and their shallow, easy words examined and exposed for the flimsy tick-box fuckery that they are.  This effort is typical smooth and liquid AB fodder, dealt with melody, slight abrasiveness and simple sing-a-long methodology.  The band get their point across, do so with articulate punky sweetness and this second lollipop of sound is surely worth a lick or too and the bitterness enjoyed - for fuck sake, there ain't nowt wrong with a bit of anger folks!  The last of the flitting 3 is my favourite, namely 'Poverty Line'.  This is a subtle beauty that pings along on a great riff and roll routine and has a bare basic chorus that one can holler out to whilst still pinging and holding on to one's precious beer.  The imbalance in society, this is a nice mix and match of emotion to emphasise that point.  The band romp through this one with energy, the bollocks of the DIY dog well vibrated and, may it be said, aroused?

'We Don't Speak To Them' concerns those smut-ridden workhorses who grafted away and put their arses on the line down catacombs of cloying darkness just so the country could function and we could keep warm in winter.  The day came, due to governmental hands, when divisions arose and 'Scab' and 'Scargill' were forever headline news.  Some went one way, some went the other, friendships were ended forever - hard times for sure.  This is a good ditty with a core of iron sprinkled over with the usual melodic touches the band apply so well.  As honest as the day of long and making a point to ponder for those that witnessed things turn to shit.  The crew know their style, they execute with precision, I am overjoyed.  'I'm Alright Jack' sums up a large part of the modern day thinking 'I've got mine, fuck you'!  The wheels of advancement are clogged with shit as this selfish cycle continues and turns the opposite way as to way things should be moving.  Again the band expose disgruntlement, a slickness and an outstanding accuracy to the musical matter created.  The vocal style is as individualistic as ever and all components add to a mix that embraces the old, the new and...well, not so blue but that is soon attended to via the ensuing track 'I Wish I Was A Lesbian'.  A song to get the doubters down shouting and the PC fuzz getting out their notebooks and scribbling down condemning thoughts - ruddy arseholes.  Talking of ruddy arseholes did I tell you about when I spent a night with Frank Bough - perhaps another time, I have a CD to assess don't ya know?  So, the tit lusting number delivered is straight out of the 70's when crudity and the 'buxom bust' was a pinnacle selling point and Benny Hell was receiving treatment for 'EES (Eternal Erection Syndrome).   This is a tickling song, is sweetly played and has a lick (ooh heck) to appreciate - get over it!  

4 quick flicks of the wanking wrist and 'Stab In The Back' is a personal onslaught filled with spiced forthrightness and never once looking back over its scurrying shoulder.  The song has bass beetling insistence and ready-rubbed guitars with the stick work maintaining good activity levels.   As a counterpunch 'Promised Land' deals with a let down by the state, a turn from hopes to disaster with the song cruising along in more obvious melodic terms and getting its point across in a gentler but still pertinent way.  'Where Have All The Punkette's Gone' asks a question from curious loins and in some ways is a nostalgic look back on times when the erection came without the use of a lolly stick and several elastic bands and hormones were as plentiful as the moths in Alf Roberts' wallet (ooh what a tight arsed shopkeeper he was).  The song is one best left to those with dried up gonads, a loss of pulling power and a wanking arm given ready practice I feel.  A loop is highlighted and even though the effort is a repetitive little git it is easily joined in with and perhaps gets a tingle from down below...or then again...!  The last of this brisk batch is entitled 'Ska Man', a moment of culture, a moment that says to those with duff hearing and preconceived ideas 'look, we have talent, look we can mix and match, look, we play punk because we love it but aren't afraid to dabble' - you know what I am saying!  I like a bit of ska, I have a decent collection of old and new and the upstrokes never fail to encourage a jig.  A careful dabble outside the usual box, a wander down memory lane in an unabashed way and a look back at the soundtrack to life when two-toned elements brought many factions together and blessed them with some darn fine music.  This is what it is, you may get up and dance, get soppy eyed or just enjoy it as part of this decent CD - either way - tis all positive!

The back stretch is upon us, 'Tomorrow Belongs To Us' is a fruity number riddled through with fluency and sanguine loaded spirit that stands up in the face of adversity and oppression and makes one over enthusiastic promise.  The band plough through this one with efficient ease and never let up their own kind of rhythm rogered application - I shall not gripe.  A footy song next 'Spirit Of 66' is unashamedly patriotic, nostalgic and all aroused over kicking around an air-filled globe in the hope of breaking the net and raising a roar from many a footballing enthusiast.  The slant here is towards English Pride something that leaves me on the outside as I am a mere lover of the non-league and not one for flying a flag and supporting the national team.  This is a personal slant I know and one not in favour but I can still recognise a fine song for those in the pack and all worked up when the 3 Lions are blazoned and the propaganda machine commands.  The best part for me is when the song dissolves into a more street-level hollering known as 'Yellows' and gives an exposure cum confession of Mansfield-based mania.  It appeals to my rougher side and has an 'Oi'-esque feel I like too.  Some people will be turned on by this, some will be really turned off - tis no reason to wallop a fine band.  As an aside - Nobby Stiles had very experienced nipples and a wax testicle - oooh!  

'Rawlinson's Boys' is a very articulate and erudite piece of war-based knowledge passed forth with an insight into the heartbreak and horror of a situation that has left many scars.  The band take their time, cultivate a considerate piece with a certain earthy honesty that sets out a scene and shows the emotion that many poor souls went through.  The boys in the song were under orders, had a certain misdirected pride, they got their heads down and indulged in madness - the final twist of a promise to have no more war and then to hear the tache'd madman spout off almost leaves us with no hope - a nice touch to a very decent ditty.  We close with the comical idiocy of 'She Ain't Half A Dog In The Morning' a song that is a carrot-dangle to many PC constables and will no doubt be turning the stomach of many with something akin to morals.  Not my favourite song if I am brutally honest but the lads couldn't resist this impish inclusion and who am I to argue.  It is what it is - straight out of the vaults of postcard comedy, tickled with extra profanity, seasoned over with an eye-twinkling mischievousness and given the usual AB treatment - job done.

I have taken my time here, tis what I do and, at the end of it, I am still wondering why this fine long-serving band are struggling to get gigs.  My small bit is no good on its own, all I can do is create small openings, say my honest bit and 'hope'. The scene is flowing well at the moment if you are lucky, in a niche or in with the right folk - but remember, some are doing it their own way and suffering - this isn't how it should be.  My advice, get this CD, reconsider and book the band - paradoxically I can almost hear the deaf ears turning – oh bugger!



Litterbug are a grand bunch of lads, have stuck at their song creating style and always bring into the mix a blend of that which is popped, proto-fied and raw and ready.  They also have things to say, say it in a decent and honest manner and ply their trade with many fundamentals of punk thrown into the mix.  I was given this CD and T-shirt after a recent gig where I actually missed the band playing - what a bugger!  I have seen them a few times though and have them booked to play again, they are getting better as they move forth, I am looking forward to the next encounter.  In the meantime...

'No Competition' begins with the usual troubled tones, slightly angled accents and Litterbug lilts that are familiar to this old noggin and many more.  The quirky cadence comes, a tribal gob-off turns hard and produces a disgust with many facets of this musical shit pit.  The naturalness of noise has been somewhat diluted and scarred by invasive desires and competitive streaks that will play a game to keep others down and themselves on the up.  This bog brush basic holler off gets the message across and in its own way wants to get matters back to what they should be about.  It is done in typical style, I am afraid I can't claim to be 100% convinced but it does have clout and will do for an opening piece.  'Don't Change' is a far better track, one that progresses with good fluidity, whips up an early storm and hammers home its point with repeat beat forcefulness.  The band travel with a good galloping pace, all areas are crystal clear and noticeably contributing to a construction that drags one along in the slipstream and makes sure the toss about is worthy of one's time.  Upon the first listen it is obvious this is Litterbug noise, that in itself is a good thing and reeks of players saturated in long term punk rock noise with an overexposure that I am sure has addled a few of their noggins - lovely!

'Introvert' is a well-aerated piece of pop punk, loaded with recognisable riffs and good honest rollings.  The one thing you can say about Litterbug is that they have a very identifiable sound and go through the motions with subtle skill that many may just ruddy well overlook - a tragedy indeed!  This ditty regarding those who stay inside their shells rather than crack open and generally showpiece themselves like prostitutes on stage flows well, has crisp accents and is easily enjoyed by any slanted pervert of sound like my foul self.  'Fast Forward' has a lick I can pick up on quite easily as it mimics something I have ringing in the back of my noggin.  Putting my finger on the actual doppelganger is a bugger so I move on and enjoy a song that has many working elements that could be considered detached but which actually come together and operate as one decent unit.  Again the Litterbug lilt is glaring, this is far from a flaw and I fall in its dazzle feeling quite blessed.  The more I rotate this song the more I get captivated - I certainly ain't complaining.

'See The Light' has sobered tones colliding against those that attempt to radiate something akin to hope.  An undulation of emotion seems to be cross-hatched within the sketch of sound with a mental state uncertain as to what is, what was, what shall be.  A turmoil is reflected in the tones and flicked onto the paper of silence with strokes that are brisk, off-the-cuff and without any preconceived distractions.  The end result is a picture of almost individualistic artistry that makes for something that needs no finalising signature - again, a ruddy good point!  'Information' is a sweet chunk of liquidised noise that takes that odd extra bite to fully appreciate the flavour but when fully masticated and worked into a bolus of bopping sound is easily swallowed.  The message I take from it is to be on your guard against the dodgy data pushed into our mugs from eternal sources and constantly keeping us back-peddling and wondering what the fuck is actually going on.  The construction here moves well, fuzzes and frisks, keeps things animated and alters the patternisation with subtlety - decent indeed.

The title track 'Countdown To Schadenfraude' is a number that gives hint of a time to come but is one that is always here with vultures of misery growing in numbers every day and feeding off the suffering carcasses with insatiable joy.  This flocking fuckers need to be blown out of the sky - pass me my 12-bore spread-shot and the job shall be done.  The offering stutters in, moves with a focus that recognises pleasure caused by pain.  The slip from verse to chorus is without fuss, the wire work is tight and working alongside a very busy stick escort.  For some reason the band always compose and detract from the actual intricacies of their work - I am not fooled in the slightest and recognise the effort thrown in. 

Some familiar tracks now that I will duly skip through to avoid undue repetition.  'Petrol Situation' is a screwed up vehicle of sound careening around the melodic highway and expressing a rhythmic road rage that proclaims contentment but is all the while...screwed up.  A very jarring and effective outburst of peppered ill-temper.  'Conspiracy Theory' is a slick piece of work that runs in strong currents and pushes home its point with solid and reliable organisation and some quite appealing alternations of overspill that keep me...guessing.  The garaged sub-unhinged suggestions, the stop and start awkwardness and the expected LB lilts all combine to make this an expected effort as is the head-sticking 'I Don't Wanna Listen To The Radio'.  This second song is a nagging bastard that has an inner barb that hooks itself into one's cerebral gunk and will not be shifted.  The winding lick is aggravating and appealing at the same time, tis almost like sticking one's nob in a plughole - uncomfortable but tingle-inducing all at the same time - ooh pass me another fuse!

'Live In A Van' is a direct and grumbling engine of sound that gripes about a situation outside the 'norm' (in the loosest sense).  The song has no frills, no beating around the bush bollocks and for that fact alone it is, in my stripped down Fungalised eyes, a winner.  'One Track Mind' regards straight-line sexed up thinking that is the curse of many and brings much misery to the mentally crippled and their chosen victims - silly bastards.  The song chugs, chews the cud and channels itself into one decent ditty that again has few adornments and goes from start to finish in solid style with that quirky edge always brandished.  'Do Nothing' is a superb cover and if it wasn't a copycat cut would certainly make for one of my Song of the Month choices.  Alas, I do have standards and prefer originality but this is a gem, of that there is no denying, and I think the band pay good homage to the creation and the creators.  Tis a Special moment, ahem!  We climax (cor) with 'This Town', a song with a scuzzy start, a first verse that kicks back against the enclosing environment where people piss one off and cause one to scream - you should know the feeling.  The angst and nerve-jangling frustration foams over via a spillage filled with grimaced guitar work and well-tanned skins.  There is a brief respite but tension is always high - the band roll on and out with arses irritated - that sounds good to me.

I am a Litterbug fan, they trouble me though and have me pondering where they will end up and what noise they will create next.  A mental institute may be the final point of call, in the meantime a few good tunes can still be made - I believe, do you?  If you are undecided then buy this CD, sometimes even I lack subtlety.



I gave System of Hate a gig many moons ago, I also reviewed a bit of their product - it was a mighty good feeling.  The band have moved on up a few rungs since then, our paths have not crossed since - tis a shame but hey, these things happen in this musical mire.  I am happy to re-acquaint myself with the Yorkshire based vibrations and get my aural mitts around this latest venture.  The band play matters hard, their volcano of sound spews hot lava baby, if you like things light and fluffy you'd better run for!  The thematics seem mainly to have a problem with the cross and Christianity which many so-called liberal thinkers will applaud - the story could have been so much different if the slant would have included a few more religions - but hey, that's fashionable thinking for ya - blah, blah, oops.

'There Is No Madness Here' pounds in, spits black blood with heavy spite and rises from ashes of silence like a vulture of vehement intent.  The tones are a mockery of that which is hallowed, the twist and grimace in the delivery is admirable and the hatred in the veins is akin to that which many would deem 'a crime'.  This initial onslaught is a wrap-around chuck out, nothing over-ambitious and nothing groundbreaking but a delivery that is sodden with sound and frazzled to a tee - it sets a standard.  The initial grumblings of 'Black Fire', come to the fore, a radiating riff-rammed number doing nothing more than setting the scene for the following avalanche of sound.  Malevolence streaks the soundscape with torrid scars of bayoneting intensity designed to destroy resistance, create a reaction.  The structure and arrangement is, in its basic form, a simple affair but when the band apply their passion, saturate all areas and go through the exacting production procedure there comes forth a construct of monolithic proportions.  This opening eruptions begin a conflagration, the prophets of doom are wanking hard and spilling seeds of black – become impregnated at thy peril.

'We Who Walk With God' is a statuesque slab of immovable noise, almost belying the fact that things have motion.  The tones are dealt with via a crushing hand, a digitised molester designed to oversee what transpires and what will eventually be turned to shit.  Will is taken, a blind eyed acceptance forced, a procession of preaching pirates will decapitate anyone dare thinking for themselves.  These crippling hordes come from many quarters, don't get sucked into thinking that only one tribe is responsible - be on your guard.  The band pass over the product with aplomb, it is an all-consuming conflagration indeed.  'In The Shadow Of The Cross' riff rises, slaps ones senses into mode 'alert' before an apocalyptic avalanche of seething bleakness floods all areas and drowns one in an irresistible deluge of sable liquid.  The tactics used to convince the onlooker are, as per, condensed and crammed niches of noise, making sure activity remains high, keeping pressure levels steaming and the thermals radiated searing the skin and the soul.  The band have chosen their style, refined it and pissed blood into the whole mix - nasty but nice!

A snatch of 3 rapid reviews:- 'Your God Is Dead' pronounces itself on grandiose tones before travelling forth with the usual venom such anti-religion nuts exude.  The song wraps around in sizeable loops and burns with a blinding incandescence found elsewhere on this CD.  This isn't a stand-out moment but it still burns bright.  'Tears Of Blood' trickles in, flexes muscle and lacrymates a sickening sound of damning proportions.  The atheistic aggression and overflowing cup of power-chordage is bang in line with the filth spewed forth thus far and to some it may be one ass of sound flogged too far or more power to the elbow of hate.  I am au courant with the crippling majestic malevolence of what is being spilled forth but I my need an exorcist to help me cough up a fully appreciative judgement.  'Resurrected' is one big bastard and that openening wrecking ball cum thunder-cracking deluge is something to behold as all attention is demanded and....given.  An episode of resistant violence that grumbles and roars with such anti-beatific magnitude as to be almost evil.  The blasphemous edge punctures the flank of the sacred, spills blood that shouldn't be spilled and hits home with authority - it you are buzzing from the bomb-blasts thus far you will be certainly aroused by this.

'Rising' is a liquid song built on fluent throbs that travel along a neat highway of accepting easiness thus making for a song that may be lengthy but one that gets on with the job and leaves the aural orifices of the eavesdropper well blown through.  The band are on a good run and they rattle through this one with a consistent and thoroughly thermalised affect I am very much appreciative of.  'Ill Are The Cursed' opens with grandiose tickles along the length and breadth of the monochromatic keyboard.  Metallic wings rise and give air to avian acoustics where sky Gods dwell and overlookers inhale all that has been and all that will be.  A regulation takes shape, from billowed clouds a presence rises, a presence blessed with all absorbing sonic power that culminates in an omni-consuming thunderstorm of marvellous majesty.  Resplendent in raiment’s of hard riffery the musical beast advances, commands and controls - in its presence we stand awestruck.  If this is punk then of an operatic persuasion it must be deemed, if this is noise, of disabling talents it is blessed.  The 5 minutes 49 seconds passes with pleasure, the completion comes with finalised tickles of the ebony and ivory - this is an outstanding moment.

'System Of Hate' is the closure, a hard-packed final flurry to bulldoze its way into your memory banks and make sure the beating is rounded off in suitable style.  All hands are to the pumps, the pressure applied to the already hammering pistons is perspired and passionate, the song swings heavy fists and makes sure we are slapped down to our knees in a state of awaiting abeyance.  Only when the last throw of the sonic di is had are we allowed to rise, collect our thoughts and reason out what the fuck has actually happened.  I stagger away, a noise-induced nosebleed is mine, yes indeed, what the fuck has happened?

I was stupid enough to accept this review, I took my chance and am now in need of psychiatric help.  The whole foundation of my very being has been shaken, my chance to seek salvation seemingly under question, my need to indulge in some calming sonic seasoning knocked into terrible touch.  The System that is Hate kicks like a mule and kicks to areas you may find quite inappropriate.  If you like your music muscular, momentous and moving with a full-on sound then this is where you will find much gratification.



North-west nob-rottery here with a cynical and vicious hardcore assault that is in no mood for fannying about.  4 bastards have a problem, they can only relieve the tension by clattering away and so clatter they do.  Sometimes they clatter weaponry that is pink, purple-tipped and destined to get blistered, now and again they pick up some musical instruments and do the same - such is the case here.  The  whole shebang of 6 tracks is over in less than 10 minutes, that is the way hardcore should be played.  I don my speedo's of sound, push in my over-squeezed globes and escaping pecker and prepare to blitz out a summary of the shizzle - twang, oops there goes me willy again!

'Fake News' opens, is a 5 second mush and states 3 lines you should already be clued up about.  There is an art-form in getting one's point across without fuck-arsing around - here is such an example, it is pseudo-music pissing on construction and just cracking forth its message in one brief 3 way slap - thwack.  'What's Round His Neck' is an irritated tear up that sees a slow wind-up of musical emotion culminate in the release valve being blown off and the vocal administrator given his chance to shuffle papers of rage and file his message of fury into your 'kicked to fuck' cerebral cabinets.  The disgruntlement that comes is straight from the belly and anyone who knows this oral operator will realise the roarings that come are purely heartfelt.  This is a solid outburst and played with a dirty DIY edge that exposes an open-wound acoustica that I personally get off on - cor blimey guv'nor, me genitals.

'The Kids Aren't Alt-Right' is a wonderfully entitled piece, sharp and insightful and throbbing with demanding statements amid a flurry of riff and roll rocking that is unapologetic and like any decent custard pie, slammed into your face with great intent and much flavour.  The call for self-education and a resistance to the barrage of brain-washing bullshit is dealt out via an incessancy of rigid and provoking riffs.  This is perhaps the most straight-backed song of the lot and is built on concrete slabs that are positioned with stated care - perhaps this is the reason it is my least favoured but I have no gripes with the message.  'Built On Lies' is a beauty and questions matters many may not like to investigate further - are your Gods and commanding cohorts really dictating matters - the answer may turn your guts.  This song is a short flashing sabre of dangerous devilry and is swung by wild eyed minstrels hepped up on the fizz of the fuzz and the raping of the tympanics.  The orgy that we get offered a glimpse of is brutal, hurtful and highly stimulating.  The false promises exposed are by a band firing on all cylinders to make this a fuckin' arse sizzling treat.  The quick follow-up punch comes under the title of 'Fit For Work', a fiery uppercut to the jaw of the controllers who deem people in desperation ready and able for the task of labour whilst many, whom duck and weave, go unmithered and are left to glide on by.  The fury and frustration are combined into the muscle behind the punch and when the delivery winds up and let's fly we all get knocked backwards by the honest and heartfelt effort.  Pertinent, punked and saying what needs to be said - the hardcore edge may be of a sub-scene slant but the ethos should embrace all.  Another one I like - good fuckin' work chaps.

We end with a demoniac delivery, a belt-out of proportions best described as 'possessed'.  The song, 'NGNM (No Gods, No Masters)' is a roaring entity of reverberating hatred that screams with deep resonance and lets you have the message right up your shitter.  No nonsense, no nob-rotting - just pile-driving nakedness up and at ya - lovely.

Hoax are here, the first impression matters and here is a foundation laid to consider.  I have just booked Hoax for a gig, another fiasco built on honesty, DIY ethics and without apology - I think they may fit in very well indeed.



Punk rock goosebumps rise when placed in near proximity to this somewhat twisted, tortured but highly capable band.  From the inner areas of South Central England this testing crew knock out a mix of mayhem with much forethought and a great consideration to not rest on their laurels.  Here we have a 3 track tickle of hair-raising proportions, the question is - will it raise the follicles on the noggin or the rear end - or perhaps both.  So unto the ghostly goings on we go - shudder, shudder, shit in the pants!

'Haunted House' opens its discordant doors, lets the toxic draught swirl around your knocking knees and sends a chill up your trouser leg to parts, sometimes neglected, sometimes overly inspected.  The atmosphere is set, we await the phantoms of pandemonium to appear and bid us welcome - prior to that we get a musical upheaval to send the mind...slanted.  The creeping malevolence rises, a shock around every corner is there for the uninitiated and indeed the unwary.  The rise in all terror accents is choice, the passion poured is infecting and the mix of components indicative of a crew who know their aims.  This is a good slap of tomfoolery with a believable edge and done with such conviction so as to avoid becoming one of those 'throwaway' constructions so often encountered in many murky pits. 

2nd up, verbals of the insane kind - 'Payback' kicks in and is built on days and days, weeks and weeks, months and months nay...fuckin' years and years of frustration all spilling out in one mountain of agitated angularity and kicking this way and that like a spasticated octopus on angel dust.  The cruelty of life, the insecurities it creates and the fuckin' mithering head-pecking stress it creates all contribute to a voyage that shows a band wound up but wanking with fervour.  The drums are belted to fuck, the wires bent to kingdom come and the throat called upon to dispel inner demons and create oral fire.  This is a theatre showcase of anarchic arrangements designed to discombobulate and disarm.  There is much to take in but with time many tendrils will sneak forth and strangle out a response - wait for it, wait for it!

'Malcontent' opens on minimalized tones, ups the ante with usual out-of-kilter effect and spirasl this way and that like a 60's twist-o-rama drama filled with head fucking madness.  The effort folds in on itself, the pills of creation have been taken in hefty handfuls and what we get is an awkward upchuck liable to wither willies or appeal to the crazed.  In parts I find myself wondering, in others I find myself putting my head beneath the sheets to escape the turmoil.  The fear examined is a fear passed on, but the fear metamorphs and doesn't sit well.  Imagine being locked in a hexagonal room that tumbles eternally and changes colour with every rotation whilst demons from the past shaft your sensibilities - I don't like that and I don't like this song - boo for Fungal!  To add - the song seems ideal for a video though - think about it!

Chaos still reigns supreme in the Viper Vaults and here we have a taste of their unique venom they like to poison you with.  Two songs work, the last falls short, other views will oppose, some may concur - the fact is, they have less relevance if they aren’t put down as a review - come on ya lazy fuckers, let us keep these noise makers moving and get some scribbling done.  Now go and investigate!



I have never heard of this lot, my mind can't keep up with the music on show in this big wide world - I am going acoustically insane and yet, have no complaints.  The crew under the spotlight are a 4 piece, spring from Holland and put together a hotchpotch of experimental music that vibrates the inner valves and attentive neurones.  I spin the silver circle and consider, a process like this is best repeated, so I repeat 'several times over' and then put fingertip to the plastic lettered squares so often tapped in this techno age.  My ear drums keep pace, eventually a review is created.

'Pressure From Above' repeat spirals on tonality that in some ways is of yore (think early 90's) and yet sometimes is of the modern day (ahem, think now) and so I have much to mull over.  The opening has a techno hint of raw electronica, the move forth tickles the epidermal layers of things less 'niche' whilst all the while fragmentations of other sonic worlds are glimpsed.  The song has a freshness amidst a sobered edge and at times frisks up into a cacophony of higher order.  Overall though we have a certain disjointedness that make this an effort difficult to grasp and I am left wondering if this is a good or bad thing, which in itself is a meritorious point - odd hey!  'Tonsil' clank wanks, staggers like a cripple under stress before finding a stride pattern that is far from steady but which gets from A to B via a few misplaced letters in between.  There is a lovely angularity going on here which stops me from cruising through an assessment.  The cunts at the helm are creating cracks in the cranium and I re-listen over and over again to try and summon up some semblance of accuracy.  From the lucid and hygienic to the crumbling and ambiguous I find a charm in the arrangement that nudges me out of anything resembling a comfort zone.  Fuses blow, rethinks take place, the bass becomes a salvation – now that was close.

'Sooner/Later' is a mish-mash of madness that chants in, scurfs up the substrate, mirror echoes the mutterings before wallowing in a self-made fuck up of nonsensical sub-frustration.  A wank is needed, time to take a break whilst the players get this out of their system,  'Smurf' is an intriguing mix of that which is delicate, that which is slightly rough around the edges and that which is lyrically odd.  There are many gratifying touches within the weave, Nirvana-esque hints and power surges emboldened by things less forthright.  There is a touch of something dada-istic always around the periphery of this mix and, despite the tongue flicking around the cheek I am still raising my thumbs and giving this a positive vote - I must be slipping!

'If Kelly Doesn't, Then Who Will' struggles to find its feet with a slow 'can't be arsed' feeling to the initial strums and almost reticent tympanic dabblings.  From the idling petal blossoms a song of limpid hues and watercolour suggestion gains solidity and eventually (emphasis on that word) gallops along with indie-esque tones that never truly reach a promised potential.  Many may be happy with this finished product, I am not - it is marred by the distracting opening section and lacks true weight - a shame.  'But Why' attains a higher standard with its nervous energy, out of kilter arrangement and general fuck-clutter awkwardness.  It is a quick piece too - my punk spirit says 'yeah'.  'No Sack, No Way' begins with the most accomplished tonality thus far, has a politeness and cleanliness that I would normally find puke-inducing but here find quite titivating.  The sparseness of certain parts, the gossamer lightness of others and the tangents tossed in all make for a song with the important 'layered' factor which keeps one guessing, wondering and guessing some more.  It is an embracing song, put together with experimental adhesiveness in a most careful way - choice.

'Put A Record Out' is a very confused effort that travels along a hotbed of varied states and comes out at the end of matters - dishevelled and perhaps misunderstood.  The opening independent tones are taken, the shuffle into pastures new is not subtle enough and a mild jarring follows.  Further scrapings are had with discombobulating discordance the order of the day.  The band are using continuing catalysts of sound and reacting all the while - it is just a matter of judging whether or not this is a bad thing?  'Legless' is a more sedate and directed number, nudging closer like the strangler in the cinema eyeing up a potential 'after-dark' victim.  The application is minimal, the simplest of shimmers are used and the whole shebang feels as though it will fall apart at any given moment.  A soundtrack, a mere passing moment barely touched by the vocal palette - strange!

'The Indie Academy' is an enlightened number and one that brings reminiscences of many similar ditties.  There is a friendly and approachable vibration coming to the fore and a complete lack of anything offensive.  The opening tones are subdued, the machine gets oiled and the melodic output is more than a little pleasing.  The inner components are well-rinsed through, there is a classiness here and a thoroughly completed job on show - nifty.  'Half Book' has that early 80's misery that soaked through many mood-laden offerings, usually from dour faced 'erberts clad in baggy attire and with a flop mop top.  This doesn't detract from an alternative-ised sound that travels with mid-paced motions like an ocean of reeking fat.  There is a strain here that many will wallow in, at this stage I am almost indifferent.  It is OK (in my opinion) but doesn't leap from the stereo with any authority.  We finish with 'Beautiful World', a shit-crawling song awash with troubled anguish that spreads mucky paws over the upper epidermal layers of the construct and makes for an unwashed experience.  Nervously nudging in, gaining in confidence and ending matters with something akin to a flourish.  There is a heart gaping here, that always helps matters and as the song unfolds I am sure I can sense within myself a feeling of appreciation.  It is a decent closure and perhaps the emotion wins the day.

After throwing myself into the fray I have come out the other end split down the middle and finding this a hit and miss CD dependant on mood and situation.  There are some genuine highpoints and many moments that just don't catch the attention - this, as per, is all down to personal taste.  Objectively though I must say there will be a niche awaiting the noise and within that niche much appreciation of the application will be applauded - just as it should be.



Like a duck on a nest of eggs I have sat on this nest of noise waiting for thoughts to hatch about a band who have changed their staff many times, have had an acoustic hiatus hernia and toured here, there and everywhere within this septic isle and abroad.  They are now still foaming over with their brand of thrashy noise liable to tear one a new mucky ring and  I know what I am getting into here and yet refuse to skip in, skip out and palm matters off in double quick time.  Care needs to be taken and that is what these Cornish cacophoneers will get.  In fact, after this intro, I am taking another break and contemplating the spillage.  Eventually though I spill the following thoughts...

Side A...

'900 Minutes' is a marvellous boom banging belt out of pacey urgency that defies initial logic and blows one's underpants of attention clean off.  I didn't expect such a virile and violent start, what about the foreplay chaps - oh ye brutal bastards.  As I run for my shredded duds and attempt to cover my exposed privates I notice a noise based swelling around my still trembling nob - I think this may suggest I am rather taken by this first explosion.  'The Martockian' counts down and paradoxically rises, with each pulsation danger gets closer.  The trigger point is reached, the holler avalanche comes, the ill-temper, wildness and unified gob eruptions are all escorted and mauled by some big string and skin smacks.  Despite the intense application the whole playing unit maintain a crisp and clear moment to appreciate.  The fact is, Rash Decision are on their game here and nudging each other along onto plateaus that become loftier and loftier.  These short explosions do it for me and when played with such exactness I would be foolish to gripe.  'Snakes' will not be charmed or play the charmer, it is a rough writhing asp of raucous brutality that uses much venom and many constricting muscles to keep the explorer of sound on the back foot and eventually on their knees.  It is  not a lengthy serpent of sound but a short stocky reptile of uneven rhythm that takes one or two squeezes to force out a full on appreciation.  I am in the groove with this one, the opening riffery causes a tension, a tension that causes a bloodied perspiration, a perspiration that reeks of spirited acknowledgement of a band banging out a belter - oomph!

Question - isn't 'Buzzsaw Tomahawk' a wonderful title for a song.  It brings images of musical violence, idiot mentality and a need to smash ones carcass against a wall of ignorance over and over again.  The band thrown weaponry all over the fuckin' place in this beautifully messed up shitkick of defying power chordage.  Try and keep up, tis all over in a flash and in that small space of time, things get hammered and one gets...busted.  'The Seagull Has Landed' is a pecking fucker and just like the avian delight is a fuckin' flying beauty.  The song blasts in, shows its inner fire and then takes to the wing and flies with a glorious zoned in power before swooping down and snatching away any chips of resistance you feebly hold onto.  The spite of sound comes like a swish of malevolent wings and warns of peril to come, a peril you will never escape.  The soaring moments do it for me though, encapsulate everything mighty about this shithawk of noise - one of the best this, play loud, expose your privates if you dare!  'Glass Canons' is in a rush, is commanded by the 4 cabled contraption of reverberating irritation and moves with a certain 'react and act' naturalness. There seems to be an 'off the cuff' jazzoid expression fighting its way to the fore and whilst this is a good thing for meddlers in experimentation and  dabblers in deviating discordance I am finding things not quite sitting on my shoulder of appreciation.  Like a parrot in peril, with arthritic claws lacking control, my view slips and I am not keen on this latest lump of noise - ooh bugger.

'Learning Things About The World (Part 5)' hammers in, hammers out and leaves us bleeding from the rear - and with 'chip eating cunt' ringing in our ears - ooh the naughty young men.

Onto side B...

'Fuck The Tide' begins, blows in across a windswept playground where drenched devils of darkness can apply their trade and make apposite acoustics.  The tribal ill-temper that is roared forth ejaculates from the downpour and spunks out from each and every orifice a resistant sweat of blazing incandescence.  The end result is a laboured lightning flash amongst gathering clouds - is this enough to win a nod of favour?  You decide ya lazy cunts!  'Knocked Loose' dashes, splatter twats and rattles home a blindingly effective head shatter of self-propelling musical aggression.  Uncooked, bleeding and sick to the back teeth with apathy, this fuck-throb of electric energy moves through several sequences, each one loaded up and always liable to blow your brains out.  From the basics we get accoutrements to enhance with the band blindingly effective throughout.  Another angled shard flashed across your wrists, another painful infliction of utter cruelty - oh you bastards are turning me on.  'A Mouths A Mouth' is harsh, hazardous and clobberin'.  The attack is against the moron, the ones who say and suck.  This isn't as good as the previous cut, it has a lack of deep veined fluidity but is still mixed to perfection and has a good wallop factor.  Not a Fungal fave though, I get fussy at times, perhaps here is such an instance - I must remain fair – onwards.

Into the final 4 and troubled tangents are tossed from mentally ill niches of the mind via a song that says it all 'Sick And Tired'.  The inner thinking pattern is splat fucked and shat upon and the sound that comes is barbed with a turmoil destined to bubble over and become something uncontrollable and viciously violent.  Thankfully we end on a threat and nothing more, I don't think I was ready for the beating then again...!  'Salary Man' is a beauty, it uses a blatantly well-raped formula, condenses it into a sub-minute over-gush and riffs it up like a salivating musical psychopath laden with whizz.  Fast, furious, fuckin' fizzing, this small attack on the decency of one's aural orifices is a minor pip I suggest you don't overlook.  I replay, and replay, and replay - man, that old lady at the end of the street is gonna cop it tonight!

In a penultimate position we have 'Medium Raw', a ticking time-bomb that explodes in expected frenzied style with all fuckers aflame and sending out a blizzard of skin-searing deadliness.  From heads immersed in hardcore an 'Enya'fied' mockery takes us into the silence before the finale - it is a good sing-a-long moment that will have piss-pots enthralled.  'Strife' is the aforementioned 'finale' and gets on with matters in uncomplicated blatancy.  Four shouts of the song title nail a verse, repeat and then chop all elements up and stagger out into the darkness before one last flurry is had.  The paced parts are best for me, when the band crank it up they fuckin' do it mighty well - oooh errr!

Look Rash Decision are good, they have put in the work and are nailing matters at the moment.  There is nothing new here but, as is the case when balls are blazing and belief is high, there doesn't need to be.  As far as hardcore shit goes this stinks as well as anything out there at the moment and I suggested that you dabble and knock yourself out with the sonic stench - phew!



Phantastic Ferniture come from Sydney, New South Wales and offer up an odd CD that lies on the outer fringes of my ever-flexible listening arena.  I take in all sorts, some I find shite, some I find alright, some I find shines ever bright but...I have a go...such is my punk spirit.  I have travelled through this collection of songs, rolled around in the music like a cow in a flower-filled meadow and have been blessed with many scents and tonal colours.  I take all in, inhale, exhale and eventually cough up an assessment, it goes as thus:-

'Uncomfortable Teenager' is a very fresh feeling piece that has a deep-rooted emotion running through a sub-tremulous tune that floats like an autumnal leaf down a crystal clear river of gently driving decisiveness.  The initial throat inclusions are wary, seemingly sweetly nervous and so win favour that is without affect and any patronising bullshit.  The rear lick is simple, the upper layers smooth and although, at the latter end of the song, I feel matters tail off and swirl in a pool without aim, I am quite keen on what I am hearing.  I move on, wondering!  'Bad Timing' feels its way in with tentative bassism before matters develop and a swinging swish of blossom patterned serenading comes our way.  The fragrance emitted is spacious, passionate and full of layered depths that slowly manifest themselves as the song ascends to its full potential.  The development of the discordance comes with little fuss, the inclusion of shadowy she-vocals adds atmosphere and when the moors of melody get blown over with greater force the song takes on a new lofty standard - interesting indeed.

'Fuckin And Rollin' is a little too self-indulgent although when I play further I find this judgement a little harsh and slap myself on my wrist.  The stroll of sonica is through summer lanes of carefree attitude that falls onto a mattress of copulating involvement and just 'goes for it'.  The perspired effect radiated is languid, chilled and idle-inducing - it is far from a noxious effect but one you have to be in the mood for - I am sure the more hygienic and toned out parts of society will indulge with favour.  'Gap Year' swirls upward in a gathered zephyr of tepid texturisation that animatedly combines to become the best song of the CD thus far.  The slow curve upwards of all sonic applications is neatly done with the rippling of the rhythm executed with care and clean cut accuracy.  The vocalist is given space and time in which to shine, the players are in no rush and I think make for a pleasant creation of easily digested matter.  I like this one, can you tell?

'Take It Off', strolls in, tests the sonic substrate and then moves with a certain feline grace and subtle muscularity.  The skins are flicked over, a lapping movement is adopted with a mere glimpse of things sub-garaged offered to those who have dabbled in such dubious recesses.  The limp and languid approach is borne from thermalised mechanoid forests of deep summer where time is best taken so as to avoid a situation of over-heating.  The metallic leaves are rustled, the wired root system seeking, the lazy accents invasive - make of this what you will.  'Parks' begins with a warm embrace, slightly increases the hold and ripples the rhythm of the cuddle with slow, well-practised persuasion.  The movement is completed with lucid vocals and unflustered musical kisses that flow over the carcass with unassuming ease.  Tonally, this is a song of subdued appearance given life through the ease of the strokes and the aural swish of the patternisation, technically, this is a construction of simple arrangement given enhancement by hands that care for the end art form - I nod with satisfaction! 'I Need It' is at the opposite end of the listening scale for me and although slow and sultry it burns too long, expands a theme and leaves one dozing off at the latter end.  This is poison to my soul and, after the previous number with all its similar traits I can't wait to bail - sorry folks.

Next, and 'Dark Corner Dance Floor' has a smart lilt and swing in the inner core of the delivery that immediately gets one in the moody groove.  The fluent aspects are maintained even when the throat work joins in the composition and all the while we get a feeling of something not too fussy, stress free and floating on a cloud close to that number '9'.  If all songs on this album were best likened to a chocolate bar then this would be the 'Aero', - well aerated, inoffensive and easily consumed without any outrageous flavours - that will do for me - chomp, chomp.  We shut down with 'Mummy Y Papa', a song that starts with a pseudo-80's stick tickle and one that develops into an early session of cultured insight exuding a quality and subtle generosity from hands very much in control.  I will go so far as to state that this opening segment of sound is perhaps the best found on the CD and has a very profound and impressive effect.  From here emotion spills in greater waves, the rise in the sonic spume is far from overpowering which is a good thing, anything more than what laps at the listening feet would be just vulgar and perhaps cause an overspill in the judgement - not a bad way to finish me thinks.

Another one bites the dust, another one that keeps me thoughtful and another offering that exposes the depth of musical flavours out there.  This is not my first choice of listening material and never will be for that matter but there are many elements to delight in and many nuances that keep one thinking which in itself is no bad thing.  In parts the band drift on for too long and in some ways flat-line, in others they capture a certain gossamer exquisiteness that exposes a distinct quality - you may well agree or disagree but to do so, you will have to listen in, he says with a gentle elbow aimed at the ribs. 

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