THE CAVEMEN - BURN OUT FOR LOVE

Scum rocking, shit flinging zealots of the vibe, The Cavemen come, conquer and create chaos.  The mix offered has blasted the Fungalised lugs several times, here we have a single to mull over and either get sickened by, aroused by or perhaps, disturbed by.  These toned up troglodytes hail from New Zealand and brandish their clubs of cacophony with head-melting intensity. The band are out there touring, the reputation is building - will it end in a headlong crash of glory or stutter out like the erection of a porn-watching drunkard - who the hell knows, here is my take on the latest happening and how it may affect you.

'Burning Out For Love' is a reckless clatter twatter just kept on the right side of decency by some hard fought steering by these wank happy warriors cut out for all things maniacal.   This song is hungry with spunk-surging desire, the loins of the lilt are sweating hard and trembling with ardour as the tunery races along, the intensity builds and the arses of the eavesdropper gest shredded.  The throwback to things primitive and clubbing is done with a youthful stupidity that spills every each way you care to look and dazzles and bewilders in one great showcase of sub-spontaneous naturalness.  Wham!

'Dancing On A Razors Edge' is a beautifully short composition of encrusted sonic shit rattling the basin of decency in untamed style.  The danger is always imminent, the rhythmic roadway driven down the wrong way and all the while this white knuckle ride seems destined to end in one cataclysmic distortion of overwhelming oblivion.  The players somehow remain intact, their visceral and violent approach is handled with muscle and we get to our destination, shaken, stirred and with a touch of reality...blurred.  Slam!

Job done, the band don't fuck about and neither have I.  These louts of chaos chuck it at you and all you have to do is either run for your life or fuckin' suck on it.  My jaws are aching, my head is a mush - can you tell which option I took?

SPLATTER - CRIME SPREE

On BVI Records comes another release, this time 5 tracks of spit and snot aggression delivered in an almost basic hardcore way.  Spikes and studs and shitty duds, this is a heavily soiled sound that harks back to of the second punk wave, when energy, passion and wild untamed riffage came crashing against the shores of those entrenched in the more rhythmic pillaging that was transpiring at the time. Some drowned, some swam away to calmer seas, some were happy to be repeatedly dashed against the rocks of discordance - I, as per, like the variation of sound and so dabbled, here is my take of the 21st century offering.

'Nazis (Fuck Off)' doesn't beat around the indecisive bush, scythes in with a taut chainsaw approach and scatters the foliage of resistance all over the fuckin' show and leaves all debris to blow away in the breeze of belligerent based annoyance.  All areas are screwed tightly and the drilling that comes is acute, pain inducing and not one to indulge in too many consecutive times.  The pressure is intense, the panic button easily avoided as all is done in 1 minute and 27 seconds - just how it should be.  'Anhedonia' is a better song as the impetus is more impressive and the switch from the galloping to the briefly cantering is nicely done.  This contrast in time helps galvanise the song onto a better footing and makes sure when the bollocks are really kicked the pain is set to level 'fuck'.  Again the band keep things short and to the point, the only way for hardcore thrashing to be played, anything more would be just plain old silly.  Not a bad double whammy but nowt new under the blazing sun, can there ever be anymore - harrumph.

The central track of 5, this one is slabbed and slagged and goes under the name of 'Last Fall', a scabby mutt of sound that sniffs its own arse, wanks and ejaculates a poison to impregnate even the most ardent chuff and a she-bitch inclusion that adds true fire to the mix.  These femme-fucks are a fine addition, something the band need to concentrate on for future efforts and perhaps design their own signature sound around.  I play again and again to confirm my thoughts, yes - he and she hybridisation cum copulation is a must.

'No Hope' channels its grubby energy into one tight-arsed head numb of incessant self-examination that comes out at the end of a bout of heavy questioning with the solution that everything is ultimately pointless.  The sharp sting of the final admittance poisons the track from first to last and what we get is perhaps more of the same, a screwed up HC burst and in keeping with the theme set and the raw-assed punkiness that never seeks to advance from the raw basics.  We close with 'Skate To Spill', another pacey piss-patch of noxious noise spat and shat with clatter clout and careless crashing.  The board of sound is ridden, knee-pads and helmets are abandoned as the crew race to oblivion and refuse to give a fuck about the consequences.  This hungry and idiot engrained mania is what gives the noise its raison d'être and what makes this old spiked git avoid putting the boot in.  Forget originality, forget deep profound investigations, pick up on the buzz and enjoy!

5 songs, no boundaries warped, no new ground kicked up but...plenty of spunk splattered, plenty of eardrums no doubt will be battered - is there really anything more we should be asking for at the DIY level?   I wouldn't give this one a golden handshake, I wouldn't give it a golden shower either but it has been worth my time and I hope the band can go on from here, stretch their arses and throw in a few curveballs - here's watching.

WASTED WORLD - BLACKPOOL COMPILATION

A mush, a mess, a mere melodrama of seaside happenings are collected together here and after a staggering glut has been indulged in I find it within myself to lean over the side of the assessing pier and puke up into your sea of patience, a multi-coloured assessment of what has been digested.  The splash of sonica is a celebration from the land of piss-pots, arcades, retailers of tat, vulgarity and…in some ways…distorted reality.  I don my plastic breasts, shove a chocolate cock up my arse and prepare to ride the ‘Real One’, a musical roller coaster that I truly up will turn my bowels onside and out – let the laughing man continue, I am doing my bit.

I am all for instrumental introductions and here we see Rida ZM plough in with 'Jawsome', a very interesting futuristic mix that adopts a grandiose start before travelling the dusted highways of sonic silence and kicking up some nice plumes of attractive tonality.  As we run alongside the music making beast we attain a greater appreciation of the head-meddling music that is being hurled our way by controlling hands that are considerate and in a certain groove.  A soothing sci-fi underscore, a mood from a place within the inner depths of the cranial universe comes - I reached for a tab, drift off and absorb this unexpected drop out.  Dig that 80's suggestion, get groomed by that bass manipulation ma'an.  If you haven't already done so The Drop Out Wives ask you, in the usual strained and saturated special kind of way to 'Get On The Ride'.  A sleazed, hard squeezed bout of sexed up sonic sweat that flows from pores well versed and highly cursed cacophonic victims.  This offering is an ideal partner to the previous hygienically based production with warts, wickedness and a fuzzing molestation all there for the dirty dogs to indulge in.   The track perspires wonderful sludgey grime whilst all the while rising higher and fist-fucking with convincing relish.  This is an early winner for me - a real clonking scummer with all the DIY goodness on show - cock out, rock out, whatever!

Du Pig are a delightful oddity and here give an insight into their crooked sound via 'Du Pigs In Space', a raw, under-processed sub-proto-punk semi-grunged piece of angle wanking.  The tune slips from the open wound of basic application to the full on gash of infecting fuzzery that contrasts and counterblasts.  There is much ado about something here, the band are combining styles with ease and giving the listener options as well as their playing comrades.  I have seen Du Pig on a couple of occasions, this is a reason why I was very much taken.  'Filming His Agony' by Uncle Paul is a dirty decadent backfire of twisted self-therapy that sees a molten hotpot of throbbing frustration get thrown against the walls of indifference with spiteful and blazing intention.  A repeatoid hurt of nagging proportions I feel there is a place for this kind of torture, this provides another angle and precedes a turnabout that comes under the name of 'Witherslack Gold' by The Delmars.  A Rock and Roll 'Eddy'-esque guitar expulsion that twists and grooves with shadowy effect and brings cerebral suggestions of plume laden retro-groove dens laden with moving cool cats and rats, some lip-sticked, some razored - all in the zone and soaking up the escapist acoustica.  An unexpected curveball thrown in so as to help us keep on guessing - you can't beat the mix and match of a good compilation.

Boom!  Back to things more brutal with the heavy arsenal of C. S. O. D. exposed and breaking your tonal territory with a hand-grenade of disabling power duly called 'Manipulate'.  Off to war, no choice given, destruction the end result - the band are wound up, go frenzied at the gullibility, kick forth a weighted tune destined to bruise bollocks and blow down walls of wanked weakness.  The outfit is quality, listen in to every department and try your hardest not to get aroused - you will fail.  All you need to do now is jack off, get their merchandise and hang your head in shame that we have let another band split - fuckin' hell!  'Milk' by Father Stone sludge crawls, pulsates like a heaving mass of toxic turdery.  The opening wordage is slack-jawed, equally poisoned and in-time with the slow-curdling mix of ear crapping goodness that comes.  Stoners and slow-shit flinging reprobates will love to toke up and wallow in this - who am I to shatter their murky (and perhaps moistened) dreams?

Litterbug have found their sound, deliver with exceptional authority and, after just sticking at it, are winning more and more plaudits by the day - about fuckin' time!  'I Will Not Explain' bass weaves, skids and judders before swinging in with the first verse that is immediately tattooed through with defiance and a sound of earthy honesty that always puts the band in good stead.  Popped in moderate terms, fizzed with general spirit and ingrained with many fundamentals of a DIY scene that keeps the flavour digestible.  A cute addition next via The Freak Beats and their curiosity known as 'Where Did Alice Go'.  This disturbing stroll through the twisted cranial catacombs of one Charlie Dodgson comes out like the author himself - unsettling, creepy and of dubious intent.  This contribution is a snaking warted hand up the inner thigh of essential innocence and as matters progress the sinister grooming reveals itself to be darkened, untrustworthy but very effective in its approach.   What the band set out to achieve I think they do, this is a charming piece - in many ways.

The Senton Bombs turn up the tempo, add seasoned class and hit the rails with runaway intent whilst emitting great plumes of believable passion from an engine that is now slick, well-greased and hitting each and every destination with precision and power.  The opening chug rises to a tetchy tempo that mows down all in its track and leaves one rattled.  'Trainwreck' is a savoured moment, hearing a band take delight in the tear-up whilst executing a masterclass of hot rockin' sound.  As I listen over and over I dress up as Casey Jones, throw one off the wrist and knock seven bells out of an old lady waiting for the 7.32 to Clacton - music can have that effect don't ya know.  'Sea Mammoth' by Tirikilatops is an experimental bout of head-melting nonsense that shows a band reaching into niches where child-like innocence and mischievous marvelling duly impregnate each other and make for a nursery rhyme raping that comes over as an acid-head dabble overly cutiefied.  One has to cater for every taste though and this is a welcome oddity.  The Polyesters stabilise matters with the expected rocked up riffery that contains the sex-siren hunger as well as the usual thrust and fuck action in the vibe.  ‘Cracked’ whispers, snarls, swings its ass with vixen violence whilst all the while staying in control and grinding out a response that is highly positive.  The anxiety spews over, rises and entangles - the nightmare is never over.  Black Eddy come next, an ever impressive band winding in with the sludgy horror cum self-inflicted torture known as 'Old Emotions'.  A slow moving glutinous mass of suffering comes and rises.  This band I have seen on a couple of occasions and they have grown in stature within my assessing gunk.  This is a dirty mover, heaving up with aged battle scars and simmering with a potential threat that at any time may just spill over.  Cooled moments come, they are soon doused in manic morasses of molten sufferance - this is another angle for the CD listeners to contemplate - under the vibrating moon it is best to keep things varied.

2 left, Dischord do what they do best and provide passion, chant-a-long efficiency and a kind of youthful zest that sees the band continue their run of stunning form and make their presence felt.  'S. O. B. S' is a song to chomp on and kicks back against scuzz, general idle-headedness and thoroughfares where all turns to shit.  The guitar strokes are scything, the drums slap happy, the bass disciplined and grooving with the vocal style hungry and delivered with relish.  In their embryonic years I hailed Dischord as good, I have changed my mind, Dischord are fuckin' good.  We close with 'Killer's Moon' by Stormy Weathers, a fantastical acidised promotion that describes visions from beyond the so-called norm, cerebral sights that distort, sometimes disturb and now and again, display insight.  Acid is hailed as a mind expanding drug yet so many addled headed restricted thinkers who know little came from the hippy generation, I think small doses when in the mood are better rather than a headlong indulgent crash that will duly end up nowhere.  This final piece is the last shard of disturbance that will throw you off kilter, it is more art than acoustica, but still I have to say it has its place.  The colours presented are garish, molesting and glutinous - I rise up, come down and don't know how the fuck I feel - that is a good sensation for any self-respecting reprobate.

I finish this CD with one holler that may sum up my feelings, 4 words I shout loud and hope that the creator and creators are listening - 'what about Volume 2' - do you get my gist - I fuckin' hope so.  Let the applause ring out!

CENTURION SECT - BIG RED BUTTON

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!

SYSTEM OF HATE - THERE IS NO MADNESS HERE

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 cover...now!  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.

HOAX - THE ENEMY WITHOUT

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.