COLD WAR - ILLUSION: THE COMPLETE STUDIO SESSIONS

Grow Your Own Records reaches back into the grimy DIY times and showcases the workings of a band who formed around 1980 in Hornchurch, Essex.  The sonic style is very post-punk and of its time which, is a good thing I feel, as it brings to the fore many musical qualities that are overlooked in these overly processed times.  The band barely made a dent in the saturated scene but they did what they did, moved on and put out some solid tunes.  With 11 tracks to handle, I give you the following appraisal.

We begin with 'The Machinist', a delicious Metropolistian bare basic matter of musical industry, borne from a time when fandangle gadgetry was void, reliance was on the basics and the cultured tones of the operator.  The whole feel of this is of yesteryear with an efficient modus-operandi not to be denied as the inner wheels turn, the incessant gears grind and the quality of production is both a paradoxical combination of the raw and the exact.  An apocalyptic sound that has an undercurrent warning - the dystopian controllers are still at work folks.  This is a fascinating number that has rode the passage of time and still comes up smelling of polluted roses - nice.  'Suffering By Fire' has a really post-punk feel and more of the industrial/organic hybridisation that gives the whole concoction 'earthy life'.  The vocals remain lucid at all times and so attract a sing-a-long stance from those very much in line with this somewhat austere creation.  The relaxation into the chorus is neatly done and eases up some of the cultivated tension.  The bass and sticks keep the rhythm held, the guitar is left to adorn and add threat - I am finding myself absorbed thus far.

'Cold War' has a certain delicacy, a very careful approach that sees touches minimal, the tribal underscore come more to the fore and the vocalist is left to stand on a precipice and be duly judged.  Personally I think the oral offrings are ideal for the style set and the whole concoction has a gentle profundity that some may miss. From the ashes of things more spiked but with an equal amount of emotive content.  This isn't my favourite track, it does require a little more patience and lacks a certain 'snag' factor but it has good texture, moves with an assured fluidity - it does what it does but I do prefer the ensuing 'Illusion', a very tortured sounding song with a switch in anguish, placidness and something akin to defeatism, all areas operate well together whilst the band stick to the tonal trend and austere scaffolding of sound.  The Killing Joke essence and of things aggravated brings the song greater reward and the somewhat easy application by the players makes for a moment more approachable.  There is a grimy dust cover thrown back here and all that appears is not as clean and hygienic as many may want - this is a real plus point.

'Those Who Die' has an excellent skip and strum approach with a great liveliness underscoring the more sober and matter-of-fact oral outpourings.  I like this one a lot, there is good zest and a concrete contrast factor going on with none of the old school vibes lost.  The clarity is again a key factor as is the overall running time - it all matters and if the song overran into realms of poseurs and the self-absorbed, matters would be truly diluted.  Thankfully the band have it just right - I move on enthused. 'Out Of Contact' stays within the tonal territory already traversed, it is a consistent number with a middling noise that refuses to be carried away on the success so far. Stark yet somehow saturated, the bass has a solid weight, the skins are seen to be given a good working over if one cares to concentrate on that tympanic realm and the guitar is flicked, scuttled and manipulated with artistry.  I find this one a creeping grower - it gets better with each rotation and there seems to be Banshee-esque touches coming through as well, sweet!

Onwards, 'The Picture' rises from the ashes of silence and is in no great rush.  A dreamy serenade done in hues subdued and with an hazy, lazy overlay that leaves me a trifle cold.  This is a very atmospheric number borne from frosted wastelands of a seeming contemplative solitude.  Rather than a liquid flow we have a lacrymal trickle with a despondent sensation emanated.  The tonal application is exact and the palette used is ideal for the end portrait achieved but the strokes are too prolonged and lacking in determination.  'The Visitor' is of a similar strain and composition although here we do get splashes of lighter shades and a more flowing gracefulness.  Suggestions of something positive arise whilst those machine-like workings all operate, this time with a more background feel.  This isn't a bad do but not one I would reach out to play with any regularity.  

The back three come, 'Lesson' leads the way - tempered bass, glinted glasslight shimmers, a semi-robotic tickle and vocals of quirky character.  Abrupt shifts arise, I am thrown off kilter and struggle to regain a balance of assessment.  I bear with matters, this is a strange imp of insidious shape-shifting that I just can't seem to fully grasp and appreciate.  An oddment to digest over many spins and I still suspect one will come up short with any true verdict.  Not a classic, not a favoured gem but, there is something there that just niggles my senses of appreciation - I suspect it is the fact that the song is well played, is created by people who know what they want to create and are happy with the end result.

'Man And The Insect' is a profound and insightful piece with true reality observed and the meaning of life explored.  The angles from which matters are seen, the questions posed and the matter-of-fact statements that expose futility and ongoing blindness all combine to draw in my interest whilst the carefully designed orchestration, that remains mostly minimal, contributes to a  winning end result.  The bass seems to be the driving force here, it is deliciously delivered, Severin-esque is you ask me whilst the tympanics and strings are kissed with a gothika and oppsoing futurism - nice.

'Final Joy' sets a scene with four wiress caressed and another barely touched.  The tempo is middling, the scenario gentle, tepid and thought-laden.  The oral accoutrements seem a little freer here and have a notable freshness whilst being gently marinated in a sauce of fretfulness.  The intensity of sound only builds with a slow and deliberate purpose but we are drawn in, consumed and if the right volume levels are applied, piqued.  This is definitive time and place music and for those who are quite happy to move away from things shackled, overly structured and purposefully generic - it is no bad place to be in.

This, for me, shows a band who had some real charm in their early days, a charm that appealed to my DIY instincts and set them on a good footing to trespass outside certain boundaries.  Trespass they did, a fine move although I felt they failed to match their earlier delights whilst becoming a more cultured band.  Again, this is down to personal tastes and it cannot be said this band did not push themselves, take a chance and follow their desires.  This CD has been a really interesting throwback with much relevance still found. I say good on the label for throwing this back out there and the band for making these snippets of testing sound.

THE DECEASED - SUBURBAN DREAMS

Fuckin' hell, The Deceased are dabbling again, a lifetime ago I saw these fuckers form, play and piss off (and release a few songs on vinyl).  I had a cassette at some point, hung around with the buggers and built up a good friendship with their lead lout, Gassy.  In fact I have just been on a touchline with the said frontman and chewed the cud.  The band have a new gob at the fore, arthritis and dodgy prostate glands is the new punk way and here I go, 40 years on, reviewing three tracks for a band looking for a new lease of life (try Viagra and rectal angel dust lads, it is far better than my reviews tha' knows).

'Apathy' pounds in, a rehash of a tune noted.  The initial impression is concrete with the wham bam approach crystal clear, slightly abraded around the edges so as to give things an earthiness and unwashed essence.  The vocals are soon spilling their sub-snot, semi-sneer disgruntlement with the words as pertinent as ever in a time when too many people are glutting and getting rather than pondering and giving (with a distinct kick back may I add).  The sonic shindig here has a healthy weight, a sound end mix that needs little volume adjusting and a liquidity that works mighty well.  I like this, it has a good retro feel without being corned and it has a refreshed and jacksie kicking juiciness ready to make a splash in the year ahead.

'Pills' is a right old bouncing fucker with an incessant determination that cannot be resisted.  The verses and choruses segue into one another with sanguine fluidity whilst all components are unified and working with good impetus.  This medicated mush of neediness is a surge of eager relish built on good tympanic foundations, basic but effective strum weavings and a gob that is very much up for the attack.  The more one plays the more one is liable to jump up, ping about, kick a hole through a door and burn down a public building.  The fault will not be your own, the band are to blame and of course, the lack of tabs.  A smashing number, ooh where's me whizzers.

'Suburban Dreams' has a right old plucky commencement - I am expectant of something routine, banal and made for the listener rather than for the love of it.  The dig that comes at those strangulated by deadhead desires and crippling comforts is bouncy, contrasting and with a serious cutting edge not to be underestimated.  From that perky opening things get meaner, tick box lives are exposed, the misery borne within is revealed.  This may be my least favoured song of the lot but it has its own merit, is well played, refuses to overdose on affect and raiment’s of rhythm and is a steady enough piece to complete an applaudable hat-trick.

The Deceased are back, by heck it has taken a while.  They will hold their own on the back of this, times have changed, the barbs are blunted and spirit stunted - I am kicking back and doing my bit, all I ask of the band is to not fall into generic traps, follow this up with another 3 tracker and make sure they stretch themselves and vary the flavours.  For now, I shall play this some more and look forward to the next 'live' eruption - a Fungalised fuck up no less - hooray!

OCTOPOULPE - ALT-164

Who are the band under the spotlight?  What is the bands style?  How can I best sum up the 13 tracks that I have before me?  Well - the generic answer to all three questions is 'fuck knows' - I hope to add some clarification, fair critique and consideration as I tap out another review regarding a release on 5 Feet Under Records. Apparently this is an 8-tentacled one man band dabbling in math and geek core, with hardcore overtones it seems and a certain restlessness.  The creator hails from Seoul, as though that makes any difference.

The opening brace sum up what I partially expected with a whole array of fidget fuck experimentation copulated with the creative juices of a man with many suckers attached to many sonic pies.  The key to making for a winning end result is already apparent - keep things moving, short and fluent.  'Dwayne' whisper taps, tumble spasms and repeats.  Oral atrocities scream and yell amid a maelstrom of eppy-fucking arrangements that are all fighting for centre stage.  A few showcase stops and starts come, the overall gallop to silent oblivion gets by, albeit in a manner that may be a little too much for some.  It is a very highly orchestrated piece though that works a treat and is soon chased down by the attracting bass grumble that begins 'Dear President'.  This one has a somewhat orthodox opening verse before throwback digital invasions interfere, stutter static confusion is controlled and catapulted our way with a wild yet very tamed abandon.  ADHD acoustica built on rabid sequences that override, jerk spunk and occasionally interbreed.  If one is in need of cerebral tranquillity the switch off button is a must, if one needs to shake up the system and blast parts that have been too long neglected then this is the perfect tonic. 

'Carrure De Leader' twinges and twangs like a spasmodic robo-dog with a set of misfiring nobs.  The orchestration is technically sound and of a misfit/don't give a shit arrangement that is, almost par for the course in this sub-generic whirlpool of madness.  Matters are nailed with swift and accurate seizured application, with the listener left reeling with discordant discombobulation and delight.  This may be good stuff but again, it must be stressed, for me at least, it is small dose noise and not for the already agitated.

'Nervous Breakdown' falls aptly into place and is the best song so far, initial troubles are overcome by a new-school mellow fidget that has orthodox trimmings.  We eventually succumb to scatty swingings that take in a multitude of angsty angles whilst holding on to some semblance of control.  The artistry needs time to be fully appreciated and if the cranium is already a clutterbucket of cacophonic conundrums I suggest you wait til things are more serene before making a judgement on this high energy piece - for me, it is a solid all-action riot.

'Scat Time' begins with idiot ravings, twisted tongues that lead into a frenzy of gusto-soaked fervour that is best labelled as not for those on 'tranquilisers'.  Rantings, sugar-rush rhythms and a distinct insanity pervades this oddment of terse tonage with all instruments placed in a terrifying unit that actually works.  These shortened snippets obviously make a great impact but the following two tracks, which are a little more extended are the true pick of the slam-dunking pops.  'A Dolph In' captures many acoustic aromas, has great fury, turns many corners and hollers with intention whilst somehow confounding the senses, mashing up the membranes and yet making for something that is highly listenable,  The palpitation inducing eruptions, incessant spasm wanks and flourishes of zig-zag zeal all make for a song with vim, vigour and a certain profundity.  'Nothing Matters' has an acidic nihilistic scarring running deep within the flesh of the fiasco and is a genuinely beautiful fuck-up of abstract weight that really does bruise the cranial conkers.  From the whizzing maelstrom we hit calmer waters with big riffing splashes hitting one for six and leaving them gasping.  A fuckin' great effort with an increasing bulldoze effect that really flattens all my resistance.  The big heaving push towards the latter end finalises a number that encapsulates all the gratifying ingredients of the creator under the spotlight.

I grab a batch of four and donate forth some rather breezy assessments so as to keep the review flowing.  'Looping' tosses about, grinds it gears and twitches and twangs before getting the head down and hammering forth some hardcore goodness with many technical touches to keep the ADHD riddled and muso-inspectors absorbed.  'Pissed Off' is a slower sauce that drips with a scalding affect thus leaving the listener 'scorched'.  I find this one a middling sizzler though but do appreciate the accuracy of the application and the fiery incandescence.  It has a good wallop too but just fails to hit my attentive bulls-eye.  'Un Genou Sur La Gorge' has a real futuristic edge but due to its over-experimental nature really gets on my tits.  It is a fractured, and at times, asthmatic piece I can't really take to but, and this is a plus, it alters tack, keeps us guessing and throws in areal angle - I may not like it but this is a necessary inclusion.  The last of the swift quartet is 'Odessa Is Hot Tonight', a real conger eel of spasmoid effect with a twitch-o-tastic, fuckwit elastic static twang that knocks the senses all ways.  The opening nerve wreck calms down, something akin to a song arises and we are tossed around via a creation that does have appeal.  I don't know what the exact appeal is but there ya go - it works.

'I Won't Put That On My Face' summons all sorts of dubious connotations.  The song is a flustered blend of wild hardcore, sharp-edged instrumental manipulation and demonic vocalisations that seem to be spewing seething stress of the most disturbing order.  One of those mood pieces, this has gotta be played at the right time in the right place - do not play whilst on the bog or trying to throw one off the wrist - both could result in serious harm.  There are many quality moments here - one for the real aficionados of this perverted music.  The closure pulses in, raves and rants, steams like a plugged in turd and throws many a tantrum along the way.  'Lucha Libre' is a wrestling riot that does indeed have a total freestyle approach albeit with a clinical assassins edge that takes no prisoners.  Technically brilliant with a listenability factor of 'fuck knows' - this is powerful stuff and sums up all the players finer points and manic delivery.

Fucking hell I am fagged, why do I tackle these malicious CD's?  This isn't what I normally listen to for pleasure but it is a style of music that I can nip in and out of and duly appreciate.  I could say that I am in tune with all that transpires and understand some integral profundities that many musical plebs would miss - that would indeed be bullshit and fraudulent.  What I can say though is I know some folk who may really get off on this and the musician certainly knows his stuff - now that's the truth of it.

AWKLAND - TRIUMVIRAL

A three-piece from Liverpool - tiptoeing perhaps on the cusp of many genres without actually falling and selling their arses short.  I have already reviewed a 4-tracker from this lot, I was provoked into wanting more and expecting more, I think this 3 tracker ups the ante in a quite subtle and rewarding manner.

We open with 'Taking Time', a real stripped naked affair that is rebuilt with care and given a fine old retro feel and a stark and effective honesty.  I am struck by the minimalism and the somewhat quirky angularity that has many off-the-radar post punk seasonings that really does hit an overly-neglected mark.  Many may miss the gist here, they may be of a slant that is too 'generically soaked' and so have a lack of patience for things out of their comfort zone - this is their loss.  What transpires here is lightly textured, somewhat capricious and of a mid-pace so that all can be easily absorbed.  The drift is prone to being on the cusp of an 'accident' at times as well as being shaded with a hint of unpredictability - I like this and it helps the unhurried tempo and gives a little extra excitement.  I am looking forward to seeing this one 'live'.

'Deadly Grace' creeps along with something insidious suggested and something quite observant.  The whole shebang in which we dwell is a nefarious melting pot of ego riddled, 'on the take' shittery - I feel this song nudging into position, taking stock, fuelling its own fires with considerations and then letting matters flow forth with a genuine ease.  For me the winning elements are the nakedness of sound, the clarity and crispness of the guitars.  Again matters are unorthodox, soaked in alternative accoutrements and made up of compartments willing to go ad hoc and yet stay unified.  The longevity factor is also a key commodity - these are not instant hits but growers of the most subtle kind - I play over and the warmth radiated, and I hope the understanding, increases - it is a nice feeling.

We finalise this hat-trick with 'Wah Wah Radio' and from nervous circumstances and static-screwed uncertainties we get a fine string surge, the consistent vocal accents and the regulation stick beat that holds all in line.  What seems to be a routine number (perhaps the most regulated of the lot) comes a few gentle leanings that keeps the listener involved.  The song has snippets of sing-a-long snags, an easy pick up and play approach and moves with a decent fluidity.  Again, time is needed to fully appreciate and of course, many won't be in sync with the sonic stream - that is how the cacophonic cookie crumbles.  I think this is not a bad do at all.

Have I captured what goes on here?  Have I summed up my feelings in a honest and constructive way?  One thing I can say is that the band have my interest piqued and I am looking forward to an ' in the flesh' peek too.  I would suggest the band stick to 3 track releases at this stage and keep the tasters coming, I like what I hear but a full album would be an overdose situation - as I always say - these are honest and personal thoughts - now let us see what the 'live' show brings.

DROPPING LIKE FLIES - TRIGGER 3391133

I have just reviewed the latest offering from these Welsh Wankers (meant in the warmest way possible) and am now dipping back into this 12 tracker hoping for more of the same musical mayhem and thoughtful orchestration that brought many a pleasurable sensation.  I now have the band booked, it seems it is going to be my pleasure, I do what I do with great belief and here are my usual thoughts on some keen and eager noise makers and their spillage.

'Methamphetashame' rises from a static dustbowl of fuzz fuckery and waffle glimpses before setting its fruity, off-balance feet and moving along with a mocking poppery that has a juiciness not to underestimate.  The head addled visions are spilled with relish, the groove has a good snatch and although this is warped nonsense there is a good feel to the 'out-of-it' acoustica that is easy to bop along to.  To fully appreciate I do think stronger drugs are very much in order but I am no fool, this is well-played and has good gumption.

Next up and utterances from the blond barnet beast of the BBC come, a holler and the lottery rolls.  'OCOYC' is a really oddball sub-punk opera with many twists and turns, a few orthodox strum sessions and a few moments when the listeners are tempted to holler and resist.  What the band are doing here is 'thinking' and thankfully avoiding the throw-away releases that come by the bucketload and then just disappear into the great gluttonous mush.  Due to the alternating styles, the semi-abstract creation and the poetical weaving that unravels a shitshow, the band keep one absorbed and enjoying the moment, it is important to stress though the production quality needs to be spot on and that is just what it is - phew.

The title track comes from a soundbite sequence, a mix of words from a maelstrom of bilge, 'Trigger 3391133' soon surges and gets stuck in to dealing out a 6 minute plus effort of multifaceted magic.  A groovy summoning, a gentle preparation and then the song begins and comes along in a garb of many colours, each one complimentary, sometimes garish, sometimes difficult to discern - all the while making for a fabric of sound that keeps one wondering?  I remain unsure as to the actual meaning of the content, it is a bumble-jumble that has me considering many themes with nothing definite nailed - ooh me crust.  Overall though, this is a good effort that needs time, I am listening some more.

The next hat-trick begins with 'One To The Heart, One To The Head' - a concoction with a creeping malevolence that just doesn't leave me convinced.  I find myself always wanting more during this entire foray and although the band vary the blend, keep up the choice musicianship and never rest on their laurels I am left ruddy frustrated and dissatisfied here.  This could be merely a personal thing, it could be a highly pertinent observation, all I can do is offer up my honesty and gut feelings.  'Dust Never Settle's is a better sonic shift and holds its own within the whole cacophonic kaboodle.  The hollers and general flesh-laden bones of sound all help convince. Once more the band are not following the predictable verse/chorus structure that is all well and good but sometimes, becomes a little too much.  The wallop factor here is sound, there is a slight metal/punk hybridisation methinks, I could complain but I have enough to moan about with these swollen testicles of mine.  I shall give a 'not bad' here and move in with conkers cradled.

A clutch of three - 'Game Over Man' admits defeat as the controlling forces grab the conkers of the vulnerable and squeeze mighty hard.  This one has metallic tones, a heavy rock throb and a stutter start effect with a gristly acidity.  One wonders if paranoia, fact or deep suspicion is the main driving force here but rest assured the disgruntled levels are high and when the band put the foot down on the pedal of passion this fuckin' works a treat.  My advice, play loud but burn your white flag - fuck their dictates.  Screams follow, as do wise words - take the substances at your peril and pay the price.  Hours of life wasted, a true reality compromised.  Small doses work, when the control is reversed the defeat is tasted.  'Note To Self' has deep torture residing within, a twisted turn of tonality  and an admittance not to take lightly.  The screwed up sound elevates itself due to its own energy and experience, we have a feisty fuck that wants to kick back against slavery to the pill, to break the shackles of fraudulent escapism - I like this one a lot.     'Top Down' begins with wild maniacal ravings, a slow steady preparation and then a dig at the damned and diluted comes.  This is a difficult one to get into as it changes tack without adhesive contrast.  I suspect this is a number that will work well in the 'live' pit, especially with a few in-tune 'erberts singing along and going at it when the band turns up the heat.  Not a fave of mine but it has many good elements and thrash outs that I do appreciate. A smattering of more edginess is a vital ingredient with the final tumult a joy.

'Careering' gets an immediate thumbs-up as we begin with a verbal statement from Mr Price as Edward Lionheart in what is, my favourite horror film.  The quick assault of the racket and the relentless focus all keep me entertained and the short running time means this one comes, goes, leaves a ringing in the lugs and nothing more - that is good punkery if I am honest.  The next track opens with convoluted waffle that is a mere design to control - and then we have a song of sheer mastery that has a delectable opening groove that sets the standard to a whole new zenith.  That opening verse is something else, the cruising and calming chorus a choice contrast and the whole melodic shebang is a spicy dish to partake of over and over again whilst taking heed of the lyrics and bouncing to the belligerent kick back.  I tell ye, that opening sequence is a real pinnacle and really lifts the senses to a different level - great stuff and there is no impotent rage here - it is all upright and very real – spunk, spunk!

And back to another gem utterance, this time from that sinister revenge artist known as Dr Phibes (fuckin' brilliant stuff).  A real strange piece follows, classic off-hand abstractions dealing with I know not what (am I missing the obvious) but 'The Vet With The Melted Face' is a good do with plenty of action, a sub-whimsical streak, a throwback to 'Vault of Horror' visions and a lunacy not to be underestimated.  There is an uplifting essence within the weft and weave that I consider a bonus.  We close this hard-impacting and thought-riddled CD with the Euro-tickled, sub-folk bout of optimistic observance that flies by under the name of 'Papers Please (Still No Better)'.  This is a great turn of events and a sturdy full stop on which to end proceedings.  It reveals added depths to the band, shows nouse and it is a really rousing track to listen to - have that ya buggers, I need add no more!

A fair effort with some sincere pinnacles here folks.  Some tracks take a little adjusting to, the odd moment passes me by without flicking the todge of interest but on the whole this is a mighty good concoction of considered cacophony - my advice is - invest, invest, invest!

JULIES DEAD - KILL YOUR IDOLS

A band hailing from Northampton, one I haven't seen in the 'live' pit and one that is a side-project for The Mispelt bass and gob man, namely Dunk Herring.  The latter band I have worked with for years, they are a fuckin' darn good unit on a pinnacle, this 4-tracker had my curiosity levels raised as Mr H passed it to me following a good noisy blow-out.  I was in a vulnerable position and the vulture of the vibe pounced, here are my thoughts without any bitterness whatsoever.

'Kill Your Idols' resonates before I even play the darn tune, yeah, I am in sync. In a world of Gods and Monsters we really do need to stop making more false idols and murderers of self-belief.  This opening track starts with a superb sub-sound grub scrub that leads into the scuffle-shuffle orthodox procedure of the first verse which has a fine unwashed essence as well as a good clobber factor.  There is a dark edge here, a vicious blade forced across the meat of the eavesdropper’s throat, it is done with a spiteful panache, a growing restlessness and an increasing power presence.  From the first play I was intrigued, with each rotation I became more convinced of a concrete song that does what it does with an understated authority - it works for me.

The follow-up to this snagging opener is slagged and slabbed as 'Available?', a gruff dg at the online market place where people spend on bilge, gobble up unnecessary objects and mither each other for no reason whatsoever.  The bargaining goes on, each party trying to get a little bit more with minimal effort.  I love the catchy chorus here and the constant flow that never lets up as long as there is life in the twangers and twatters soul.  A real feisty piece dealing with one of life’s simple annoyances.  Thank fuck I avoid the 'buy and sell' ball ache, I am happy keeping the head clattered with rustbucket rhythms like this - it is absolutely crackin' stuff tha' knows.

'Spam' is not a song paying homage to that delicious slab of meat you can only access via the use of a key.  No, it deals with the zombies who bow down to the marketing messages and who have abandoned their minds to the digital drain.  Fat fuck bass, a screwing twist and a cavernous holler with distant whoa hoas, the first verse is a breeze and the segue into the ensnaring chorus is a joy.  A quick pulsing tune with energy and control in perfect unity.  The blend leans towards the realm of productions 'garage'd' and for me, the whole concoction thrives as a result.  An inner simplistic break, strings lightly manipulated, a heave ho and down the back stretch we go - it is all highly attractive noise.

The final fling is the icing on the cake, a vicious piece regarding a relationship break-up and a song with a very deliberate modus operandi and well-aimed acidity.  'I Hate You More (Than I Hate Myself)' is vile poison splashed into the mush of those deemed betrayers.  A soul has been exposed, used and abused and left for dead, the kick back comes in the form of a sinewy eruption of sonic malevolence that really does drag one into the melee.  This is a fascinating explosion that just holds onto the reins of sanity, I like it so much it was duly selected for a Fungalised Song of the Month - whoomph.

Hey and that is that – no time wasted, praise aplenty and I am outta here.  I dash into more DIY realms with the sonic shaft a little more perky and with the dangling gonads trembling like a couple of electric chestnuts – it feels good tha’ knows.

$T33D​​​$​​​_UV_L​​​Ü​​​V - THE GLORY OF LOVE

Music is the spice of life they say but, as per, the spice rack holds many flavours - some harsh, some soothing, some enhanced when blended but all of value in varied doses. Here I partake of an 8 track seasoning from a band made up of, and I quote 'a loose collective of outsider ex-musicians who find a perverse pleasure in taking the Reo Speedwagon power ballad template and applying an almost but not quite lo-fi aesthetic to over produced power rock ballads of the 1980's.'.  Yes, the mind fuckin' boggles, the senses are set to a state of alert but I keenly dip in and assess with the usual passion.  For myself and the sonic scene, I must place my fingers in the undergrowth of varied vibes, I may get scratched, stung or even bitten at times, but now and again, I discover some great verdant growth.

The first sprout of sonic goodness arises, I reach down, 'Love (Is What I Have For You)', is plucked and is admired for its beautifully understated emanations.  Nadir noise making with a bedroom quality end mix that gives the lethargic lilt its true character.  There is a sweet 'loser-esque' edge to this, an honesty and a subdued no-nonsense plea borne from a man relying on the beautiful basics rather than the affected codswallop.  The uncomplicated basic beat and the unfussy arrangement make this an intrinsically bare-boned DIY treat with tenderness a real key facet - not bad at all.

'My Baby Is A Lady (To Me)' waltzes in with lackadaisical, weighted down sub-purpose before the first verses develops in a style that gently hints at promise. There is a sweet ascension to a tinkle-touch chorus that refuses to go 'over the top' and mar matters with over-processed nonsense.  The great aspect of this tickle is its approachability and the unassuming manner in which it offers up a serenade to a target of softy-soap, fluffy-bubble love.  Say what you will, the fact is, this isn't earth-shattering noise, it isn’t technical brilliance to toss off to but it is DIY delightfulness to easily embrace.

Tracks 3 and 4, the first 'I Don't Wanna Rock And Roll (Without You) is a sombre dirge that works its brief magic due to nothing more than a ticker-touched transparency and a blatant brevity that helps the song surface and survive.  This is not a fist-pumping arse mover, it is musical medicine to be taken as and when, not a daily dose to dope out on but, I find it sincere, without offence and meltingly meandering - I think these are all good things (I could be wrong).  'Sloppy Woman' is a niggled song, a finger-pointing foray that pinpoints an idler, a look at a loose lady who may be slightly slacker than we deem.  This is an angular grind out that has some favourable essences especially when one is in the mood to wallow in some low-down dog dirty sludgery.  My advice to the moaning man is - get ya fuckin' pinny on and get yer duster out. Equality ma'an, equality!

'Sad Is Bad' is a groovy little devil without really sticking the prongs of the tonal trident right up your attentive jacksie.  The ticklings donated put me into situation 'flummoxed' and I duly have to dredge the grey goo in search of influences and similar sounding serenades. I come up short which always please me, perhaps I am overlooking the obvious.  This one does little but makes its mark, I have little to add.  'Crash In Mind' is a slate-grey snippet that fails to raise any rewarding sensations within this Fungalised carcass.  It has a certain potential that seems to be not tapped and that leads to a distinct frustration.  There is a good airiness, a smooth flow and yet I can't help but feel dissatisfied.  I am rankled by this, I do think the terse travelling time of the tune saves matters somewhat!  As a contrast to this brief overspill we get the long and rather over-extended toned trek passed our way under the name of 'Cult Cuties'.  This one, of course, is marred by the 9 minutes plus running time and the lack of variation in the delivery but the underscore of festive suggestion and the overall jangle jar may appeal to the commercially warped.  I listen on in, given certain 2 minute flourishes I can cope but, my punk streak yells out loud 'turn it off and move on' and I duly obey.  This isn't trash, it isn't noise to be thrown under the bus of brutal appraisals but it is of a style and orchestration that just doesn't work for me - I can't help this, and why should I?

'Dancin' On The Radio' closes the octet of angularity and is a composition that I feel is best likened to the Division of Joy where melody was counterpunched by an hollowed-out earthiness with something slightly unsettling occurring.  There is a paradoxical innocence also at work here and what we end up with is a delight-inducing drift of harmless music-making that has a tinge of something sad and something content (the contradictions keep on coming).  Yes, a very satisfactory way to close a CD methinks, the final hollers sinking into the silence kind of sum things up too.

I don't like everything on offer here but some sounds do arouse the aural buds. Overall this is a CD with all the goodness of earthy off-the-cuff unaffected persuasion - this kind of stuff always needs someone to fly the flag for - here is a little pendant waving of my own.

DROPPING LIKE FLIES - ANOTHER DEADLY VIRUS, ANOTHER WONDER DRUG

A message, an address shared, 2 discs received.  The band hail from Cardiff, I have them booked for a gig - on the back of this CD it is a wise choice and, once again, Fungal expects. The kind of music on offer is... well that would be telling and, if the truth must be told, fuckin' foolish of me.  The nonet of noise proffered for a Fungalised dissection ended up with a review such as thus:-

Ditty one and as I see Millie Small hitch up her knickers, put her hands over her lugs and run for the hills, I wallow in the choice dustbin clatter of 'Lollipop Punks' which is a fine opening outburst touched with love, fondness and many spiked accents.  The opening hollers are insane, the initial thrust inescapable and the wildman explosion that follows the fuck-funky verse is a joy and displays minds on the cusps, musicians not willing to be shackled.  A good thumping wallop drives matters onward, the whole wrap of the lunacy works well and this is an opening number that gets the hackles raised and the lower limbs tapping.  Riotous ad-rhythmic roasting in one sub-nasty pasty of toxic DIY gravy - cor!

'Failure Is Always An Option' twinges, twangs, pulsar squelches with a radioactivity not to be trusted. From the initial intro, great dollops of heaving frustration are slapped onto your dinnerplate of attentiveness by cacophonic cooks with much to say and many ingredients to throw in to each and every mix. This wriggling fucker gets better and better with each and every play - the heave ho and pronounced measure is all fine fodder for my noise hungry gut and the segue between pre-chorus and chorus is a moment to savour over and over again.  The band are hitting some serious sonic hotspots here, the gravel-grit gob spill is marvellous and the whoa' hoas, the all-round healthy vitality and the gist of defiance is part and parcel of a good fuckin[' song - oh aye.  'Walk It Off Son' is an erudite rap-punk piece that oral spills with incessant intrigue. If you care to take time, it gets you thinking and... questioning.  We have been through revealing times and seen many wither, some die and a great swathe make real sell-out twats of themselves.  This is a fuckin' powerhouse of malignant music that takes aim, pulls the trigger and blows away the masquerade of cushy-cosy thinking many are making sure they wallow in.  The recent years have opened my eyes, they have left me disgusted, bemused and lacking in patience - this blow out reminds me why - what magnificence street opera of vicious statement making and, with some solid noise to boot - smashing folks.

'The Scum Always Rises Back To The Top' keeps the interest levels high and offers new sensations and solid noise that has retro new wave suggestions and up-to-speed power mongering with a sweet anarcho essence that certainly isn't wasted on me.  The opening bass grumble, the mocking tones, the breeze into verse one and the general saturation of sound really have me on my toes and the alternative singing style only enhances matters by the bucketload.  Fist-pumping action comes, wise words warn, the ongoing blizzard of feisty and shit-kicking melody works a fuckin' treat and has my jowls salivating for more sonic goodness. What an uproarious splendour - oh yes folks.

'Little Joseph's Wet Dream' is massive - it grinds, states, calls out and pleads. It is a molten overflowing brew of great frustration in a world of lies, mistrust and info-duff distractions that keep everyone divided, distraught and, in many cases... defeated.  This is a thoughtful episode of resent-laden rhythm making done with a sinewy prowess that will not take any prisoners.  There is a great hunger, a noted desire and a real 'fucked off' energy that makes sure the band hit the ground running.  the overall powerhouse of sound should kick the fuck out of your cosy seeking sensibilities and have you foaming to turn this shitshow upside and to get off your arse and do something against the grain.  The news is a lie, the dictates don't matter - if only you can think for yourself.  What  a great song, the final wind down is not beaten, it is the ultimate question you need to consider.

'Starve A Fever, Feed A Cold' starts with subdued sci-fi investments before developing into a vicious number that sends a chill up the spine whilst spilling words of true horror.  The ill-temper and utter spittle soaked disgust combine with a thrashing spasm-fest that is difficult to fully grasp.  The band seem to be playing things with a reactive, fuck-it and see naturalness here and so leaving the listener guessing as to what will come next.  Although this is not my favourite, and I find matters a little cluttered, I appreciate the creativity and the wealth of talent exposed in a tune that has great impact and abundance of firepower.  Scary stuff folks.

'The Injectors Are Defective In My Ejector Seat' thumps away with resisting vigour, rises high and really does whip itself up into a glorious foaming frenzy.  Defence of the innocent, a kick back against the creators of the big dumb down dilution and a refusal to digest the filth that the bastards on top proffer like pearls to thick-fuck swine.  I adore the vicious attack here and the fact that the band have the confidence not to rush matters and to make sure they get their point across.  Again we see the arrangement not follow the usual 'like me' format and the full-frontal drive and somewhat provocative lyrics only help enhance the overall eruption.  Nasty and nice - what a combo!

Penultimate track we are here, 'You And Me Against The World' sums up how we outsiders should approach this big fuck off con, unity is the way and yet the people remain divided and those together just wanna talk, socialise and idle.  Fuel such as this is not taken lightly, I play, absorb, feed to coals and crack on - I offer great appreciation to those donating dinnage like this and forcing me to tap my feet, kick some shit and to keep on walking against that drain grain.  This song is a water-splash of invigorating encouragement that hammers home its point with unadulterated passion. I like it, there is little to add, if this doesn't change your attack you are finished.

We culminate this 9 track adventure with the rather strange '33 - Step By Step' - a funk-a delic bastard hybrid that leaves me a trifle cold.  Rappoid, still irritated and of a new ilk, appreciation must be given to the band for not resting on their rhythmic laurels and making sure (at such a late stage) we are still left on the edge of the guessing seat.  The more I play the more I warm to matters and my eclectic neurons are gently tickled but, this is not really for me.  The message is sound though and we really are guilty of not doing enough - darn the fuckin' rebels methinks.

Well, I have jumped in, played to buggery and I hope I have been honest, fair and exact.  The band are booked, the show is anticipated, I am expectant of a darn good do, in the meantime I have another CD to assess - there is no rest for the wicked and those bombarded with ruddy good vibes.

THE KRAYONS - ACID REFLUX

Fuckin' hell, when did The Krayons last play a gig for Fungal?  In fact, when did I last see or hear anything from these guys?  This release has been a long time coming, the band have been side-tracked by family duties and 'life' - it happens, music is joy, the generic labels many attach to it are mere nonsense.  Here I am accosted by an octet of acoustic madness, an 8-pronged attack on my senses done without apology - I am thinking that I may have an inkling as to what to expect, I could be utterly wrong which is never a bad thing.

'Buckfast Wanker' hits the rails running and wastes no time in thrashing out a straight-ahead idiot attack that is all done and dusted within 39 seconds.  This may seem like an episode in immature, moronic music making - it is and there ain't fuck all wrong with that.  It has all been done before, so fuckin' what - this has good energy, a strong thrust and refuses to fuck around - job done.

On to 'Caged' we go, with a taut wire-twist and an opening verse that starts with great frustration before upping the ante and kicking and screaming with great bucketloads of vim, vigour and sonic violence.  Ensnared within ones mental restraints this sees a band foam at the mouth, indulge in a frenzied spasm riot with all hands clawing, scratching and kicking up a stink.  Cro-Magnon conker clobbering with no apology, stress relieving and with plenty of sound guitar and stick twatting - yes.  'Wakey Spoons Is Fuckin' Massive' is a lunatic lout shout about - personally I would burn every fuckin' Wetherspoons to the ground and make the land left behind into a multitude of mini-nature reserves - now that's punk!  This is a brutish holler along with all hands to the pisspot pumps and all throats torn asunder.  Cymbals tap, driving screw, raw yelling, the rest is what it is with a middle break dipped in sludge and hardcore posturing (complete with a sable outline of damning connotations) - have it and jump like a bastard.

On we go, no change in format, no change in the approach.  Fast and juddering 'Lost Control' prolongs the intro and sets the stage in spasmodic style before the opening verse is rammed home like a venom-spitting member up a quite vulnerable jacksie of unbridled innocence.  The band are releasing demons, getting things off their pimpled chests and expelling a fury borne from many factors.  The skanky segment is, for me at least, a hint at where the band may find greater success and I reckon they should follow-up this upstroked section with more attention and maybe go for a full on release of contrasting flavours.  Not bad but could be better (nudge, nudge lads).

'Rennies' scuffs and scratches with a fine bouncing accent that works well alongside the gruff and gravel gobwork.  A feisty fuck this that is a real shit-kicker with a need.  The need is obvious - the liver is pickled, the head is sozzled, the body demands.  The medication sought is the salvation of many a pisspot - I am utterly convinced this shit doesn't work and it is all in the head but hey, needs must methinks.  This is another short, sharp prong that comes, goes, strums, blows - and that is all that is required.

The final hat-trick, 'I Am The Dog' continues the unpretentious and down-to-earth genitals out approach.  With a spiked up version of the Herbert-ised Fluke, done in an unabashed, abridged and basic style that works a treat.  This is what it is, music like this will never win a medal for profundity, originality or indeed,  its approachability but, it is good racket-making with good relish and an uncomplicated idiocy that appeals to my more unga-bunga caveman instincts - ooh where's me club!  Here's to a night on the piss with the Slag Brothers! 'Army Of Brendas' seems to have lost the plot and has a hankering after those lasses who serve up chips, stews, cakes and creams whilst bathing in a steam of fat and boiling custard.  Again we adopt a no-nonsense (fully nonsense) drive that takes us from A to B in 1 minute and 12 seconds (no fuckin' about, no fucks given, why should there be). I considered this glorious codswallop with no ambition to be anything more - if ya gonna dance tha' best get moving.

Last up and 'No Way Out' steams ahead, slaps down a good walloping sizzle of forthright fuckery with the temperament of tone all there to be admired.  A longer track with the crew showcasing great efficiency and altering the pace with something akin to subtlety.  Gruff as per, clattering and awash with irksome irritation.  This one takes time to adjust to due to the previous flash attacks, but there is more depth here and a growing stealth that the band would do well to cultivate further.  They play this one tight, there is an urgency that has an inexorable advancement not to be quelled - take it, or leave it - I think it rounds off a decent CD with good welly.

This is what it is, unrepentant racket making with a muscle easing release - the question is though, will we have to wait another 10 years for the next release or will the band get their arses in gear and start to stretch themselves musically - you can guess what I am hoping or... or can you?

NOMATRIX - REAWAKEN

I have worked with this lot for many a manky moon, they are good guys and make some good sounds.  They are humble, expect nowt and crack on with a glint in the sagacious eye - they know the crack, we are going nowhere but the art is in the doing - this is another release with 16 tracks for me to penetrate with my critical todge - I thrust away and do what I do with respect and honesty - sometimes people agree sometimes they don't, I am doing my bit for bands that matter and fly under the radar, on we go.

We commence with the 'Hate (It)' - a ramrodding rapier of rhythm that cuts to the quick and dices our attention with great aplomb.  This initial splash is a keen and eager smash of sonic splattering that Nomatrix do so fuckin' well.  Here we have a taste of that which is to come and the reason why I have them booked again for two more forays onto this septic shit-isle.  A splendid burst and one that gets the fingers tapping in double quick time and the juices dripping for me. Fuck the flow and make sure you dig deep and make your own awkward direction.  The quick counterpunch follow-up is slagged as 'Out Of Frame'.  A delicious bass belly-grumble against the wannabe rebels who have been tempered, tamed and tossed off to fuckin 'Dilution-Ville'.  This is an old song given a 21st century kick in the globes, it has great whipping life, a fury in all areas and wallops away with an effect that I am happy to be billowed by.  Concrete cacophonic conker clobberin' with a fine gusto.

'Monotone Madman' is a veritable beauty, one I can't stop playing.  It deals with the paranoid punks, the flatline end result that showcases little progress. The ripping riffery, the directness of the assault and the fist-pump' join in' chorus all have me salivating and the short running time is just a cheery cherry on the cake.  Before we know it we are thrown into the repeat brain-melt closure, the urgency to finalise matters hits us, the full stop comes, what a minor pip? Fuck the monotone, fuck the monochrome - splash yer own colour scheme with spirit.

Track 4, 'Shite Talk' - it spills into the lugs from here, there and everywhere - my advice, turn off, walk away, tell the informer to belt up.  I have never been one to tolerate small talk or make an effort with twitter-twatter when there is no need to.  This is a vicious little perisher that has a good pounding accent and a sweetly acidic splash that burns to the core.  Clear, crisp and of course very fuckin quick.  'Rituals' has a fine hollowed feel, that brings to the fore a slightly haunted aspect the band build upon with a song about time wasted on idiot piffle whilst achievements and ambitions are banished.  The tortured hollers of 'I Don't Like It, I Don't Need It' touches an eavesdropping nerve, I hate tradition, procedure and routine and piss on it wherever I can.  Some deem it as a safety belt, some use it to control and be in charge, it is all a consumption of good energy and productivity.  I find this a real emotive belter and another addition to my list of 'Nomatrix' faves.  It is rather a long list but I make no apology - I like this band.

I rattle on, 'School Race' is a jackhammer head smash that has a stunning power and no-nonsense gift.  The whole educational regime is fine for those who slot in line and swallow crap, it ain't great for those bored by piffle, resistant to shackles and defiant of filling ones head with useless bilge.  I love the fury here, it takes me back to a time when school was not an option, the fuckers wanting a puppet on a string, they got a fucked off waster who took many years to settle - thanks for nothing.  This is a blistering beauty folks - do not fall into line with any regime or genre.  'There Is No Utopia' deals with the shackled, the dumbed-down, the utterly defeated - you know the ones, 99% of the fuckin' mush baby.  This is a sober tune with dead-eyed bass, crisp skin and stick work and a somewhat frustrated edge.  The vicious edge is slightly abraded in part and the blend of each area is just a little too contrasting to make for the usual easy Nomatrix listen.  Ok, nothing outstanding but the message is bang on the button.  Are you activated or did you get deactivated without even knowing it?

The next song is a touching moment and one filled with harsh-reality and an admission of the lunatic lottery. 'Goodbye My Friend' has obvious words, it is the honest and transparent anguish that hits home, the outpouring of a ticker touched by tragedy, the brutal facing up to a fuckin' duff deal.  We have all been there, the direct route the band take to expel their emotive angst works a treat and the lead vocalist must be applauded for the overspill here - cracking stuff for a theme with cruel connotations.  A change in attack next, 'Reawaken' calmly bass bumbles in, a tight twist is executed via the six-strung weapon of acoustic war.  Pressurised head wanking comes, the tension is consistent and the edge bleak - there is no escape, the days flash by, the turmoil inside seems to be endless - this is a heavy duty brain-buster that is best played when the mood is bright.  Do not mix medication and this musical moment - you have been warned.  'Like And Follow' is as quick as the attention span of the digitally drained mush who use a potentially positive platform to be a font of all knowledge, feed a fear, soothe the inner needs and of course, to cultivate ones feeling of egocentric superiority.  A terse tirade that leaves me little to add - it will keep the 'live' shows moving that is for sure - and that is all I can ever ask for.

Several stamps of the sonic equipment and then 'Agenda' rants and raves against the government (whoever they may be) and all their scheming ways and using and abusing bollocks.  Suited and booted people looking to rise above, rule and feed their insatiable self-absorbed appetites - these fuckers are detached, are getting off on their power trip and are making decisions which affect millions but not themselves.  They play the game, this sober and sussing tune damns all and throws in something different - a definite grower that soon has the foot tapping and the bollocks of belligerence bouncing. A song close to my heart is 'Goodbye Nature' - a tragic statement that will see the world and the human mush go round the u-bend and flushed to oblivion.  The cunts are crippled by side-tracking shittery whilst real life gets clobbered - but ah, all is well they all say, I am living the best life, look at my profile (fuckin' bastards).  This is a rushing song that has great flavour, pisses against the con of progression.  The hail of 'goodbye' should also include your relatives and loved ones because that will be the ultimate price.  A great song, is anyone fuckin' listening though - the pogoing masses are not even bothered - bah.

Delighted, enraged and determined I press on with this fine release and enter the last quartet.  'Alone' has a magnetic riff before calling a halt to the sextet of strings and allowing the quartet of cables to do their thing whilst the frontman gives it up for the fuckers who dumb you down and make sure they are the self-appointed Gods of the new warped law that sees many treading on eggshells.  I like the almost beaten down approach of this and the 'tired out' affect having to deal with all this negative twaddle.  A subtle change and neatly done.  'We Are Fallen' is a long-term fave - a pronouncement, a clatter, a liquid move that will not be halted as it rallies back against the pointless routine that ensnares and takes away many facets and possibilities. I am deeply enamoured by this number, it is etched through with the Nomatrix essences - I have reviewed before so will add little else.

Last two, 'The New Religion' - a stable piece of observational material that sees the many talking, the few walking, the mush all spouting like Gods of sagacious authority whilst all the while matters fall into the maelstrom where a shit pit awaits.  Hate reigns supreme, division delights in the dilution - the few remain disgusted.  A mix and match moment with emotion carefully tattooed through a song of valued strength and slow-moving persuasion.  These numbers with the foot off the gas help accentuate the overall thought-processes and genuine quality of the band.  Think on.  We close with the unsettled and prophetic 'Dead Wrong'.  The state of play and eventual outcome is plastered over every pixelated screen you cast your blinkered peepers upon and despite great preaching and almost plausible words of wisdom there is a deep-rooted recognition that we are fucking each other every which way possible.  The controlled angry, despair and passion spills over with a basic chorus that is pertinent and delivered with a damning drive.  A piece with greater strength than first realised, a piece that some may say has a dystopian and misanthropic angle, it is a closing number that deals with facts I am afraid to say, have it, wake up, enjoy, change your output.

A fuckin' fine CD this, one with thought, no shying away from matters that are of import and one that is laden with power, good intent and an acidic energy fuelled by an ongoing dissatisfaction and disgust.  As the rebels flounder, the main bulk buckles, and the pleasure seekers continue to believe it is all about them, I sign off delighted but equally disgusted - we must continue to walk against the grain and use noise such as this, to inspire.