Grow Your Own Records occasionally pop up in my e-mail inbox and gently hint at requesting a review. I am an acoustically idiotic man who does too much as it is but I like what transpires here and am happy to scribble the odd assessment. Under the spotlight here is a band I am not familiar with, they sound like they may give one the 'tonal itch' and have 5 tracks here to start off a rhythmic rash that I may regret.  Info is scarce online, they appear to be a 3-piece and have a good angular output, an output that instantly snagged the attention of this old cacophonic cunt that is for sure.

'Heart Breaker' opens with a superb rust on the crust with the vocals alive, happening and hungry.  This quick acidic she-shout is a great energetic piece of face-slapping and done with a gusto I am easily drawn toward. After a life of listening to many flavours of noise I am still stricken when the offering is terse, tonally active and laden with zest - here we have such a piece and at 1 minute 22 seconds I find the timing utterly exact.  There is a great snotty retro-vibe going on with some revitalising youthfulness that we must encourage – it is all fuckin’ joyous despite the acidic verbals.  'Selling Out' could be about many of the bands I have seen dilute their output and chase the coin whilst many new breed outsiders get a duff deal. Being close to the ground reveals all kinds of insincere shittery taking place but I am happy to throw the frauds to one side and move on with the fresh faced fuckers whose beliefs are not blemished.  This punchy number opens with great bounce and pertinent questions whilst having a manic feel throughout.  The vocals are honest and lucid, the squirming fakes who have sold their arse to the Devil can almost be seen, and the incessant rumble-grumble is all the more effective due to the lucid lead lass being so fresh and fruity in her approach.  A cracking snippet borne form yore, given a kick to the fore.

'Riot' is typical spiky fodder that I have heard a million times before. This doesn't detract from the fact that the boisterous brick thrown our way has sound aim, many nasty edges and a great degree of life affirming wallop.  There is a fine holler surfing on the scuzz whilst the sticks make sure all areas keep foamed and frothed and the destination unsure. A midway change in tack sees matters ascend to the effervescent situation that leads to the final wipe-out silence.  The speedburst is a rewarding moment and takes into the regular sounding 'What's Your Problem' - a ditty built of orthodox verse and chorus trademarks with the usual verbals questioning the cunts in control.  I love it, the sing-a-long snatch consumes my resistance, the street-edged reality and the earthiness are what make this bastards wheels turn.  DIY can be, and usually is, a marvellous thing - here I feel, we have a prime example. I need not pontificate or over-elaborate anymore - the proof is in the pudding - brilliant, and with added saxiness.

'Nothing You Can Do' closes this fine penta-punk package with a deep mean growl, an open and fresh spouting with a real fine trash and smash quality brought to life by each and every component that are individually brash, unprocessed and noisily natural.  There is much snot snorted forth, a fuckin’ robust defiance and, as said, a real purity of sound that has not been screwed through via the processing department.  Smashing stuff and one with a final crawl that will hopefully open the next EP and bring some delicious continuation and more of the same please.

Well, I find this a well-aerated, soul-lifting and healthy clobbering burst of proper streetpunk that is played for the lad/lass in the thoroughfare who needs a kick up the arse and a spring in their step.  I am impressed and just hope the band keep it as raw and as energetic as this and keep away for the lure of making music for others instead of themselves. Cracking.



Andy Goz is a creative force who will not bend or buckle under the idiot demands of conformist music making and all that processed and prick-kissing nonsense that goes with it.  He creates, shrugs and does what he does.  I have reviewed many examples of his acoustic overspills, I am keen to always help the DIY doofers and here goes another punt at... maybe something, maybe nothing, the art is in the doing don't ya know.

'Ghost Of First Responders' begins matters with a lively momentum and some resounding clashes of many animated elements.  The vocal addition is slaggy and cool, the underflow of bubbling bass larva gives the whole operation an extra authority and what we have here is the old mixed with the new, the cacophonic shot through with the crude whilst all the while the creators know what they are doing and are making for a rewarding bout of maladjusted musical mayhem that is just kept within the rubber room of decency.  'Been Asleep And Can't Wake Up' is a sludgy splodge of moving music that doesn't have an immediate impact but is a number that slowly invades the epidermal layer and wins a certain level of conviction.  The whole mush of masturbated pseudo-melodic molestation slowly seeps through the outer flesh, pervades with a shifty know-how and, surprise, surprise, has the misfit inside tapping its digits to the buggered beat of ill-intent.  A strange piece for sure but that is how the limbless ones operate - I remain unsurprised.

'I Got Shoes' is a devious little bastard with decadent designs. An early groove is tattooed deep with fuzz-radio gobbage and the atypical LT languid lilts.  A sloppy sneer and a threat to disgrace the holy substrates of the afterlife and the true underhand sinisterism of the song is exposed.  As matters progress a greater gratification in the promised misdeed is blatantly brandished - I shudder and smile with secret passions.  I have reviewed 'Huffin' on my site already - it is an exciting tune that the old glue-sniffers will be able to relate to as the 'Wah, Wah Monster' arises from the depths of the mind and the aromas of the chemical head-fuck invade the nasal passages.  I like it!  I also like the upbeat rhythm of 'Somebody's Getting Paid' - a real fractured wire wank travels in a rickety rock and roll way whilst the tympanic passenger maintains balance and the snotted hollerer states an obvious case where bass controls in front of and behind the scenes at all times.  When shit hits the fan, all goes seemingly well - dosh is exchanging hands and some fucker is on the make - bah.  A good mover and groover this with plenty of upheaval in the mix.

Further into the realms of the rabid restlessness and 'The Girls' is a real mean fucker with a fully-focused zoning in that is rudely interrupted by some head-jarring mania and a few spoken disbeliefs from lasses bewildered.  The opening segment is a marvellous moment and one the band should grab by the gonads and manipulate into a new darker construct with full emphasis lain on this riffing accent - tis nasty stuff ma'an.  'Don’t Fall Down And Hurt Yourself' travels with a strait-jacketed focus on tracks lain out in a perfect straight line with no transgressions into nearby cacophonic realms allowed.  The bass is the main driver and stands on the footplate of the acoustic train and keeps all fires stoked and the steam rising.  The plumes that are left behind pollute ones senses and has them appreciating a good old blow-out done with a certain degree of control. 

Further into the disjointed carcass of sound we probe with the spasm-retch of 'A Sincere Apology' dished out with energetic wide-eyed infatuation for all things flurried and whipped up.  This is a maelstrom of delirium borne from a monomaniac with one sole intention - to avoid the routine.  The breathless and almost anxious mania culminates in an overflow of almost catastrophic disjointed discordance - somehow matters are just kept on the right site of decent.  'Big Ones' is a real dirty groomer that strolls with an almost arrogant insouciance that gives the song a real cock-sure swagger.  The compression of the multifaceted music and the eventual nag-effect all make for a song that comes forth like an enveloping melodic mist one is unapologetically enshrouded by.  Short, strangulating, supremely saturated - if you play this one loud you need to be very careful - your inner giblets will turn to juice and your rectum may prolapse - please, do not blame me.

'The Destroyer' seems to hybridise the dark gothic tones and moody temperament of Joy Division with the oral tones of Lou Reed.  Throw into the mix the creators own DIY accents and what we get is an interesting sprawl-drawl that drags one back to times of then before giving one a prod up the jacksie to get them back to the here and now.  Again, we have a tuneful biscuit to dip carefully in your assessing tea which I suggest you suck on its very slowly so as to appreciate all flavours and avoid a fleeting flop. 'Sunny' has great energy and solar-glinting accents that gradually becoming less dazzling whilst the vocal virus grows in its potency.  The underscore of the song relies on a grubby and highly magnetic bassline as well as some skittering sticks that help with the overall nervous energy of the piece.  The passion overflows, the ending comes out of the blue - I am intrigued.

The finale is a crass drawl sprawl that I am not keen on at all.  'If I Knew Her Name' is shag and tell deviancy dragged out over too long of a course with no real highs and no real lows.  The content is not my thing and the lack of overall expression and nob-tingling zeniths is a faux pas for a final track.  It is a real shame to end on a duff dabble - sometimes that is just the way the boisterous biscuits crumbles.  

The tangents, the barbs, the misdirections, the acoustic erections have all been negotiated yet again and I end up as puzzled, piqued and pleasantly tickled by another unpredictable cum predictable paradox that is what it is.  If you are in the loop, or read my musical meanderings, you will know what has just transpired, if not, jump on it!



My 6th venture into the silver-circle donations proffered by this 3 piece from Teesside.  I am not one to rush matters and commit a cacophonic crime by throwing down a brief assessment whilst giving a CD minimal time - I may have a backlog and I may have many matters on the go but I believe it is always better to give noise good time, especially with bands like The Inklings who don't stick within distinct generic boundaries.  Here is another slab of Fungalised opinions, on a dozen deliveries of varied flavour.

'Puppet' begins with gentle textures, the opening verse deals with an entrapment, a slave who can't say 'no'.  The authority of the vocal is commanding and the slip into the whispered chorus is ideal. This damning cutlet is ensued by a keyed moment that keeps the listener intrigued and guessing.  The arrangement grows in stature, the band are an knoeledgeable outfit with obvious influences not borne from any specific scene.  The impetus and melody increases and when I rack up the volume, so does my interest and appreciation levels.

'Four Seasons In One Day' is poetical majesty and played out with care, precision and a blatant design that will not be rushed.  An emotive roller-coaster is shackled and kept under tepid tonal blankets whilst the words are delivered over a tender soundscape that is perfect for the job at hand. It could be said the The Inklings spend too much time within the peripheral greys of the spectrum and fail to jump into the multicoloured zones many partake of.  I could agree with this but hey, let us applaud what the band do and how well they do it. This is not everyday music but it has its place and is decent output indeed. 'Welcome TO The Light' promises to dash from the sombre into the sparkling, it begins with a a bold pronouncement and has a good beat to the verse. A few inner poundings, a slick move and an interception of alter rhythm before a repeat and then the sanguine chorus comes and goes with good impact had.  Once again we have a very recognisable track with an overspill of meritorious points to ponder further.  Comfortable indeed.

'Occam’s Razor' has tranquil tones, tiptoes inward, plays it utterly cool, invades like a malevolent mist before man-handling with slightly more authority.  The chorus is too plain methinks and doesn't make for a full-on clash factor and although the evolution of the song is strong and the verbal detail thought provoking, I find that this is an imbalanced affair with the mid-section outcompeting the surrounding sonica.  'Hideaway' is a progressive song that seems as though it was borne several years after the initial punk explosion and was something we would consider as 'light post punkery'. For me it is a delicately played song with no need of any generic slotting, it is a mere lightweight drifter that has to be listened to when the mood is just right, especially if you prefer tones more brutal and muscular.  When I compare to similar offerings from bands given more credit I see this more than holding its own.  Yeah, it may not be my bag but the quality is there to be admired and, now and again, promoted.

'Candlelight' begins with compressed tones, a deliberate beat before plodding forth with exactitude smattered with skin scatters. We open up with an almost pseudo-chorus and then we carry on as per. Matters eventually rise and dramatically alter tack, the result is players tested but not bested with another cultured tune dealt with in decent fashion.  'Promised Out' has a despair, a real pang in the general vibe and yet, at times, oceanic movements give one a strange feeling of hope, a hope it seems that comes against all the odds. This is a motivating track if used as fuel for the defiant fire.  Many will fold, even worse they will take the easy route and try and pinch a life, that is a fuckin' piss-take and I suggest you play this loud, accept the shittery and fucking fight back.  I like this one a lot, the louder the better, please do not overlook it.

'Take It From Me' is a fruity devil that mixes the groovy, the semi-funky and the serious. The tonal elements gracefully move from the semi-clad into the fully garbed with the fluency of the drift consistent and effective.  For long-term fans of the band all the trinkets of recognisability are still there, deeply tattooed into the flesh of the sounds exported from disc to eardrum. A cool track in part, a trifle more heated in others - it does the business.

'Who They Gonna Make You Blame Today' is a precise and studious beauty with some very pleasing sonic touches as well as an educated orchestration borne from minds who have a great wealth of musical nouse.  The opening bars are minimal, the words slightly scary, the world exposed as a very frightening place. The key to the content is 'respect', the complete circuitry of the song is well designed and of an unbreakable loop - nice.

The last 3, I refuse to dawdle.  'It's In The City' has a deep bass rumble, a strict rigidity of tone and observes the static scenario of life draining crappery that goes on in the big inner shitty. The band have all their tones well balanced and progress at their own pace, this one leaves me a little flat however, maybe it is the austere regimentation of the arrangement or the content matter.  'Just The Beginning' appears to be an underhand little sidler with the opening throes laden with suspicious accents and spectral tremor-inducers. A groove is eventually found, albeit with the bass commanding matters and the advancement both slow and tepid.  We have a twilight consideration here, an overly controlled opioid that in some way soothes but can, if the mood is out of sync, aggravate.  It is a professional piece but a little too laboured for me.

The finale comes under the tag of ‘The Day Everybody Dies’. A pulsation of comforting essence, vocals that suggest a subtle eagerness, and a solid Inklings effort showcasing all the bands usual trimmings and sophisticated weavings.  Again, the 4-cabled weapon plays a major part whilst the main guitar neatly spruces matters up and the skins are beaten with care and good momentum inducing safety.  A good closure reeking of what the band do well and exposing a concrete and quite clever closing flourish.

Again I have taken my time with a CD that deserves good attention. The Inklings are sticking to their tried and tested tonal route here and why the Hell not?  I would like to see them really stretch themselves on the next outing and make for some real sonic splashes though this is steady noise to consider over a good lengthy period and is another fair donation to the collection.



Via the Punk 4 The Homeless music machine came this 6 track blast of enraged sounding discordance that immediately met the needs of my cacophonic caveman desires.  I have a real penchant for immersing my lugs in the acoustic overflow as heard here, many would say I need to 'get over it' and listen to material more polished, I say 'go fuck yerself you affected and tone deaf halfwits'- one has to be honest tha' knows.  Anyway, 6 tracks by a band I know fuck all about and, if you want to lean more, go and do some research ya lazy gits.

'Tory Cuts' is a seething beauty, spitting hot molten gunk with infecting rage that is riddled with DIY spikiness I for one fuckin' adore.  The unscrubbed upper scum, the sub-epidermal filth and the cruddy core all comes together to create a living zombie of enraged passion that can't wait to strangle out a positive pogoing response.  The chugging crud shamble is delicious, the gravelly vocals that are snarled with rabid rage all add to the steaming effect that has me drawn in like an arse-fly to a shit-laden duffel bag.  Fuck the politicians, go throw a brick, get this rammed down yer throats and kick back. 'Shit@CPR' is a nail-gun slam dunk of mid-paced nastiness that has a sub-comedic slant one can't help but be amused by.  The reckless wannabe life-saver eternally cocks it up and the frustration is more than a little tangible.  The riffing deliberateness is once again streaked with toxicity, the outcome is a very polluted piece of sonic sewerage that I am more than happy to bathe in.  The boils and puss-filled sores that come from wallowing in such beautiful acoustic effluence like this are veritable bodily medals to bear with pride.  A solid piece of DIY decadence methinks.

'Stationery Thief' is a delicious moment of idiot humour that relates a tale of a straight-edge kleptomaniac who works in an office and who has an inkling to pilfer paper, pens, A4 wallets and other such working day ephemera.  The chop and charm of the concoction works well and the upbeat score of sound that operates in unison with the roughhouse gobbage only helps matters thrive.  The verses are matter of fact, the mania of the chorus gives insight into a deviant who likes to abuse even the most petty situations.  There are many at this game, the thrill is in the theft, the need to feed an habit inescapable - ooh heck, where’s me highlighter pen.

'What Kinda Police' is a vicious assault on the corrupt so-called protectors of the populace who are nothing more than deviant scum using a front to hide their inner perversions.  This is an impacting assault that repeatedly asks a question - it is a necessary outburst!  The frustration and despair at this invasion of bad apples overspills into a concrete and compact number that has great appeal due to the emotion and the raw-assed delivery that is straight out of the street.  The quick follow-up is 'The Dirt' - a cracking sonic stint that comes from the put down and is spat at those who think they are better.  A chunky celebration of the filth that matters.  The he-she chorus cuts are utterly splendid, the nasty joy taken in being the scabbed, the unwashed, the cheap and nasty fucker who gets on ones tits is delivered with a jangling joy de vivre that is pleasure to behold.  I play over and over - yeah, I am a crummy fucker not lying down and following your hygienic idiocy.  

'Meds' is a quality closure with a mind on the cusp and with a need to decline into degenerate behaviour and of course, to bare one's bollocks.  The doc is given a seeing to, the social arena is invaded by a head gone AWOL, this is a treat for all those pilled up and with a bonce that just won't settle.  With a cranium cluttered, a day to day mither that gnaws at the soul and a persistent pillaging by societal demands, tis’ no wonder the rails are abandoned when the medication runs dry.  This is the best track of the lot, a real catchy rust bucket I can relate to.  The flow from verse to chorus is perfect, the blend of the foul and the clear, the brain zaps and just the general jangle juices that run from the speakers make for a stunner - lovely.

Well, what an unexpected treat.  6 songs, all devoured, and all fuckin' enjoyed.  This is why I am at DIY level, this is why I don't need to use nostalgia and the 'same old, same old' as a crutch to lean on.  On we stride, under our own fresh steam, fuck the static, fuck the stagnant - ain't we the lucky ones.



Hectic times see this Fungal fool on the back foot and patchworking matters as best as possible whilst trying to keep the gigs flowing, the CD review backlog kept to a minimum and many other areas attended to.  This 12 tracker came out of the discordant blue and I duly played here and there and cobbled together some brief thoughts.  After more time the noises were assessed and the following textual ticklings were made.

So, first up from the Kidderminster based cacophonic criminals comes a song that goes under the name of 'Hippo', a melodic track with a brutal edge that cuts to the quick and leaves great mental scars on anyone who is overweight and of a delicate nature. After a quick grunt the song rattles in with a simple intro and the a neatly breeze-blown opening verse that reveals a perversion to be frowned at.  A penchant for a sweating fatso is exposed, the music clatters away with great haste as the warped juices flow and the pluckers get all worked up. The song is intrinsically basic and crude - it is played well though and as a sub-pop-punk likeability.  'Who's He' is similar in many ways but has a fine old zip and a dubious content laden with a mistrust and shady goings-on.  The impetus is the winning factor with the strings warped with whipping gusto and the skins scatter-slapped with breathless attention.  The gob work delivers verbals that are easily joined in with - there is never anything wrong with that.  My fave track of the opening three is the mid-paced and meaner sounding 'Bright Blue Skies' - a ditty with conker-clobbering firmness and a fist in the face of the idlers, takers and general shits that really get on my tits.  Self-absorbed fuckwits are the majority shareholders of a world turning to shit whilst their eyes only see things that they want to see so as to keep their limited intelligence upbeat.  My only gripe with the song is that it drifts out too quickly and lacks an extra verse and some real inner wallop - I still love it though.

'I Love My Baby (She Loves Me Too)' has a right whole groove, borne it seems from 60's zested zoophile with a need to pester the wild world whilst strumming his way to sexual zeniths.  There is nothing intricate and profound going on here, it is a quick jerk jaunt that comes, goes and fills an orifice - I am not offended or aroused, I may need more pills but, the song is a merry jingle I do enjoy now and again. 'Pidgeon Hole' is par for the course tuneage and does what it does whilst bringing nowt new to the crooked table.  It has a charm though, a persuasive force borne from the fact that this is one for the oddball, the outsider, the awkward bastard who won't fall into line.  I can relate to this, by heck, even the fuckin' punks have a problem with me!  The fluidity of the song is also appealing and the clarity of all components works - it leads the way into the neat swinger known as 'Sick And Tired', a real 'fuck it' frolic that has a careless carefree approach due to being beaten down into an inescapable position of 'fucked off'.  This is a minor crackerjack with a great lick that gets right into the crack of my swinging arse and insists I jig some more.  As a bloke who is fed up but will not give in to the shitshow flow I am partly in-line here and some days, surely everyone feels like this.  The key though is to play this loud, enjoy the moment and then go forth and refuse to let the bastards beat ya.  Do your fuckin' bit folks.

'Furry Cup' combines elements of all that has been and with a few elements no doubt of that which is to 'cum'.  A crass song if the truth be told but with a good chopping effect and some nice back hollers that keep matters moving.  I have heard too much similar genital-based stuff over the years and have been desensitised and also noisily neutered I think.  Despite this though the ditty has a certain brutality of tone and of course that crude aspect many aging perverts will love - ooh heck, where's me butt-plug? 'Jesus Shaves' keeps the impetus growing, it is an attempt at a shocker, I would prefer it if the band went full tilt and nailed a few vicious digs at Allah, Buddah and that supreme God-Like entity, Jim Bowen of Bullseye.  I think the masturbation modulations are fine and dandy, the band know how to mix their elements and I am more than happy to crack one off the wrist to another easy-swinging tune but... if ya gonna go for an electric shocker that make sure all and sundry are frazzled - fuck em' all I say - the long, the short, the tall and the cross-eyed midgets too.

'Travellin' has a certain insouciance that is quite apt for a tune 'on the road'.  Let the miles be eaten up as this tune unwinds.  Let the limbs loosen, the head clear and the simplistic vibes invade.  Again, we are not working with ground-breaking cock rock poser piss-arsery here, we are dealing with 'off the cuff' tunes that are what they are.  They slightly fall into the 'pop punk' category in some minor way, they wallow in the cruder realms in a more obvious manner and all the while they have a decent wallop that is easily embraced - and on I go!  'Billy No Mates' is a kick in the conkers of those poor souls who wank their lives away because they just don't fit in.  A care-free society sees these misfits left to stew in a growing ocean of spunk whilst those who play the game and slot into place smile, mock and head to nowhere happy - ah tis' a cruel scenario.  The band show no sympathy here and knock out a fair ditty with spiteful relish.  The tongue is in the cheek (I hope) and the job, is, a good un'.  Now where's my deodorant.

'Unkle Yummy' is unsettling filth of the most sordid order.  Many will gripe and many will screw up their faces, many will have horrors rekindled - in a scene where I dwell there are no holds barred and sometimes confronting this underhand scuzzery is the best way to get it sorted.  The finale assists in the terror factor when that white-haired wanker we all know and despise comes in and does his usual cliched bit - complete no doubt with a hard-on and tingling scrotum.  Despite my reservations on the content this is a nifty tune that ejaculates on areas out of bounds - it may be a tasteless triumph.

The final song of this CD is 'All My Friends Are Wankers' - a real sing-a-long piece that has many strains of truth in it.  I know some good folk, I have also known some shits who claim to be friends and would do the dirty on you the first chance they get.  We walk amongst untrustable wolves on the make - you would be wise to tread carefully and lock your doors.  This is a great tune though, a real Velcro-vibe you will easily be ensnared by.

To add - 2 tracks had been banned by various social media sites (Spotify you wankers) and are slapped down under the banners of 'Psycho' and 'Parasite' - both are on the physical CD and so you need not fear.  The first is a richly embroidered shindig that has a barn-dance suggestion as well as a real old school rock and roll feel wrapped around an exotic euro swing.  The second song is a troubled nightmare with an 'Alien-ised' opening.  One can feel the invasive presence of a being feeding on the life-force - I am not sure why the delicate media half-wits would want this banned as it doesn't seem to upset me in any way - apparently Universal Studios banned 'Psycho' and The Disney Corporation banned 'Parasite' - what a fuckin' world!

So, I have entered the world of the 'Bald Patch Three' - I have been used and abused and I come away enthused - I bet these lot are pretty decent 'in the flesh'. I suggest you check em' out and if you are of a perverse bent then pick up this CD and have yer genitals rub and roger ready.



As pilfered from Bandcamp I offer ye the following textual summing up of what we have on offer here - 'Punk Rock 'N' Roll from Dundee, Scotland. Featuring members of Dundee bands Delinquents, Volcano X and Th13ves' - well that just about does the job for me.  To add, what we get here is a free-throwaway serving of 10-live tracks that are sonically stained, trashy and as warted and wanked as you good wish for.  I have no gripes with the unaffected approach, what I see in the mirror every morning gives me no choice.

And to the opening salvo of sound and 'Nobody Else' has a fine slaggy feel with a great rocked up relish carrying the riff and roll grind out that ticks all the boxes of the chosen style. The groove in the verse is both alive and vibrant and the slip into the sing-a-long chorus is as smooth as butter and keeps this initial song flowing.  The second verse starts in a naked fashion before we carry on as per - it may be cliched stuff in many ways and have many well-used tricks but this mid-paced outpouring is an easy song to take favour with.  The follow-up track continues matters in the same vein with 'Too Far Gone' another slick dick inserted into your awaiting orifices where it does its thing with vibro-matic goodness before leaving one with the end silence and being impregnated with an ear-worm of a chorus.  The construct may be simple but the slap happy drums and the string strengths all give extra sinewy muscularity to matters and have one convinced.  This is not my chosen style of music but I don't mind the odd snifter - perhaps it is a little to Americanised and too mid-school for some, hey ho, I can't find nowt to kick here.

3rd track in, '2 Much 2 Say' adds to the consistency on show and for another 'live' track the end result is a fuckin' decent do.  All components can be heard, I think the balance is nicely precise and the frontman’s gravel gob gifts work just fine.  The words are lucid, are not overly forced and the oral endeavours are ideal for the spillage proffered. Not a bad do and nice and short too although the use of '2' instead of 'Too' and 'To' is 2 darn corned - oh heck. Next and 'Time Of My Life' - a very honest and celebratory feeling is emanated from a track with yet more R 'n' R gusto and US tinted (or tainted) tones that will tick the boxes of those who like things a little less abrasive and more melodic.  To be fair, even though I am a dabbler in the dirt and a lover of things scabby, this is another sanguine treat that rises above the sometimes restrictive 'live' recorded routine - my handclaps are sincere.

I speed on, 'The Last Laugh' is not a fave of mine, a suggestion of cock-rock gone awry comes to mind with a subtle countrified feel that seems best suited for a bitter dungaree wearing goon who is contemplating revenge.  I say this though, but the song is played well, delivered with good effect and has touches that will tickle the aural tits of many a listener.  I will never claim to like everything, here I am turned off and my personal eavesdropping paps are duly made flaccid.  'Alleycats In Love' shakes its arse with good weight before a groove is adopted and the song unfolds with a convincing vibe.  The orchestration of the piece is well worked, the move from verse to chorus is without hitch and the players seem to build up a good lather whilst plying their trade.  Much clarity can be blurred via 'live' releases, I think the crew do mighty well to maintain the inner gumption and to showcase at a decent standard.

'Shame Of My Youth' has many 'Big Country' essences and so, slightly changes the tack of the tonal collection. I can take or leave this one as a result, I don't mind the texture and applaud the bands efforts in altering the general approach but the general gentle ripple tones are not my bag at all and bring back memories of early 80's middling sounds that were all too prevalent.  Small dose sonica for me here, I am sure there are many who will disagree. 'Rocksteady Girl' has a great juiced up jive and jig enthusiasm and despite being an intrinsically basic construct it has 'oomph', well jangled conkers and a good overall joy de vivre. It seems to be a somewhat fleeting song that doesn't fuck about - therein we may find the true source of its success.

The final duo are flung forth, 'Hangin' Out' is a middling song to my ears, one that is played well, has moments of wallop and has the usual rocked inflection that the band create without flaw.  I think this is the most 'hindered' song of the lot with the 'in the flesh' airing not helping to get the best out of matters.  If one takes care one can see what the aim of the song is and how the band apply themselves.  I can't complain (well I could but that would just be because I am being a nasty bastard) and on we go to the last throws of the discordant dice we move with 'This Day's A Drag'.  A tight guitar, a sub-twinge, a strict tempo, an opening verbal spill exposed.  The essence is of a blues'ed up dude who is wishing the day away and hoping for something better on the morrow.  The gist is sound, the execution equally so and for me, the job is a pretty decent one.  There is little to add methinks, the band know what they are doing, have an ear for a song and survive a 'live' risk well.  Fungal applause are given, I hope I have captured what transpires.



I run forwards, I dash backwards and then I follow-sonic suit (as found here) and shuffle sideways.  Try as I might, I cannot escape the multifaceted and mix and match array of these crustacean-based limbs that reach out, grab the lugs and twist and turn me inside and out.  Of course, I should easily avoid this situation as the cacophonic carapace-bearing bastards under the spotlight claim to be limbless - I tell ye, this is a trick and the unwary (and the alert) need to keep on their toes.  Once more I have an assortment of acoustic vibes to assess - such is the life of a pillock.

'Rock Yr Hole' has an automated underbeat, a subtle house of horror sub-sonica and a zombified vocal terror that brings visions of an abandoned educational building, now left to rot and ruin, draped in cobwebs and reeking of decadence and decay.  The arrangement of this opening track is to be nothing more than a greeting, one done by a crusted and scabrous musical mitt that will pinch a few nerve endings in a paradoxically sweetly malicious way.  'Pink And The Stinky's' is hepped up on anxious energy and relies on the agitation and loosely twanged touches to get by and make the finishing line in shattered fettle.  It is a very old school sounding piece of clattersome creativity with an end pulse-drone that makes me keep looking over my shoulder for giant ants.  I find this episode a foundation piece that could be reworked into an orthodox piece of delightful sub-art.

A repeat tap of the mini-timbers, a soporific heavy eyed delivery comes with splodgey bass, metronomic rhythm bouts and a very doped up vocal style that really douses any sense of upbeat anticipation.  This is another angle, it should be appreciated for the route its takes and how it pisses against the grain but... it is a tough piece to digest and has a 20/80 rate of success all being dependant on the mood of the eavesdropping framework.  'Grow Horns' is a similar piece in many ways but has a fresher feel and has a pertinent edge that looks at the wired strangulation taking place all over the world.  The masses are being turned inside out, groomed into a place of acceptance where many will happily join the shitshow and claim some kind of blissful existence.  The rantings and the rebellious ravings have had enough, the balance on the cusp of a standstill is no coincidence and the more I dabble here the more I nod in agreement with the pseudo-rhythm and the content.

I don't know what the point is of 'Jesus Christ Alison', it seems like an unwanted intruder that just nips in when the acoustic coast is clear, does what it needs to do and fucks off - in truth it ain't a bad little penetration - ooh me aural arse.

'Stealin' In The Year's' is an airwave wank job with the dial twisted this way and that, feedback zaps given whilst the pilfering lead bugger goes on about his sticky fingered ways back in the days when cameras were not watching your every move.  I know many who dabbled, by heck didn't that stolen chocolate taste sweeter and weren’t those smokes a whole lot more satisfying.  Of course those with any sense of decency moved on and stopped their thieving ways but this is a nicely delivered musical reminder of those wayward escapades.  The music has many features that distort the senses - oh yes.

The next batch of 3 are taken as a whole so as to keep the motions moving.  'Stuckist Manifestos In The Western World' is a level out buzz that is frustrated by the claustrophobic static play that sees all expression restricted.  The pleas are heard, the desperation rampant, the safety zone too easy to access whilst being all consuming.  This is a good mover with a snagging energy.  'Sleep Sweet Satan' is dark material stretched and contorted over an uneven playing field and exposed for your delectation.  A murky piece with a dubious intent thus sending the listener into realms of unwanted mistrust.  A sneaky devil that sometimes wins favour, sometimes disturbs - a typical effect of Crabby donations.  'My Baby (Can't Stop Buying Dumb Shit)' is a neat one-way trickle that sees a bloke beaten by a spendthrift who can't stop exchanging the coin for nonsensical crap.  Many are in the same boat, there are hordes of folks throwing hard-earned cash out of the window whilst picking up a cheap trinket or two.  The hammered down brow of the narrator is easily envisioned whilst listening to this tickling tune.

The penultimate track, a warning message done with darkened tones and a moribund feel. 'Broadcast Signal Intrusion' walks at its own pace, states its ambiguous case and places one in a slow stranglehold and squeezes like a determined Boa with no intention of making things easy.  The funereal march is a warning, there is an interruption to the airwaves coming, the tube that overfeeds the masses is gonna be plugged - I like the style.  We close with an almost bastardised mimic that has a glutinous grind, an almost Lovecraftian horror and mystery with the shambler from the stars closing all senses and looking to finalise everything in sight.  'Annihilator' is a pure terror-threat borne beyond the realms of matters deemed sane. The darkened forces that are summoned rise to a heavy beat that works like a laxative and sees this assessor at least, shit out a thumbs up dollop of warped goodness.  Upset acoustica that works well and remains utterly focused in what it does.  The mass and density  of the noise is the winning element here - a real stinking heavyweight.

Survival is the name of the sonic game and only the brave, the foolhardy and those willing to trespass into tonal areas deemed 'out of bounds' will win through.  Again, it must be said that what goes on here is beyond the range of most people's listening realm, it is best regarded as 'sub-music' in all its glory - this is no bad thing and the DIY elements only add to the fascination.



The subtle humour and gentle title of this latest Bordellos offering isn't wasted on me as I take note of an overlooked band who are wonderfully prolific, explorative and musically testing.  They are a unit worthy of note, they may not hit the pleasure zones every time but what band does?  They may stray from that which many deem the norm, what the fuck is wrong with that?  They may be not in fact a punk band - thank fuck for that?  Anyway, a sinister 13 track adventure awaits, I best crack on and hitch up my assessing underduds.

We commence with the foul mouthed intrusion known as, surprise, surprise 'Nobody's Listening'.  The opening vocal salvo of verbal filth comes as a wake-up call but a realisation comes that the aim of the tirade is a tonal twat who has fallen in line with the mediocre shower and is missing out on the real vibe makers.  This seems to be a gentle piece but is a vicious snippet with claws bared and awkward angles exposed.  The shabby sham and shittery of the modern day nostalgia nuts is exposed and we have a tune that only just stays on the right side of sane and reasonable (although the final thrust is highly disturbing).  'Running Back To You' is a carefully orchestrated piece of emotive architecture built by placing each tonal brick with the utmost feeling and passion.  The tender touches, the provocative sensation of the barely felt keys and the whispered regrets and desires are all part and parcel of a sweet and sour sonic scar that runs deep.  This is a surprising inclusion that works mighty well - I think The Bordellos would do well to create a 4 track effort of keyed, vocal gothic snippets - it is all rather intriguing.

'And That's The Funny Part' is very indicative of many Bordello-esque tunes with the slight rusted acoustica, the bittersweet remembrances, the sober and soulful verbalisations and just the general feel of bedroom borne noise done with an insatiable need to bare the inner workings.  The drift has a comfort and a certain stark honesty and this is where this creative force find their greatest reward.  The semi-snow dust that comes from speakers unscrubbed helps too - nice.  One of my favoured songs of this latest offering is 'Brief Taste (featuring Dee Claw)' - it is well-blended piece of reclined roaming through sub-melodic thoroughfares where tonal teases and beyond are found.  The vocal combo works well, is beautifully unprofessional and highly approachable and a million miles away from the processed puke too many are sozzled by.  I like this one, there is a semi-lusty load unfolded and yet all is kept in control and one can't help but being a little unsure of the content.  I like to be left in a state of ambiguity.

Next and a clutch of three with 'In Another Life' floating along with a fondness in the eye and a dreaming slant of things elusive.  A focus for the attention is grabbed and duly absorbed, the imagination runs away with itself and contemplations of another place, another situation, another life... are had.  The silence is pushed aside as minds merge and the pseudo-serenade becomes holistically absorbed.  Again the players do what needs to be done and certainly keep this Fungal Fucker listening and, may I riskily add, entertained.  'So You' begins with a slow-stutter bass bumble before a droning flow comes and leaves me with little to say.  I don't mind it but it offers up nothing new and is too-typical of what the crew do which of course, is a statement draped in contradictory connotations.  There is a comfort had from the familiar, an easy listening experience from something so easily recognised and floated along with, I do like it when the Bordellos throw the curveballs my way though.

Hey up and another nestful of 3 with the strange artform of 'Gospel According To Julian Cope (lo-fi remix)' floating forth with a desire to be youthful again and to absorb oneself in the sounds of yesterday and a particular creator.  This is a slow burner that has persuasive elements it is easy to be enchanted by.  There is an obsession with rock and roll that has seen a soul taken - hook, line and sinker - is that a bad thing?  One for the fully immersed, one for those who like things without apology.  'Soundtrack To Getting Your End Away' may be crassly titled and is certainly not what it claims to be and for me is a fumble-reminisce that would be hard pushed to get any juices flowing.  Taken as a tune without aphrodisiac properties the sweet stroll through under-processed realms of bedroom music has a essence that warms the cockles rather than stiffens the cock - a middling moment methinks.  The last of the latest trio comes under the banner of 'Marianne' - a twinkle-twankle twang jarring with the string warpings almost detached from the throat warblings that are duly committed to the recording substrate in the most recognisable way to those already utterly Bordelloed.  Harsh, pseudo-melodic and off kilter with the pluckings almost akin to a musical minstrel on the cusp - it is all strange but resoundingly true.

'Kookies' is a 4 minute 50 second affair that will not be pushed into cutting matters short.  What we have is a moribund and reflective ponder with a few regrets perhaps, a few fond memories, a few occurrences to contemplate further.  The simmering mode is kept under wraps with only a slight steam rising from the inner brew of barely stirred stew.  A morose and almost insouciant piece that would work well in the midst of a hardcore rumble.

'Stone Turns To Stone' has a real good naked vibe with strings and words the only ingredients used to capture the eavesdroppers attention.  There is something raw, honest and utterly natural about this stripped bare escapade that does what it does in a poetical fashion and with a heavy legged approach that suits the style set. The length of the piece could be accused of being overly drawn out but believe it or not the song passes with ease and the end defiance is neatly timed.  'Tom Waits Blues' is a sorely fucked off piece that seems to take a certain satisfaction in the overall wallow.  Sometimes there is comfort in misery it seems, many seem to thrive on the low and lethargic feeling and duly use it as a source of creation.  I like the minimal depths here and the greying warmth radiated.

'Soft Get Smile' is a low-brow licker that curls its tonal tongue into your lug with understated affect.  There is a one-way operational technique here only broken by the odd feedback squeak and uncertainty.  The flick of the wrist is almost careless thus giving the tremulations of the wires an almost relaxed feel.  There is nothing mind-boggling about the construct, it is living-room spillage done with one foot on the arm of the sofa and a bifter awaiting in the nearby dimp-laden ashtray.  The 'jam and sub jive' essence are doped and doofing - somehow the combination works.

Time is taken, the mid-thermal sonic beverages served by The Bordellos are sipped with care - I hope my assessments capture what transpires and how, the great DIY realm is a glorious place to discover oddments, capricious ticklings and vibrations off the radar.  I have a fondness for this lot, this is my 12th review of their spillings - am I blessed, cursed, mentally unstable or just a curious and appreciative DIY Doofer?



More Metal Postcard magic to melt the routine, warp the expectations and shove a finger up the jacksie of the orthodox.  Salem Trials have been under the Fungalised spotlight before, this is my latest take, 'Here's Your Noise' ya fuckers.

'Data Leak' is industrial corruption splatted forth from the groins of invested automatons with no hope of salvation.  The machinations of Metropolis mayhem have borne fruit, the fruit is natural but maggot-molested, here is such an example of things that are left to rot and the sonic bacterial growth duly appreciated.  This is a right groovy grovel dog with a weighted rhythm that takes one along the crest of a sewage based wave.  Ride the shit or sink deep within the effluence  - your call, I like this one. 'Alternative VU' deals with a unenviable situation that  an almost forgotten musician found himself in and how he became the brunt of jibes by know-it-all precious fans and ego-screwed pluckers and fuckers who really did need a reality check.  This is a mid-paced look at what was a sour state of play and one laden with selfish shittery.  The band here take the subject matter, knock out their own style of 'against the grain' music and make for a rather intriguing hypno-crawl.  The overall ambience is of a saturated soundscape with all contributors absorbed and eternally caught up in the considered flow - of course this isn’t for everyone - and by heck, so it shouldn't be.

'Nineteen 93' has two opposing textures - one that is slightly encrusted and scurfy, the other that is smooth and embracing.  There is a warmth generated from the gentle clash of the styles, a thermal radiation that I find more than a little gratifying.  There are many elements of underground scenes and may I add, 60's experimentation with garaged overtones.  The blend should struggle to win any true appreciation from your everyday musos and assessors, I am happy to be outside those circles and give a thumbs up here.  The deep-rooted sadness and open-hearted confessional has strong emotive value and a solid, unwrapped rhythm - it is a pleasurable pain.

The closing tri-fuck of sound begins with 'House Of God (Part 3)' - a peephole perversion that many may deem bordering on the blasphemous with considerations had, questions proffered and no answers the outcome.  This is the most jazz-fucked piece with the ghostly verbals detached from reality and the general drift it seems. The general ballyhoo is a rather uncivilised assault of dis-arrangement to test the mettle of the most ardent, angle-laden music lover - there is something horrid happening here - the acoustically unstable may be intrigued.

'Another Lonely Night In Colne' is the outcome of an ennui attack in a Northern grey grind where grim sensations copulate with sobering mental mis-fires and all manner of thoughts arise.  Of course, when the thumbs are twiddled and time is there to assassinate it goes without say thing that considerations towards streaking arise.  And why not?  This is a moment in time that does not apologise for being a miserable and dour bastard that will not skip around for the sake of appearance.  A very fucked off sounding piece that I am not taken with when on a bit of a downer myself.  When chipper though I can applaud the creative process and the need to banish the demons of the drag.

The closure - 'No Job For A Man' - a rebellious little whinging wanker of noise that slops down its gripes in a low-slung, slaggy manner that has me pondering times of yore and sounds emanated from NY backstreets and other such wallow-holes.  This one threatens to fall-inwards into its own destructive designs but somehow manages to crawl onwards with a sub-tune forever nipping at the eavesdroppers heels.  The arrangement is, as per, awkward, unorthodox and toxic - just take your medication before pondering too deeply.

A mush of mishaps and mayhem that still has me wondering and still has me willing to dabble further with the ST overspill.  Here I am still split down the middle - sometimes I join in with the jangle, at others I am jarred and duly run in the opposite direction.  Is it perverse of me to say that it is better to operate this way rather than just tick all the boxes of expectation and then fall into the almanacs of 'average' - ooh heck, what am I saying?



Take 3 reliable bands from a defiant sub-scene with always a message to be delivered, give them space enough for one track each and throw the release out there with DIY hopes.  For me, split singles are always the way to operate, it builds unity, gets bands working together and spreads the vibrating word farther and wider.  I was intrigued by this 3 tracker when it came through vie with wanky web waves. Here is my take on matters, all done in the usual Fungalised way with honesty at the fore, kiss arsing not an option and appreciation of folks having a go always prevalent. Oh, the bands are well versed in what they do so Fungal expects - pressure on.

The System I first saw back in 1981, nowadays they have a different line-up but after playing a Fungalised gig I was very much delighted with what I got.  Here the song is well produced, has a solid flow and a certain grim and grimy edge that counterbalances the general fluidity.  In fact this is a fuckin' good piece of forthright music with a authoritative kickback against the over-indulgent shitfest that keeps the masses distracted whilst the power mongers rake it in.  The cover of the EP reflects the point made here, it ain't controversial, it ain't shocking, it is stating the obvious - it is a shame so many are sucked in to a systematic draining that ultimately leads to unhappiness and suffering.  There song has a basic construct but carries great weight, some tight musicianship and some acoustic horror accoutrements that add to the noisy nightmare - it is a solid track for sure.

Virus follow up this hefty opener with some forceful turnery that is enhanced with brass attacks and space-age surges as well as a great incessancy that magnetises the punky instincts and makes sure they get ensnared.  Again the blend of all components is spot on, the extra switches in tack and trinkets of tonality work a treat and the general drift of the discordance is highly attractive.  The opening throbs grab the attention, the first verse has great urgency whilst the general hunger to deliver the message is done with undying gusto.  We are strangled victims in a great orchestration of malevolence - things may seem 'Futile' but you still gotta keep on being that awkward bastard who walks against the grain methinks.

The finale comes via Bug Central and their claustrophobic 'Four Walls' which has a real fine opening sequence that certainly molests the mind and makes its mark.  The soundbite hits home, the sonic follow-on is in no rush and has good muscularity and a certain old-skool monochrome feel that really does work a treat and has some political comfort for the born-to-be agitator cum agitated.  When all weapons of melodic war are brandished the effect is resounding, the whole concoctions shows a band thinking on their feet and not willing to follow the overly cooked routine formula.  This one rounds off a quite captivating anarcho-tinted CD - smashing.

So three good bands, three good songs, an honest label doing its thing - by heck you spiky bastards are spoiled rotten at times. Grow Your Own Records do what they do and do it well - keep em’ motivated and alive and kicking folks – DIY is the only way. 

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