$T33D​​​$​​​_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.

CRACKUPS - PLEXI

Belgian punkery with the Crackups hammering forth with resounding impetus and a lo-fi essence that certainly appeals to my grubby sensors.  Some 60's low-beat, some hollowed-out cavern sounds, rich grooves and a slag-nasty snottiness all helps this 10 tracker move along whilst keeping the listener's lower limbs tapping.  I go in as fresh as the sounds and with an equal abandon that displays a fuck-free suggestion of anything orthodox.

'The Phallus' is a fuckin' glorious hammering that states the case and then just belts along with joyous juices splashed this way and that whilst the lugs take a really good caning.  Great speed, a fury in the tonsil tension, great clobbering impetus and only the briefest of  let ups from the first to the last.  The blend of the individual units is exact and this is a real bomb-up-the-buttock-hole opener to get you off your rear and get those dancing cogs in gear - fuckin' jump ya bastards.

'Sgt. Haze' spits in, trembles and wire wanks.  The first verse is stated with strait-jacketed authority before a sub-chorus reveals a head on the cusp.  Medication is the need, it is the salvation.  This is a number with the potential to explode/implode and always has one on the edge of the attentive seat which is no bad thing unless you have extra-low swinging conkers or indeed, agonising haemorrhoid trouble.  This is still a moment to bring some relief, albeit in a kind of warped way.

'S. A. T. A. N' starts with a sluggish crawl before erupting into a joyous serenade of evil essence that really does tickle the dubious senses.  The verse cuts are neatly escorted by keyed impressions, they have a certain reclined feel with the contrast factor needed to emphasise both the chorus and its own impacting levels. The vibrations of things garaged and lo-fi are certainly evident here whilst being fucked through with something slightly more polished.  I am thankful the band don't over-produce matters, the earthiness and innocent joy of the vibes are spot on.  'Pisshead' is a wonderful blow-out that wastes no time in grabbing the chestnuts of the listener and forcing them to sprout a veritable verdancy of positiveness. Slam, slam, slam and snarl, snarl, snarl with the pace the greatest winning aspect here.  The band are forced to play it tight and play it tight they do, this is short, sharp, to the point, and of course, up yer arse - I can't complain.

A sub-Joe 90 suggestion next as 'White Ash' unfolds and takes us down a route of groovy, Euro tickled garage-grubbery that enthrals and makes sure the CD is not to be trusted. I love the textures here, the tinsel crumple and shimmer, the unfolding of a magic box that contains an assortment of fascinations that are far from polished and as natural as can be.  This is a present best opened in the great outdoors where the stench of rhythmic reality can be shared and the upbeat vibes can be enjoyed by your nosey neighbours. The inner splash and final run-down complete a very decent explosion.

'Plane Crash' hollers in (with Negativeland tones methinks), picks up a well-used groove and waltzes along with a slag-loose hipped/lipped snot-slap that will be right up the anal-street of those who like things molesting, unhygienic and, in some ways, glammed.  This is a naturalised spillage done with good rock and roll impetus and a certain liberation that is not wasted on me.  A song that works its way out from the shadows of its more showy and highly magnetising counterparts.  This one takes time to warm to but it is a decent do for sure.

4 to go, 'Rock Bottom' - a siren surge, quick string stabbing and great vocal nastiness.  The spittle splat sprays, the release from the strait-jacketed verses is done and into a fine blast of musical freedom we are propelled, albeit rather briefly.  This song has a certain madness tattooed through the whole shebang, a veritable frenzy waiting to overload into the realms of wired up, wanked off insanity - I feel a breakdown coming on, I crank up the volume and feel the cerebral soup drip from the burning lugs - I like it.

'Plexi' fucks about, strums and tickles and looks to gain a foothold before self-destructing and deliquescing into nothing more than a musical failure.  Pointless piffle that occasionally happens, it would be rude of me to hail this as a musical masterclass with profound meaning or indeed as something enjoyable - I wouldn't do that.  Thankfully 'Knocking On Heaven's Gate' is a real shit-shifter with a rattling screw drive of sound that blasphemes, buggers itself up its own arse and bangs like a bastard on big pills of belligerence.  Defiance is spat forth, along with a savoury blood rush of frustration tanged with a sub-fear.  An exhausting eruption that sprints from the first to the last with great efficiency and bollock booting glory - it slots into place just fine and in no way paves the way for the post-punk pootle that is a soap-dud dope languish known as 'Lost In the City'.  I don't mind this one and see many elements borne form a certain NY scene of yore.  I am not convinced this should have been the closing number though and don't rate it as the best of the pulsating pack.  This is a moment I can take or leave but one that I can't really stick the boot in.  As a full stop though I would have liked something a little more spicy and souped up - hey ho.

I am liking this, the CD works and although not every moment invigorates the erogenous zones I can find enough you to leave me somewhat satisfied.  As a long term reviewer it goes without saying that I never have and never will like everything that comes my way, but man, this is fair spillage indeed.

DANBERT NOBACON/KIRA WOOD KRAMER (THE AXIS OF DISSENT) - MESMERICA EXPECT A CIRCUS

I am a glutton for punishment and also a greedy fucker when it comes to consuming sounds and putting a bit back.  Here I am overfed with a 27 track offering that has taken a wedge of time, some serious consideration and, a great swathe of mental effort.  I will not be rushed though, I will not shy away from putting myself out and offering up some Fungalised words of wank-wisdom.  Danbert Nobacon kindly played a recent Fungal show, displayed a great attitude and understanding of the DIY approach and then played a sweet set and gave me a CD to review.  I was in the midst of much mayhem and pulled all ways but I played, pondered and slowly used the throbbing fingertips to tap out some thoughts.  I do not do what I do in a frivolous and sycophantic manner - my honesty has cost me dear, my good will has been misunderstood and pissed on by many egotists - here I go again folks - what a twat.

So, the Chumbawumba chap and the imp known as Kira Wood Cramer join forces and dabble under the moniker of The Axis of Dissent.  And so I am tossed into a carnival of political acidity and tomfoolery with many a pertinent point - cripes.

The wise wankers are many, they claim all is well and the climate emergency is a con, ooh them darn silly twats.  As idiocy distracts, the detached march on to sizzling Hell despite the facts telling us that the world is warming. We still get many hopping on a cash cow and using a situation to manipulate, make coin and take the piss, what more would you expect?  'Climate Emergency (Parts 1 and 2)' is a jaunted and angular jingle with a quite appealing blend of both vocal donations and the persistent impact of systematic waywardness.  Great political swathes unfold, the song grows with great effect and has a contradictory bouncy, fairground feel that works alongside the acidic verbals in fine style.  There is no rush here and we have a well-crafted piece that is an example of 'thinking' - something that appears to be a rare commodity in these warped times.  I rate this as a concrete opener that sets out a rewarding stall and one that has a quite warming edge in many ways

.'Dragons and Science vs Cuckoo Poop Clowns' weaves this way and that, goes off at a tangent and addresses our lugs with insightful observations and damning data not to be taken lightly.  This one is abstract poetry done with a kaleidoscope trippery and discombobulating wordery that manifests itself in a variety of styles.  Role-Play interventions come, a real joy is had as girl chats to mum, a fear streak is never far away and a salvation via innocence is sweetly pasted over the whole shebang - I shouldn't like this but it makes sense, is theatrically sound and is away from routine rhythm making.  The follow up has an obvious message, the title says it all 'Building A Wall (Now Now, Not Ever)' - a situation created by a racist pig who rounds up the swine and feeds them false pearls laden with equally dubious promise.  The bounding of the song and the upbeat feel should, in no way whatsoever, detract from the important message - there are mad folks at the helm, the deluge of misinformation is blinding the mush, the shackles are holding all in place and one wall is not where it ends.  In fact walls are being erected every day - in your minds, in your soul - use this has a gentle reminder then don your boots and go kick a few bricks out of place. Another fine composite with a tidy sing-a-long closure.

'Doomsday Savings And Why The Heritage Foundation Hates Spelling Bee' is another envelope of snippets - each one subtly sending forth a hint at something not quite right (slanted the wrong way in fact).  An exchange of words, a playground tickle, a brief tune and a quiz show enlightenment - they are all part of a plan that is patchwork and woven together into a blanket of sonic (and may I suggest, visual) consistency.  This one is not one to assess as a song but one to consider as an accoutrement to the whole design - I think it works and keeps the textures varied.  That darn long title though -  cripes the awkward sods.

'Crazy Demons Play' begins with a quite beautiful lullaby-nostalgia that is mixed with a tasteful condiment both sweet and somewhat romantic.  The glance backwards comes  above a layering of tinkles and twinkles and soothing string strokes that really do make for a pre-snooze wonderland drift that is both mesmeric and innocent. The call is to get back to basics and enjoy simplicities and unmolested delights, we are borne unblemished, we need to seek that state and strive to avoid the damning pollution of our very fibre - this marvellous trickle is a splendid nudge towards the right direction.

More exchanges, 'Citizens U***surped' is a tonal triptych that works as one political investigation and one revealing sub-rhythm.  I like the arrangement and the profundity but this is a moment I will be happy to flick by and move on to things more rhythmic.  I can see the point but if people just have more love and more consideration this moment would be null and void and that would be a glory indeed.  'Precarious Chair (The House Is On Fire)' is a short, to the point, keyed up nursery rhyme that gets the gist across and leaves one in no doubt - simply stated, neatly delivered - get your rear in gear.

'The 28th Amendment...Because Why' is a twofold tickle with the opening gambit brief and leaving me unsure whilst the second snippet is a soft acoustic piece that takes a look at a Stepfordian chill state where all is sickly sweet and oh so fuckin' perfect, which in itself is a ghastly condition of fault.  I really like the arrangement here and the sub-horror feeling it radiates - there is something extra going on that I just can't get a hold on - I am quite piqued and pleased by this.  'Corpraggedon' is a full-on song that is orchestrated with forethought and is awash with oral overspills by two folks with many irritations to banish and much to say on the shuffling scene of shiftiness where bank robbers are legal and the lowly get buggered backwards, forwards and all manner of ways.  A crippled system with vultures and vampires glutted, this pertinent song does well to maintain its chipper bounce whilst it raises two fingers to the corporation and all its dastardly ways.

As I progress through this lengthy and absorbing tonal treat I am gifted with an array of angles, although unified by a political hate and frustration.  'Cigarette Break...Call Oober' sees wise words exchanged via youthful sages, it is cutely done and has a subtle barb.  A splodge of synthery follows with words quickly delivered and then we have the brilliant beauty of 'Mesmerica' - a slow waltz that contemplates the eccentricity and idiocy of a misbalanced state that we have built upon since year fuckin' dot.  As we gallop forth in the self-serving realms of the 21st century, progress is skewed and we get a fuck-democracy built on one big con. Plastic reality dwellers don't want to know, the rebels are beaten, the worship of the coin, the materialistic and the Gods on Wank continue - this song charms and reminds me to keep my hackles raised.  What a smashing little snippet.

I inject some pace into the review and grab a fistful of 5 - I am trying to keep thy attention tha' knows.

'Voodoonomics And Fock Fux News' pootles along and discusses - I am a little lost here and in truth, have found greater pleasures elsewhere.  I am appreciative of the aims and the tangents though.  'Fossil Fuel Hell' is pertinent, a nursery rhyme damnation that we must pay heed to.  I rather think we have missed the boat and let us be honest, there are many who deserve nothing less than oblivion - I just wonder who is going to shift their arse and give things a decent shot.  Next and the CD pinnacle, what a fuckin' beauty this is.  'We Do Say Thanks' is a glorious celebration of the brilliance of life and the simplest of miracles that we take for granted each and every day.  The duo at the helm are escorted by the lightest of melodica that works a treat and the coming together of two lucid and sweet oral offerings is a pure joy.  For me, if punk exists (which I doubt), this is what it should be - grateful, enthusing and with a charm to get your arse shifted and your mood heightened - magical. 'Mockracy's Backward Message' is more lyrical weaving with an almost Pink Panther-esque back groove.  The wordage confounds, I can't keep up but get the gist - we are living in a melting pot of mis-balanced corruption - cripes.  I am not keen on this oddment, it gets a little carried away with itself. The last fruity fling of this fuckery-five batch is the horror roll of 'G. O. P. Spells (Gutting Our Planet)' - a quite powerful moment that sees how warbling couple offer up some more negative notices about the state of this rotating shitheap.  I do wonder how these two find any time to smile and how they switch off from the head-wanking destruction.  I struggle, I listen to this stark tune and realise why - it is a beautiful terror trip that once again, reiterates a great warning.  Once again, I repeat too - take heed and react with love and heartfelt action.

On I go, this has been a slow brew review - I never like to be rushed even if I end up beyond my sell by date. I do however put a spurt in the scribbling, a pep in the pixelated transference to online presentation, hold on tight now.

'Cheeky Bonobo Style' is not a favourite, it is a slow-trancey chug that pootles along almost unaware of where it is on the CD and the material that surrounds it.  I consider it a pimple on the buttocks of sound, one that has a pleasant tingle but one that needs squeezing to get the real best out of it.  'Business As Usual' is a little padding, a sweet interlude that lets us know the score whilst refusing to holler with justifiable venom.  'Thirteen Times Table And The Twenty Nine Trillion Dollars' is a simplistic explanation done from the voice of a young fruit.  Listen, take heed, there is some good sense being spoken, it is just that in this busy ball-ache we tend to overlook some real facts. 'War Down In The Mix' is a sinister sound snip with a conversation hinting at something very, very sinister.  Two people, two victims, two digital age ponderers all under the cosh of external madness - this, in some ways, is a really frightening piece - it takes me back to the days of nuclear terror when everyone seemed to be on the edge.  Nothing changes, the only difference is that people are so damn distracted by the wired up piffle nowadays.

The wind-down - 'Expect A Circus' is short, to the point and an enjoyable jingle despite the threat of disaster. The clowns will take over the circus, as I write this it seems we have a truly pertinent piece (yet again).  Listen to the words, admit to the con and your position of victim, what a fuckin' ludicrous realm.  A little tickle that will have you dying of laughter - for all the wrong reasons.  'Smells Like Entrapocracy' - we begin like something from a politically-warped episode of Call My Bluff - an explanation comes before we can guess though, I can almost see a smug and self-satisfied Dickie-Bow wearing blighter revealing the truth - alas no-one is listening and the mush duly applauds with empty-eyed cretinism.  'Hustle And Grind' pootles in next and keeps us on our toes with insightful words and a merry tickle that almost seems like a paradox.  A little charmer with in-built horror - sometimes I do wonder if those encouraged to dance are actually plugged in.  The song ends with some verbals I am unsure of and then we are welcome to 'Radio Weatherpeople' a short sharp reminder that we are fucked with a waltzing finish of a slightly world-induced mania.

'Bringing Up B. B. B. B. E' is a really articulate piece that deals with a certain so-called advancement and the need for pure love within our stuttering and self-serving shit-heap known as society.  Gentle, unassuming and with a stark basic truth, we need to embrace the fundamentals and learn to love, encourage, nurture and... most importantly... get along. History and the here and now show the path we are travelling is rotten and only heading to oblivion, we are missing the greatest points and the most life-affirming wonders of life - please listen here and change your fuckin' approach - love and empathy is the way. What a lovely track hey?

'Peepers Creepers' - a sub Halloween/Exorcist suggestion, a Nursery-Rhyme terror tickle - you are being given a nudge, the words exchanged afterwards should clarify matters - are you really so screwed  'Wiggle Room' initially scares me, a robo-ruination via plugged in commands - the vegetables are taken over the greengrocers asylum.  A tune arises, roles reversed perhaps - what the fuck?  We waltz to the end silence, can we turn matters around?  Can we be arsed - I think the current climate answers both questions - it is all rather shameful.

Well, by the ruddy heck, this has taken some time but, as I always say, rushing and palming off the pluckers and fuckers with a barely attended to review is just not fair.  In summing up, this is a fine creative jumble of things off-kilter, on-kilter and far from orthodox.   There is a lot of thought here, a refusal to produce the regular tick-box CD and a desire to use the creative juices to try and cultivate some thought.  It isn't everyday listening, it isn't a CD to play without thought - pick your moment, listen in, play between other generic material but... check out the artists further, ponder what they are trying to say and maybe move on with a few extra tunes on your hit-list and with a bit more love to share.  Oh - and if you are considering this to be punk or not please go and have a good wank and get it out of your system!

THE BAKESEYS - SKALLOWEEN EP

I like ska, it is a thing that seeps into the epidermal layers and gets one hooked.  In the midst of my leanings towards riotous rhythms, 60's garage and northern soul I find that good to honest throwback ska is a beautiful thing.  The Bakeseys are long time donators to the skanky cause and do what they do with a certain cultured, uncluttered and simplistic magnetism that keeps me enthralled. Here we have 5 tracks from a band whose tones  I know mighty well, I have heard a few of these snippets before, here are my feelings as of now:-

Terrifying tones and a statement to consider are soon banished beneath the bouncing rhythm and a few scaredy cat screams.  'The Ugliest Way To Die' keeps us chilled in many good ways with a tuneful counterpunch against the horror that has me drifting back to yesteryear, whilst keeping one foot in the here and now.  This is a slow ghost train ride to Perverse Pleasureville – a place where the skanking deviants can satisfy their needs for tonal terrors and two-toned spine-tickles.  The overlay of soundbites, the incessancy of the drift and the minimalistic nuances all provide a platform on which the operators cum creators can contribute to an easy end result that is easily joined in with.  As per, play loud and move yer ass.

'Far As The Eye Can See' is a song I know, one that has trespassed into Fungalised territory, danced around my cerebral garden of fungal eruptions and left behind a sweet plume of spores that will keep the interest levels cultivated.  Within this special weave we have a warning from a movie of 'B' grade brilliance, it tells us that the zombies are all around us, be they controlling scum, plugged in automatons or wired up wretches with no hope of escape.  Stay aware, and as you shuffle and double-step to this rinky dinky, oh so slinky sonic treasure, watch your back.

'Don't Step Outside Tonight' is a casual peach with a gentle word of caution in your eavesdropping shell-like.  This one seems to hark back to the darker days when divisions where rife and a kicking was waiting just around the corner if you didn't fit the fashionable bill. Still care must be taken, there are many misdirected morons out there but hey, step forth, look cool, cruise on through the hate.  This is tiptoe trickling done without fuss or complexity.  This is purist two-tonery done for those with a deep-rooted passion for the special vibe that still has great relevance.  Smashing stuff.

'When The Zombies Come' and 'Zombies Are Here For Dub' close this small sinister morsel of well-Bake'sed goodness and I am finding myself with little to add.  The band are a choice affair with an approach they are very much settled with and one that leaves me always smiling and assured.  As I say, this is low-brow ska with a cared-for end mix that keeps matters aerated, spacious and not overly affected.  It is best described as 'purist monochrome moving and grooving' - these last two tracks encapsulate all the good things about the band and I do hope they release some more material soon.  I do draw the line however at putting down a bag of chips and stopping the pork pie indulgence - that would be just blasphemous.

A splendid 5 tracker, one to play at your alternative Halloween party where snow white ghosts and black clad witches skank with style and make for a cauldron of two-tone magic not to be trifled with.

EASTFIELD - TERMINUS

Eastfield are a joy - they do what they do with a style of their own, a good trundle in the ever-turning tonal wheels and with plenty of muscle stoking the fires of the sonic goodness.  They give off a wealth of steam in amiable and approachable style, they are happy for anyone to hop aboard and their output, over many years, has been admirable - ooh and they are decent folk too.  Here we have a 7 track journey that captures the flavours of the band and the style in which they do what they do.  This is a bread and butter band worth their weight in coal - this is a very good thing indeed.

We leave the station of silence and hit the metal supports with the incessant quality of 'End Of Days' - no arsing about, no pompous posing or taking time to prepare - this lovely upbeat song hits the mark from the off with all the sheer good of the great Eastfield loco pumped out for you to cough and splutter on with great defiant and triumphant joy.  This is a real beauty, the lyrical copulation of words comes thick, fast and with magnetising fluidity that really enhances the whole mesmerising flow.  Verses dictate, the choruses are mere glue in the composite but are fresh, breezy and part of the whole encouraging fiasco - I think this is fuckin' marvellous.

The second splash of wholesomeness to fall upon the tympanic membranes within my noggin is entitled '45 Minutes'.  There are hints at other sonic sensations and some lyrical weavings that have me pondering textual matter that has been absorbed over many years.  The greatest asset of this song though is the encouraging aromas that rise from the spit roasted rhythms that are dripping with the juices of life.  The galloping pump of the pistons, the breezy drift and the breathless energy that is poured forth all keeps the CD moving with captivating fluency.  A bouncing brief bite of goodness follows with 'Railyard Blues' run of the mill, orthodox Eastfield grooving, doing what it does without any over indulgence or elaborate flamboyance.  This is the bands earthy unassuming noise that belts out with unquenchable thirst and an enthusiasm that will not be halted.  A real safety belt this one - no need to hang on tight, just sit back and enjoy the comfort and security of a band doing what they do so ruddy well.

A drum skitter, a plough of the wires and a ready-steady good beat that has me tapping the lower timber and nodding the noggin.  'Paper Houses' rebels, kicks back and dreams, the lyrics come with poetical dynamism and have one jigging along and working hard to keep merry pace.  A sweet and sharp piece this with an efficiency and honesty (and a thrown in OI OI) that exudes a healthy standard of sound the band are utterly renowned for.  Tis’ ruddy beautiful stuff tha' knows.

3 to go, 'Second To Last' is aptly titled, it comes and goes and leaves an aftertaste of goodness for sure.  Groovy bass, undulating rhythm and a great subtle defiance that keeps matters heading the right way.  This one gives me a boost, it reminds me that the way to succeed is to stick to ones ethos and get the head down.  There are always doubters, down-shouters and snide critics and for me, if what you do is deemed utterly duff by the many, as long as you are giving it your best, then that is true victory.  This is a reliable song that will keep your sonic sensors flashing and your optimism at a level not to be trifled with.  The choicest of morsdels this be. 'Paint It Red' follows suit and just has that extra bite that sees my jig and jive joy slip up another notch.  The liquidity, the tumble avalanche of verbals and the breathless application are what I, and many others, now expect.  The final sing-a-long repeat flourish is splendid.

'End Of Daze' closes and is a marvellous piece of more relaxed music making with the foot off the gas and the band contemplating.  The 'nah, nah' sequence magnetises, the poetical weaving is intriguing and the whole gamut of Eastfield quality comes together here, coagulates, re-hydrates and readopts a liquid form to slip one's way and to be easily consumed without hiccup or indeed, belch.  I find this one a sneaky 'under the radar' worm that wriggles free of the sonic substrate and rises high to make its presence felt.  What a fine finale.

Whoosh, whoosh and all is good in the land of Eastfield - a straight ahead 7 track treat, no fuss, no tossery, no ego-sozzled buffoonery.  I was a fan, am a fan, and will remain a fan - the reason, because this noise is just darn tootin'.

DAFFODILDOS - NOT MY CUP OF TEA

Great swathes of kick back fuckery here with 6 tracks from a band spouting off, sonically strutting and keeping it as raw as fuck.  The press-release I received tagged this lot as a Brighton Queer-Punk Band, I was intrigued but also unmoved - I just am happy to listen in, make my oral decisions without sway and keep honesty at the helm.  Here's what this fucker thinks, in no particular order.

'Stuck IN 77' is a choice song of great pertinence that sticks a finger up at the washed up wankers and nostalgia nuts who jump into line when the old bands arrive in town thus leaving the DIY doofers abandoned.  Seen it, been the brunt of it, carrying on regardless. Of course they all talk the talk but when the chance to ping and pogo to the age old usual noise, the waffle is thrown to one side and the socialites gather.  I love this risky rip-out and I like the vocal style that is, paradoxically very similar to many old sounds that slipped under the main radar.  There is a goodness to the gruffery, a sweetness to the screech and the composition has good DIY weight that tickles my unwashed fancy.  Go get em' and shake up the stifling shittery I say.

'Ba, Ba, Bada' is an oddment that refuses to play orthodox ball.  It starts with a quirky, almost demon-summoning chant with the odd tympanic stutter to keep you alert.  The strings are soon joining in the melee with great surges sending us headlong into a quickly flowing verbal assault that has all the fine trimmings of the band that I am quite taken by.  The clutterbucket, stutterfuck-it arrangement is something out of the draw marked 'off-kilter' - a place where my grubby mitts are always dabbling and plucking out many a fine curio.  A sound tangent this - and still tonally gratifying. 

'What's Your Excuse' is veggie vitriol done in a calm and stated way with a caring heart at the core.  Instead of hollering out demands, the facts are stated and the flow is steady and sanguine.  The ultimate question is asked - it is there for you to answer.  For me, the whole spiked arena is a place to toss around beliefs, ideas and stances and to not get upset by them but to use them as food for thought to ultimately make ourselves a better thinking being.  Rest assured, none of us are perfect, we are all making mistakes and are rough diamonds, but if we are trying to smooth things out and be a little more thoughtful and caring it can only be a good thing.  This is a solid tune that cements the whole CD together and of course, has me questioning myself even more.  'No Pride' sums matters up in this shit-mush where prejudice is raging, only now it is more subtle in many areas and people are cute at wearing many faces.  Even the punk scene is riddled with hate, division and bigotry - I hang my head in shame.  One thing, the gigs I do are for all the outsiders and so-called misfits and this number would be most welcome, blasting around the gaffs where I showcase the DIY dive-dwellers.  Personally I just crack on, fuck the labels and nonsense and treat people decent if they seem decent to me - the rest can fuck themselves.  I love this sub-anthemic piece that celebrates many things - the end result - just get along with each other people and bollocks to all sway and imbalance.  Now where's me dress and steel capped boots - time to pogo from an awkward angle methinks.

'Never Enough' is regulated punkery with the usual slap, dash and holler orchestration used.  Nothing out of the ordinary and nothing new brought to the tonal table (there never really is tha' knows) - but this is a spicy piece with many old school nuances and modern day angst wanky emotions.  The soul at the heart of matters is rock solid and the zest of the whole occurrence helps make this one of those moments that meets the most basic of spiked needs.  This is no bad thing, the attitude and frustration, and the inner curve away from the thrust, all makes for something highly listenable.

The final track I get my lugs around is 'Mirror, Mirror' - a bass grumble, a she-count, a hammer along and some acidic lyrics throwing the queer cat amongst the macho-straight gang who, in many places, lack a serious tolerance.  Again, I have better things to do than worry about people who may not have my leanings or follow my own ethos - as long as no harm is being done, respect given and the seeking of a better place is the focus then the rest can go to shit.  Alas - when people are involved, matters will never run smooth.  The main winning factor of this proud/pride shout out is the sincerity, the refusal to play things subtle and of course, the wallop in the skins, wires and overall shebang.  No gripes here, I need to see this lot 'live'.

A decent do this, plenty to consider and a real kick up the jacksie for many who are in a safety net, not considering movement forward and are stuck in a mental time warp.  Is it punk many may ask, is it music to get pissed to and jump around - on all fronts I am without concern - for me, the CD has clout, barbs and a good fuckin' DIY feel.

LEGLESS CRABS - PIERCINGS AND TATTOOS

2 tracks from the fecund and fuckin' musically estranged Legless Crabs, once again released on Metal Postcard Records - a combo that will not be denied and who maintain a great 'outside the circle' approach whilst bending genres and lugs in equal measure.  I am wasting no time here, I am to be succinct, sharp and hopefully somewhere on target.

'Piercings And Tattoos' begins with a fine billowing dub-scrub that is borne from deep within a cavernous speaker where the hollerer is ensnared and seeking escape.  Industrial tones, a grating of mechanical parts and an overall automated approach, this is very much the modus operandi of the band but they always manage to find that much needed acoustic oil to keep matters running as smooth as is almost necessary.  This is another unhygienic number with an inner torture but with a somewhat suggestive glow that defies the surrounding sable silence.  I like this one, it has a groove and move prowess that threatens those opting for matters more obvious and processed.

'(Yr) Kink' is slow-moving bilge, animated by darkened forces that hint at things Lovecraftian. I am bewildered and will not be forced to waste my time on 'non-music' for those from another realm.  The verdict is - one sub-hit, one dub-shit.

The LC orchestration is a thing to behold, at times challenging, sometimes intriguing and at others, beautifully disappointing.  You can't polish turds, you can't put down the awkward, you can be honest though and do what ya do (it works all ways).