FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 17
 
 

FAINTEST IDEA - INCREASING THE MINIMUM RAGE

Another band this Fungalised git put on in their early days that helped get them flying on their merry way which was undoubtedly going to be a successful one due to the fine tuneism dealt out on those early gigs.  Things have developed for this band from Kings Lynn and they have been grabbed by new mitts, showcased here and there and duly done the business as one would expect.  Still floating in the gunk at the bottom and doing my own thing I have not seen them play their stuff for quite a while now so this latest release will have to suffice for the time being.  I can't be everywhere and in no means want to be (fuckin' crummy world, crummy scene, etc) and so catch up and tune in hoping there has been no slackening of the hunger or infecting indolence creeping into the acoustics.  They know my style, they won't expect favours - just as well really.

Veils raised, arse cheeks separated, coffin-lid knocked off due to an unexpected erection burst (there is life beyond death)- take your pick and in we go with 'Circling The Drain', a comfortable intro that showcases certain reliable elements the band have brought to the foreground (or foreskin if you prefer) on many previous occasions.  Initial thoughts though tend to lean to a new found maturity and there seems a greater layering to the overall depth and so initial intrigue is piqued.  A angle is had in the tuned in delivery with a pronounced bob in the melody whilst angered vocals consume the energy of the rear sound, sound built on a mix of tympanics, keys, brass and wire work.  The precise pace exudes sanguinity and the sturdy, resolute piercings of noise adds more muscle to the bone - I am taken.  'Cocktails' chunners along and mouths off with a more weaving and restless style, an all consuming twist and screw that has a strong-willed pertinacity provokingly kicking back at the regime gone wank.  The music flies in from all angles, the unified gob pushes, the indefatigable brio of the boom blasts and we have a follow-up to the first to savour on the opposite side of the tongue (when the fancy takes us).  Usual in-house tamperings for sure but played and mixed with a knowledge and insight plus a demand for an accuracy which always bodes well.

Track 3 we meet and greet with 'Down Pressure' initially rallying against financial injustice and the overall fuck-piss mess that pervades all areas before trooping along in glorious obstreperous fashion and kicking up a good cloudburst of unruly energy.  The song here is the best thus far, gleans favour from the Fungalised Fucker due to its captivating swing, utterly excellent liquidisation and bountiful bonanza of arse bouncing upstrokes.  Many elements of the bands artistry come together to have an audio orgy and spunk out an end orgasmic based runt of delectable rhythmisation - I am in the pit with them, stripped, sucking, fucking and clucking - clucking out praise of the most sincere kind, nice one!    'Echo Chamber' counterpunches with two fists - one heavily armed and bombing, the other spare of weaponry and jabbing lightly.  Stripped down verse probes peek then poke looking for a gap in your defences before booming left and right-handers are thrown over the top in a chorus clash that hurls the song in a thoroughly new direction.  Not bad but I do feel the attack is so focused that the feet aren't firmly planted and as a result a leaning towards imbalance is had.  Towards the latter end the band get some semblance of regularity but this is too brief and no sooner is this stance adopted than we are done.  'The Well has Run Dry' is a tempestuous tirade with all areas at full tilt and bouncing off each other with a determined and driving energy that will not be stopped.  After the initial dirt has flushed itself away a pounding persistence comes, egged on in the main by scuffling action and abusive brass assaults.  The tempo, impetus and temperament all coagulate to form one cloying mass of inescapable breathlessness and we go in wide eyed and expectant and come out beaten to buggery - just how many of us like it in fact.  'Lords Of War' is a fleshy affair, pounding out a rut of rhythm whilst making a point and keeping the skanked flames burning bright.  The extra inclusion of he/she duelling is a helping hand and has me thinking if the band should flog the arse of this formulated nag a little more regularly.  I like the effect it creates, a double emotion that exudes unity.  There is extra chomp and we fly into an embracing chorus chunk that once again grabs the attention and nails home an animated and sub-vitriolic essence.

Slow and tranquil tonal qualities sway along holding afloat the quality of the CD with aplomb.  'Throw Away The Key' is tenderised tuneage built on harmonised street hollers, disgruntlement with the justice system and lucid calypsotic crumplings of the most comfortable kind.  Add a sprinkling of wise words that are played around with and presented with cute and curiosity arousing craftiness.  I am of the opinion that this could be my personal pick of the litter but it is a runtless bunch and my decision is far from easier.  Darn bastards this lot be.  I bound on, am greeted by the smooth bass driven intro of 'No Consequences'.  A terse stagger follows and then more undulations come, string and brass borne they be, deliciously in cahoots and charming a pathway for the irate and whizzed up gobbers to foam to and may I add, spit to.  The charge is flamboyant, none of this hurtling balls out nastiness, this is more jazzed up jauntiness with a titfer cocked, the hips swaggered and the smile sanguine.  Loads of smooth manoeuvres and just a fuckin' good adventure to jig about to - don't ask for anything more.

I go into the last three with brevity blazing and hammer swinging open to nail things swiftly and accurately - here it goes - whoosh!  'Ouroboros' pounces then prances before sliding with spasmodic energy and convulsing with regular, yet seemingly unpredictable activity.  The imbalance spouted off against is relevant, the gesture of juggernauting frustration suits the unsettled flow and this song, however fractured it first appears does the business and gets by on bollocks alone.  'Corporation' strides in on big pronunciations that labour the point but we soon get to grips with events as the sludgy gob off reveals itself to be nothing more than a two-sided coin of cacophony tossing off much angst and ultimately getting a nod of agreement and shake of the head in one disconnecting verdict of ambiguity - ooh me fuckin' neck!  50/50 here, although the initial busy burst of vocal hunger is highly appealing.  'Tightrope' adds the final underscore to a hefty CD with a deliberate march of spittle-saturated angst that plods along with ill-temper before indulging in the odd dash to relieve the crushing menace of the song in general.  A tad long and a trifle too self-indulgent for me, it does go on a little, but it is executed nicely and leaves a fairly decent taste in the oral orifice.  There ya go - I do try and be fair!

I went in, got fucked, came out and am still shaking it all about.  Faintest Idea have evolved, are not the beast I first dealt with but they still keep me entertained on the old silver circle.  Next stop a 'live' viewing if my diary permits - it will be my loss if not!

   

SKURVI - GET EM' IN

After giving these dudes a gig in Stoke I have followed their progress with interest and seen them keep the flow going and build up a good reputation on the rocking circuit.  Skurvi play cute fast songs that are loaded with punk and Oi basics and given a good anal injection of melody and beer fuelled motivation - a recipe for disastrous success I do suggest.  Hailing from Brighton these guys do get around and with a recent mini-tour mastered and this CD flying in many directions the future looks like we may need plenty of vitamin C on hand - oooh me fuckin' joints!  So I bung myself up with an abundance of ascorbic acid supplements and dive into this one with much vigour and untold enthusiasm - not bad for an old fart!

Initial defiance is sprayed up your walls of disbelief with 'Till We Die', a sub-crummy shift along that is a beer swilling accompaniment foaming with life and youthful chomp that many aging runts still cling onto.  The fuzz levels are adequate, the stick slaps rapid and the gob at the fore clear enough and obviously into the slipstream of din created.  It paves the way for what is to follow, the first of which is the exemplary cutlet dubbed as 'Skinhead', a cute dose of wordplay invested into a robust and driving tune that just gets better and better with each rotation of the silver circle.  During the opening salvo of versage I get carried along in the gushing wave of brilliant desire and all-consuming clatterism that is compressed like buggery and really gives the lugs a surging sanitising swill out of sonic goodness.  The movement from this chunk to the next is liquid and the chorus hum-dings with an absorbing stench my hooter just can't get enough of.  I inhale very deeply, get heady via the wonderful sing-a-long burst and lap up this rather adroit and happening number in several big snorts - oh aye!

'Snatch Squad' winds in, goes for another well hollered approach and makes sure the Oi and Punk elements remain solidly blended and poured forth with an ample allowance of restless impetus.  This in fact is an incessant inclusion of breathless booming that radiates a feeling of not wanting to fuck about and to keep the running time well soaked through and without delay.  A pizzazz and potency is drilled through the song with bass work seemingly doing the  most commanding and keeping the end blast a target to utterly race for.  Another cracker.  Acute glistens come from shatterhand shards before reflective calmness comes and 'Drunken Nights' gets to grips with itself and pours itself down your gullet with...ease!  An old school cornball with a complexion expected - pimpled with certain tones that burst with regulated tones.  The regularity of the forecasted flavours may have been whipped to hell over the years and this may be a song you have heard many times before but it is still played mighty well and delivered with a stout-hearted undesigning sincerity.  A look over the shoulder at some good piss up's - hey, we all do it and I suppose in some ways it keeps us going.  Nowt wrong here, the lack of originality is more than made up for by the earthiness and the zeal.

'Alright' bounds about, plants its feet and runs like fuck into the melee of the song proper.  A well run number with a fast sandpapered abrasion that wears away resistance and gets one moving.  One for a pit pogo, a moment to let all stress go and jump like a jerk to.  All areas are crammed, there is no room for respite - suck on it and swill.  'Isn't Where It Ends' comes across as the midway safety net, a song that trundles along with an average pace and without any explosive or angular nuances to inject the excitement levels to beyond the expected.  The mix isn't quite spot on either and the vocals become slightly submerged in the general mass of chordage and riffology.  Add to this a sub-soppy drift towards the latter end and I am jabbing my index finger in the flabby chest of this fucker and accusing it of being the slackest arse in the pack - now then, now then.  'Skum Rises' has all the adornments of an underground anthem and snaps like a shark on heat with all sonic gnashers drawing blood in no uncertain terms. The dogmatic defiance of the delivery is tangible and that opening sanguinity amidst the corroded string work and drum attack is delicious and topped by a hungry holler out that will see many joining in with.  As a DIY underdog every attribute of this surging song appeals to my unaffected nature and the ‘from the hip’ forthrightness of the drive only heightens the listening adventure for me.  Smashing!  'Better Way' is a snagging sing-a-long that bounces with melody throughout its acoustic existence and strikes me as a cleansed and rinsed semi-Oi politico number that comes from the cobblestone walking bloke in the street.  A very plain-spoken controlled conniption that has the potential to do damage when it kicks back proper but maintains a distinct 'on the leash' feeling that serves the song well.  The boots are ready to bruise, but we have caught the crew on a very fair day - I hope you get the drift.  'She's Coming' is a nagging classic that drills into the skull and invigorates all the dancing potential within the grey gunk.  The opening rolls are fizzed up and frothy, the smooth verse that persuades is a peach and the chorus that is segued into is an absolute repeat beat pearler that is straight away nestled in the noggin and doing its irresistible stuff.  Streetpunk copulated with pop punk and given a roughing up by hands that brutally care, this is a diamond example of how simplicity works.  I need not ponder, I need not push this one anymore - all I suggest is you get off ya fat arse and find out for yourselves what goodness is found herein!

Fuck - I am at the latter end - now what the hell has gone on here then?  4 to go and without further faff 'Wanting More' glides in, moves on heartfelt emotions with a searching accent backed by cushioned 'Whoa hoa's' very much in keeping with the 'lost soul' thematics that drive through this very secure song.  It shows that band have a little more in their repertoire which is always a good thing.  'Geezer' comes, a quick tumble, a flashing light emergency release and a gallop through the first verse about one of life’s blinkered losers who, try as they might, fail to impress.  All marf, nah trousers - you know the type, one in every nook and cranny in which you walk - silly sods.  The band deal with the subject matter in high rattling fashion that is just the cup of cha' needed at this late juncture with all hands to the deck and delivering a ping and sing pip.  I love this one, love it for its simplicity in all areas - as easy as son!  'Work' relates the stresses and idiot routine frustrations we all suffer from and how the evil necessity of labour drives us all insane in its own small but persistent way.   A stop/start rumble release of angst, a surging rapid foams through the initial verse and melts into a perfect partner of a chorus that  pummels away and maintains a ruddy consistency to bounce about to.  Revitalise those spirits, kick back against the pricks, get some beer and music inside ya and blow away the blues - a cure-all for certain.  We need a good finish here, it would be a tragic mishap to let this CD finish on a duff muffin.  'Her' begins with woven touches before gathering all areas in secure arms and squeezing out a unifying sing-a-long that is just made for that end of set blow-out where foaming glasses are drained, bleary eyes look on and drunken legs fight to stay within the rolling melee where everyone is unified and hollers out with joy.  An easily embraced, mid-paced pleasure that confidently brings down the curtain on a CD that sees Skurvi do the business and offer up a wealth of opportunities for future jaunts.

Skurvi had the potential, here they tap it and it is highly rewarding for me, as a scribbler and long term addict to this noise, to see a band make good headway with a really quality release.  Get Skurvified folks.

   

MODERN TRIBES - EVERYTHING IS DYING...

2 viewings of this lot so far has me chomping at the bit for more as the aggressive and screamoid thrusting and, may I crucially add, the articulate and united outpouring they offer is utterly convincing and borne from souls battered by bleak tonal truncheons that induce experimentation.  This hard-firing band spout from Oswestry, Shropshire, a place desolate of a scene and not on any notable noise-making maps that I can think of. We as pushers of wholesome acoustica can only do our humble bits, here is mine.

First up and 'Pam Beesley' tentatively peeps through the velvet curtains of silence before billowing them aside via modernised tones that both sub-whisper and sub-agonise.  A delicious introduction to a well-heeled band that picks up a vocal partner and drifting sway, both copulating with a loosened precision that rises to a drawn out pseudo-crescendo loaded with wired up, wanked off, worn down exasperation.  The calm down is only temporary and hollers pour in with the sonics now almost detached and mocking which in itself creates curiosity inducing excitement - a very inspiring and interesting start!  'Everything Is Dying' is a fuckin' tension relieving masterpiece that is nothing more than a repetitive primeval scream brazenly retched up from a disgusted gut absolutely on fire.  48 seconds of head-slamming mania that ejaculates a potent filth to drown in - quite effective and right up my rhythmically ravenous street.  Raze it to the ground!

'Holly HxC' is a regulated song with radioed utterances shit-splattered with invasive oral blow-outs that set the whole melodic scenario alive with vexed and vicious blood drops.  The undulating pulsation of the verses is magnetic, the unexpected onslaughts of raw-throated desire are most welcome and, as a result, we get a two-fisted fucking to please the most perverse and, may it be added, vulgar eavesdropper.  A cracking moment yet again, the MT massive have me on my knees at such an early juncture - hit me, hit me hard ya bastards!

'I Hate You' is a livid encounter coloured with garish shades of danger that are spat forth with seductive passion that captivates all those hard-edged elements within the clattered soul.  Deep resonations, brief glass fractures, potent screams filled with need all culminating in a regressive and primitive chant that has a lust to suffer.  A fascinating discharge thundered towards the latter end with feral mania.  'Nothing I Will Ever Do Will Ever Mean A Single Thing To Anyone, Or Anything, Or You' is tenderised it seems but that darn gob won't stay subdued and vulgarly invades with the uvula forced to reach 'vibration factor 10' as the untamed larynx works like a mule on steroids and scorches away with much gusto.  The wires remain aloof, don't get caught up with the oral rage and so we have another two-sided coin of cacophony that is forever tossed but rarely caught, especially by this luggite.  I like the inclusion, I doubt myself, this one is a determined discombobulator that has me scrambling around for something resembling the truth - bugger.

The finale is 'I Know What You Did', the longest song of the lot which may be a slight slip up in my lowly opinion.  It comes on crisp indie-lines and plays things straight, convincing me even more of late 80's/early 90's stuff that now and again hits the right Fungal hotspot but more often than not misses it by a mile.  There is a persistent tranquillity within the weft of the song, a settled mood within the relaxed flow that exposes a new facet to the band and works a treat but...things just travel a minute too far and trespasses into the gardens of indecent.  I like it, it has faults (for me personally) and I hail this as the damp armpit in a collection of fresh and well-aired musical body crannies.  You cannot win them all.

Despite the last fling that I deem to be a trifle flaccid towards the apex I find this CD tantamount to a ruddy success with many quality pinnacles reached and many rectal passages ripped wide open.  I have the band booked on a couple more shows and I am well chuffed with that, I do hope you will be too (I fuckin' tries my best).

   

LOVELY WIFE - THE NAME OF THINGS HAVE NEVER BOTHERED ME

An EP means 'yippee' as it usually results that I can get things done a little quicker and keep things ticking and tocking.  Lovely Wife however don't make things easy and the few tracks I have at my feet here have certainly taken time to adjust to.  On Facebook this North Shields based band describe their genre as 'Sludgy-Stoner-Doom Improv' which really has me off-balance and preparing to scratch my battered bonse with frustrated digits.  I never shirk any new material though, I like to listen to a wide array of tuneage and give it a good fuckin' going over (with fairness and honesty at the forefront of the appraisal). In I go again (because hardly anyone else can be arsed) - wish me luck kind reader!

First and the aurally blinding density of 'Welcome To The Jumble', a delivery that cymbally whispers in with almost confused uncertainty.  After an unrehearsed rise that takes over 1 minute 45 seconds to actually find some semblance of flow, what transpires is glutinous muck that drips from an obvious ruptured rectal passage still diseased with constipating pressures that fail to let the shit freely fall.  Laxative patience is donated to the cause, we sit and wait like any decent squatting shit-taker and what comes is darn hard work to say the least.  Turgid, terrifying, self-absorbed and similar to a rolling shambler from squalid territory best left untraversed this seething slob of heaving disgruntlement tears at the underwear of belief, probes the inner sanctity of things deemed private and decent and commits a raping that should be not spoken of.  Intensity wise it is a winner, musically it is a failure - it is not my bag at all and those what do get it need to make sure they keep taking the medication - one missed dose and death may ensue.  A death that will take 8 minutes 16 seconds to happen - blah!

Segueing in on a dirty tidal wave of excremental insult comes the blackened fucker known as 'But Wait There Is Gore'.  Similar in theme to the previous drudge this poisonous primeval tumble of sewerage water stinks to lowly Hell and brings to the fore a stoned out decadence once more ideal for the few.  Again we are plunged into a nightmare of oral-free stress with the grinding and grating mush pushing the levels of tolerance with a plus 2 minute escapade of numbing noise.  Hang in, bail out - either way there are no rules.

We close with the 5 minute plus bombardment of 'You've Only Gone And Paused It', a whinging and cringing cutlet of maggot-filled fodder, rotten to the core with immersed focus and Grim Reaper obsession.  Sable velvet streaked with treacled shit, this is reeking encounter that goes a step further and actually bruises the fleshes with its hard hitting emanations that are so damned destructive.  Once in the midst of the defecated swamp of sonica there seems no escape and when the last blast duly comes we are almost tearful with relief.

This CD is what it is - you get a thumping, a cold-hearted beating of cacophonic cruelty.  No vocals, just lingering violence - I hope my review gives a taste of matters and in some ways helps you decide if you are going to dabble further or run like fuckin' hell.

   

THE CAVEMEN - SELF-TITLED

From Auckland, New Zealand comes a crew of slag rock sleazers who dish up a foul monstrosity of musical deviancy loaded with rabid desires conjured from a garaged grimoire that summons up many mental phantoms of disease.  The noise is ravenous, feeds on your will and appeals to the most raw-boned basic instincts us music lovers all find within.  I am sure those of a more cleansed faith will find this nauseating filth to get thoroughly tuned out by but to the more ardent and twisted imps of acoustica then it will be a case of erections aplenty that will be an utter pleasure jack off.  It happens, get over it, I am going in head first regardless of any advice - fuck you!

From the disabled cranium of silence erupts the first upheaval of touched tunery, appropriately enough slagged down as 'Mentally Ill', a very corroded cacophony of cruddite levels that come from cavernous crannies where the dark-eyed dicks of discordance stand proud and spunk much appreciation.  The scurfy string work and the low-wired, tuned out fuzzoid mouth screeches work well in combo and when kicked up the arse by the tympanised activator we have an open shambles to celebrate.  If you are in the groove your membranes will certainly move, if you are on the outside then get the fuck in here - it feels good ma'an.  'Fuck For Hate' is a wonderfully crawled shit smear upon the lavatorial walls of your mind where thoughts best left unspoken reside in scrawls of disgruntled glory.  A murky delivery, seen under low-light and shooting into your veins with greedy, destroying venom.  The bass bumbles on amphetamine desire, the guitar scrapes the scum from its own arse in gratifying measure and the drums belt around with breathless buggerisation whilst the gob exudes a wild and lunatic fringe naturalness that captivates those won over by passion. 'Stand By Your Ghoul' is a victorious escalating raven of rhythm that pecks away at your senses and brings about a boogie woogie epileptic response that has a  resemblance to an electro seizured Frankensteinian freak let loose on the dance floor.  A superb dark and dank creepoid clatterer that sidles over the flesh with untrustworthy sinisterism borne from players now immersed and totally without hope in a swirling vortex of devilish discordance.  The vibe of this one is irresistible, raises goose bumps and gets those noisy neurones popping.  Excellent horrified garage work - a pinnacle indeed!

'Scumbag' is a quick repeat flick that gnaws over and over, through flesh, cartilage and eventually bone.  Corroded to fuck, wasting no time to get to the marrow of the matter and with a quick rotten and rapid instrumental snip this one comes and goes in the thrutching of an anal passage.  'Rides With The Reich' is happening animation, frothing at the mouth with hepped up insatiable need, a need to knee you in the knackers without apology - the bastards.  The rock and roll flamboyance is gushing and thrives in a pond of sonica where the life is warped, epileptic and forever wriggling.  The premise of the sonica is cracked, the delivery as per, and the end result is of a very convincing eruption of appetising sub-glam, wham-bam wankism that you can't help but get splashed by - porntastic!  'Rock And Roll Retard' is asylum house rebellion, getting wanked off yet again and tanked up on its own heady gusto (who am I to fault it).  The baby lullaby tones that welcome are cursed with pre-corruption cum and only serve to throw the head at an angle ready for the forthcoming kicking.  Totally savoury gushings that bound from one era to the next whilst embracing many sub-generic shitholes and coming out reeking.  Careless, care free - this is low slung, cerebral slap happy primitiveness that will grab your attentive gonads and squeeze the bastards dry.  No need for deep investigation here, just deal and dance.

4 whizzoid-based molestations next with 'At The Pub' a wondrous sizzler, bursting with life and 'out of control' idiocy that will not be restrained in any way whatsoever.  A 'fuck it' and sup outburst that travels on sozzled heels kept in line by nothing more than well-versed talent and genuine, unadulterated sonic spirit - good on' em'.  'Fucked In The Head' is what it says on the tin, totally brain damaged dinnery that shoots along on swift sensations liable to infect those who like things crud-laden and with a scurfy outer surface, you know the kind, like a mangy dog with poisonous fleas.  Take pride in your mental damage, turn this up top whack and fuckin' put thy noggin through a window - shatter!  Irresponsible titles are punk incarnate and 'Drunk Driving' captures that angle with a road hogging, hard slogging acceleration of acoustic havoc that puts down the pedal hard to the floor and never lets up.  The fuel in the tank is burning as fast as ever and the band play a straight out tune here with perhaps less reckless rampaging than you would expect from the title.  A brief veer off route is had but in the main the track sticks to the course and arrives home safe and sound - lucky bastards. Teenage stress is kicked out with an age old reliable rock out brandished under the name of 'School Sucks', a pounding effort that stops, staggers and encourages shit kicking, anti-prick behaviour.  A double ended attack, drilled through with filthy incinerating wire work and dustbin lid vitality - you know the script by now!

The last fuckin' 3, 'Crimes Tonight' commences the run down to the closure, does so with twanging and keyed up anxiety that pours in a continuous leakage of mad hatter twattery.  An opening hiccup and into the tumult we go, ragged and ravishing, adorned in raiment’s of peephole pleasure, deliberately exposing inner workings for your indelicate lustings.  'Glass Breakfast' crunches, munches then moves - the floodgates open, nay the piss flaps part and out falls a runt of rhythmic offensiveness that only the most crooked and cretinous onlookers will take note of.  A shit-stained arse of a crew blow out a reeking obscenity attired in good, earthy rhythm and we see our own nether regions leak with appreciation - par for the course by now.  Doctor can you hear me!  The closing clash and trash is as you would expect.  A sleazy up-tempo gut spill with a thirst for the finishing line 'Trash Talkin' Paint Huffin' Girl' goes for it with glory flags flying and leaves us in its wake coughing and spluttering with untold exhaustion.  The band do what they do very well indeed and close this exciting CD in fine style.

Yeah, The Cavemen come, club us to fuck and drag us into the cave of discordance without too much resistance.  The band rattle things out with a balls bared forthrightness and I am never one to shy away from such a vulgar display.  A good CD, one to raise the spirits and have a good rock out to - it keeps the circulation moving.

   

PRE-MENSTURAL TENSION - INTERNET TROLL

There is no fucking about with Pre-Menstrual Tension, the band go for the jugular as well as less obvious body parts (ooh Arthur) in their attempt at debilitating the listener and having their wicked sonic way with them.  Sprouting their hefty dinnage from the bowels of Bolton this lot have certainly a lot to be miffed about (who wouldn't living in Bolton) and let it overflow on this debut CD that has a clenched fist throughout and a temperament not to be trusted. I grip on tight, brace my throbbing gristle and penetrate the sonic sacrifice proper (pass me a tissue).

'Internet Troll' flicks the first vocal V-sign amidst a tail-pipe blow-out of exhaustive fumery that sharply takes your breath away with a toxic and spittle-soaked tirade against the key tapping cunts out there who have so much dysfunctional emotion as regards their own state of play that they feel the need to make things sticky for others.  The World Wide Web is a tool to abuse, a chance to cause aggro whilst remain incognito and at a distance from a replying fist.  The music here is razor edged, the gob laden with irritation - it all seems to be leading to a culmination of disgruntlement, this comes via a chorus that soars highest before banging home the point at hand.  A very muscular track, chomping at the bit to get away and swing back at the shit-stirring swill out there - keep tugging tunesters.  A good opening upchuck this that sets the stage for following bruisers to stomp - enter track 2, 'Ageing'.  This one is built on yet more hard-thwacking attention that in parts, hits zeniths liable to burst ones brains.  The slow tub pulse, the sedated guitar atmospherics and the expected thrust are followed by an oral upchuck many of us will be able to relate to, especially the long term louts in the scene who have taken much shit for the refusal to tow a very straight and undesirable line.  The song is loaded with tightened frustration and disagreeing venom that comes in crunching considerations and zooming rushes of zealous zest, both hammered forth with experience and advanced years of external hassle.  The ill-temper is what wins the day here as it does with the chasing crackerjack known as 'Politician'.  A real shit-flinging affair of blood pressure raising rowdiness that pours forth with a certain exactitude and arse bruising incessancy.  The slant of the sonica is uncompromising, bleak and hopeless, similar to the promises of the said suited and booted cunts under the spotlight.  The glutinous simmering nature of the song is dense and saturated with disgruntled violence, a violence that is controlled but as equally impacting as if the fist were lashing as much as the tongue.  The inner chant is primitive and appeals to instincts inbred and I for one can't help but pogo to this damaging song.  A marvellous moment!

'Sedation' strums in with something a kin to decency at the helm - oh yuck!  Thank fuck a remedy of scuzz comes, banishes the delicacies and gets this CD back on destination clobber.  A scouring blast out of paranoia based on a loose thread of actuality where we are fed certain sinister fodder via the schemers and wankward dreamers who desire control and conformity (perhaps my head is going AWOL too).  A quick song, nothing outrageous, nothing deeply special - it comes, it goes, it leaves a bruise - the CD contains better beatings though!  'Echo' reverbs in, spreads its butt cheeks and farts out a straight forward bounty of big heave ho bother with another slag heap of troubled tetchiness.  Guitars scathe and apply a certain thumbscrew pressure, drums remain orderly and slap bang with rigidity whilst the gob man gets on with his demon banishing and blasts out vandalising verbal’s - not a bad un' but falling into the shadow of the much more convincing 'Video Monster', a racing flourish of raving madness against the taped and trapped deviants who fall victim to a brainwashing process to which they become addicted and as a result turn into a diseased beast in need of medical attention.  The surged segments and the controlled restraint combine to make an expected outpouring filled with the by now recognisable PMT tonality - I shall not gripe.  'Camera Shy' is the best track of the latter batch with a regular tempo, strong riffed rhythm and a well-lubricated move from verse to chorus noted.  The vocals are at their most clear, the unified gob outs and the pulsing strings all work above the steady skins and what we get is straight racket-making and something sturdy and utterly reliable.  The click happy cunts restricted by in-house rules and regulations are the targets here - poor buggers.

We finalise this 8 track account with a song called 'Positive Times', an inclusion that rises, takes time to reveal the filthy bass and then tumbles headlong forth into another irate burst of noise.  A close examination of the troubled, tortured and fractured scene in which we operate is taken and fuming fury is the end result with much spittle soaked frustration at the state of play that culminates in moments of controlled angst and sections that, for me personally, become overly messy and make for a difficult listening experience.  The start is fine and promises much, the slip into chaos is ill-timed and maybe if these last two-tracks swapped places we would leave the CD on a more positive note for all.  Hey ho, tis all personal preference and all I can give is honesty.

Out of the 8 tracks I would give 6 a definite nod and 2 I would give a kick up the arse.  Overall the CD works and has good thumping weight not to take too lightly.  Having witnessed the band and the frontman do a solo spot I reckon there is a whole lot more to come from this crew and it will be all done in the right way, with the right ethos and that is more than good enough for me.  All I can suggest as a lowly listener and noise fanatic is to keep pushing, keep gushing and never give in!

   

BORN TO DESTRUCT - DEVASTEIGHT WITH DESTRUCTION

Many moons ago I gave Born To Destruct a gig and followed it up with many more in which they entered the fray under many different guises. The band have gone from the average to the capable and on to the confident and their progress has been watched closely by this Fungalised git whilst reviews have been plentiful.  Criticism, praise and assistance have been offered up in various quantities, whether they listen and take heed is up to the players but I do what I do and mean every bit of it in good faith.  This is the bands 8th album and I am hoping, after their recent thrust, that it will be their best.  As ye know if it is not then I will certainly say (as the band well know too) but it will be done with no spite and no malicious edge.  You shouldn't need any further introduction, the band have been well scrutinised on this site so let me plough on and see what the fuck transpires!

'Devasteight With Destruction' scum crumbles, breaks through the dirty substrate and plods forth with a very direct and deliberate accent borne from the intrinsic nature of a band who have a very characteristic approach.  Tthose who have listened in for some time, will know the score by now.  No flamboyance here, no tassels of tuned trickery - just a focused foot stamping drive forth with the production levels at their most exact and complimentary.  A safe start with the gratuitously gravelled vocals adding extra barbs and boom - consider our arses neatly sizzled. 'Eufuckinphoric' is a tidily entitled slag that opens its legs and lets forth a twat tremble of scuttling hunger that sees the CD get a genuine foothold and really get things moving.  Immediately one can pick up on the fact that Born To Destruct thrive better as a band who inject a flush of pace into matters, take the bull by the horn and...wank it.  At speed the vocals become slightly smoother, the music seems to tighten up and there is a blatant exhibition of the unity of the band not felt when a more sedate option is taken.  The song oozes desire and dribbling mania with the overall tumbling stone of sonica not one you would wish to stand in the way of.  Take your chances if you must but don't come crying to me when you get well and truly...flattened!  Ya stupid cunts!

Talking of stupid cunts...'All The Gear But No Idea' is a spiteful song that points the venom dipped digit towards the prima donna fuckwits out there who elevate themselves to phantom levels of importance only found in their own misdirected noggins. Reminiscences of rhythms past come to the fore but the fine mixing values put any restless criticisms back to sleep as this song convinces this well-worn warrior of a sturdy cutlet of cacophony that sub-undulates via spasming sonic stomach muscles. One good aspect is the fact that frontman Woodstock stretches his vocal range and includes a few moments where the trollies are hitched up and the octaves rise in accordance - a nice touch!  'Let's Get Rowdy' packs a firm punch and continues a good productive standard set although here the song is very flat-lined and perhaps just overcooks its own knackers of noise in the delivery process.  Crushing, non-rushing, heavily pushing and in some respects mentally mushing (but not always for the right reasons) this is a steady number and is far from a nasty knacker in the underpants of glory.  Good intensity by the way!

'Do You Wanna Know' has a superb build-up and comes on thermals sweetly regulated and kept on a perfect flame flicker that sets good heat levels and prepares the way for the set dish.  The song aims at those who ask for one thing, get the answers and then seemingly want something else entirely.  The song finds a thread and consistently hammers it home which in some ways is disappointing as I can't help expecting a little more.  The heave-ho is still good though and the production levels most gratifying but I just find this one a little flat.  'Release The Beasts' has more 'thwack' factor and stampedes hard with all components throbbing and thrusting like a horned up humper covered in Mr Big erection cream.  A sure-hoofed opening exhibits progressive belief before the short snarl of the song proper comes our way.  Surely this should have been the opening snip to set up all that would be spewed our way - mmm - just a thought.  A tidy chunk nonetheless.  'Smile' is a chirpy cum chomping number that deals with the sobered and slags them down in no uncertain terms.  A good verse is blemished by a stuttering unsure chorus and so I am left in two-minds about this one. The stance behind the output is fair enough although in these fucked days I find it hard to maintain a smile at the best of times.  I guess that gets me put in my place - hey ho, hated, slated, berated - I can smile at that ha, ha.  A big song not punching its true weight.

I usually throw a quick batch into my reviews and reckon the next 5 shall be just that. 'Sixty Seconds' is an apt beginning to the abridged overviews and is a small song whacking harder than it should and throwing haymakers from a variety angles before stepping back and admiring the literal handiwork.  A fine song that combo-cracks and does so with an infecting zest you should be in no way embarrassed about getting poisoned by.  One of my faves in fact and pursued by the sub-anthemic burst and tribal statement of 'We Bring the Noise'.  A song constructed on a passion for the racket, an unremitting need to draw you into the feisty fold and have you pogo.  A ditty that wants to share the sonic shit and create one big stink.  The primitive drum inclusion is ideal and adds an angle to the song as well as a touch of extra character - nice one chaps. 'Get Your Head In The Game' is a bulldozing roar fest that bounces around the walls of your personal rubber room and induces a repeat dose of madness you thought well cured.  There is a wonderful flow in this song and a superb wallop that just feels so good when it vibrates those bones and turns them to well-blasted dust.  One of the gripes I have had in the past with the band is the lack of fluidity and the almost overly positioned notes and chords that resulted in a static, too similar output.  Now, with a comfortable ease, the band are hitting new highs and this song is evidence of that - wonderful for a long term fan to hear!  'What A Bastard' is a great release of frustration that will tickle the nobs of the foul mouthed chanters and see good responses from many a crowd of chomping punkers.  Gruff and grizzly in all departments, bass heavy and reverberating with jarring resonations this is another banging blitzer that bends the bowels and shifts big heaps of stagnating shite.  The word 'bastard' needs to be delivered exactly to feel its full brunt and here we get the delivery hitting the bulls-eye over and over again.  'We Love It' is perhaps the least attractive number of the fleeting five and is built of thriving thirst and lusty desire to get a rattling rip-up done and dusted with very little fuss along the way.  Job done, nowt special, nowt shite!

The final 3, 'Today' indicates the bands love for the task at hand and how they pour in their hearts and souls into the overspilling dinnage.  The best part of the song is the intro, a real textured cruise laden with positive vibes and glorified gusto that really draws in the listener and leaves them smiling.  Like a junkie getting his fix and appreciating the high this is asurging delight and really gives a heady bomb rush to keep repeating again, again and...again.  'I'm Too Rock 'N' Roll' maintains the buzz to a certain level but just doesn't equal its zesty predecessor and falls a little into the shadows somewhat.  This doesn't mean that this penultimate tickler is a flop, in fact it is a fair heave ho with a good nag factor that many a pinging piss pot will adore.  Perhaps it repeats too much, follows a mode that the band whipped hard in their formative years and maybe just lacks a distinctive trait like other scorchers on this CD - who cares, it still holds its own.  We close with 'Destruct For You', a song to join in with, a crowd pleaser that gives back what it receives and closes a CD with hands held high in praise of the following punkers out there who like to live it loud.  A safety first track I think that has only a couple of defects - the slushy elements and the horrible 'boom, shake' episode that is so toxic to my lugs - bah.  The band finish with a flourish though and soon banish any negativity so I will bail on a high!

There you go, the bands best CD for quite a while, in fact it may be their best full stop. The crew have developed, they have worked hard and they are currently getting some good notice.  I remember a time when a few heads doubted this lot, oh ye silly sods. The potential to move up the scale has always been there and it is good to see that said potential now tapped - keep it up lads, well chuffed with ya.

   

PASSION PLAY – POISON PEN

I put a gig on recently and had it delightfully infested with several pluckers cum fuckers from the dirt laden dingly dell of Doncaster. One of the players involved was Tony Nicholson, a solo artist who also plays with the fine outfit known as Passion Play.  He came, strutted both alone and part of his crew and I was very much taken back - what a joyous bonus!  The guy has an attitude I very much applaud, has an abundance of talent and plays with a sophisticated insight that brings a new angle to proceedings - here is a 6 track appraisal regarding some of his solos shizzle, this Fungal swine expects much!

'Letter To Sina' stream trickles in with thoughtful tenderness, sweetly bubbled by a heartfelt desire borne from a patchworked ticker undoubtedly troubled by the incessant upheavals of love.  The barely touched strings welcome, are carefully chaperoned by the whispered but deeply emotive oral confessions that heighten the panged and impassioned delivery and thus embrace the listeners attention and draws them in to the general persuasiveness.  A touching song, gorgeously teased forth and placed at our feet for nothing more than our untold admiration.  It is an expected start, absorbing, well-crafted and somehow reflective of a very natural unaffected approach - I appreciate this latter point.  'Danuta' is the second murmured moment that contemplates an office working lass and her struggling existence, an existence tattooed with failure, mundane routine and chances lost.  Our attending minstrel who posts the musical portrait through our listening letterbox does so with attention to detail and sets about a task that must be tuned in and totally precise or a severe faux pas will stand out like a veritable sore thumb.  Again this is gossamer light, cobweb fragile serenading, done so with an expertise and admirable acumen.  Each note is placed with exactitude, each observation relayed to the eavesdropper with clarity and as the plucker becomes more involved, so do we.  The throat is pushed slightly harder here, extra oral ranges explored, all done so with measured success - I move on pleased with what has transpired thus far.

'Losing Myself' is an absorbed number, an offering that begins with a slow, testing slant that is too much on the side of the soporific and sedated.  Very laboured and achingly analytical, not a song for those on the cusp of depression and in need of a pick-me-up.  In fact it takes some patience to stick with the opening drudge that only comes to life when the song heads towards its final breath.  A disconsolate and melancholic moment that does what it does but one that isn't for me.  'Riding Trains' is far better and is a construction that initially takes the simple things in life, finely etches them with lazy scrawls of personal insight.  The tapestry woven is slightly ambiguous and angular, the waltz languid and dreamy with a sub-monochrome effect dousing the mental images conjured with a character and reality.  Our vocalist’s recognisable nasal assistance is ideal for the task at hand and although another heavy, pondering number this one inches its way beneath my epidermal layers and has me intrigued.

‘Home’ is the shortest track of the lot but still avoids any urgency to get the job done.  Eider-down soft, semi-lullaby lounging, this is a homesick episode crooned outward on the merest lukewarm zephyr of acoustica.  A moment to listen to away from external distraction, an arrangement that one needs to take time with so as to taste each tonal element and roll around the awaiting palate.  Rest assured, if you take due caution and give generous consideration the pleasure will be all yours.  ‘My Poison Pen’ writes the final statement to this six track massage with yet more heavy duty contemplations wafted along on the crest of a thermal and given life via controlled zest and oral deliberation.  A slight meander of sheer sonic fabric, the most softest glance of watery sunshine blessing, once more an open wound of blatant inner suffering – or am I missing the point. 

One thing is for sure here and that is Tony Nicholson has his style, pours it forth with utter conviction and refuses to stray from the chosen methodology just to tick fashionable boxes. My overall estimation of the output is of a very cultured artiste who creates tunes with depth and feeling and is an ideal element to throw into gigs of a more robust and vulgar style.  I like the chap, I like his approach, I am happy to recommend this for all you dear readers and lovers of diversity!

   

UK SUBS - FRIENDS AND RELATIONS

I did say that one day I will review all of the UK Subs CD's in alphabetical order, missing out the odd few that I have already done of course.  I have always followed this band, from the early days until now with many gigs under the belt and a full CD collection to boot.  The crew have seen many highs and many lows but are now, at the time of scribbling, on the crest of a crooked wave and despite my desires for new bands and new hungry underdogs I do hope the success continues.  Here we have a collection of less familiar ditties from here and there, some of which are not exactly true Subboid material.  Nevertheless, it is an interesting mix and I go in hopeful of igniting something akin to positivity.

The opening 3 tracks come from a 2005 recording done in Tacoma, WA and have a typical Subsy flavour with Harper's gobbage totally identifiable even to the most untrained lug.

‘Product Supply’ war-mongers on heavy tympanics before fracturing open with scuzzed guitar thrusts.  The opening battle hollers are tribal and almost out of kilter and this, in some vague way, throws the appraising guest a little off balance.  Things level out into a sub-chorus that offers light in what I deem to be a very murky movement.  Harper’s gob remains as identifiable as ever and I slap this one down as an opening grower for sure.  ‘Rare Disease’ is a more cultured and less vulgar offering with the crew steering along a ship of sonica over a most thoughtful ocean of noise.  The initial filthy and highly infected string work and oral statements set a scenario for something heavy and deliberate and what comes is a most gratifying bout of viral cacophony.  A stated and sentenced song, coursing with a poisoned blood that not only simmers with spite but has something of a bitter edge and unsettled essence.  The result is a most rewarding sizzler.

‘Embryo’ in some unintentional way I presume, resembles just what it says on the tin, a product not quite finished.  The foundation of the outburst is hefty and has a good underscore of pulsing matter that summons up similarities between songs on the bands highly effective ‘A. W. O. L. CD.  For me though there is a kind of flat-lined threat that fails to culminate in anything spectacular and no sooner has the song found its footing then it is out of the door leaving us still expectant.  A shame but the chasing ‘Terroristos’ makes up for matters with some typical UK Subs fodder that sticks to a certain regimented, tried and tested, rarely bested formula.  The verses are steady, the chorus an obvious jump, jig and join in episode and the break swift and to the point.  Nothing outrageous but firm-footed Subs produce the crew do so well.  You should know this script off by heart!  ‘Phillips Environmental’ is the best of the opening five with a good revved up skip in the wire work and a good splash and smash in the tympanic department.  Vocally honest and raw-boned this is the band at their most appetising best with a vim and vigour bursting through the main membrane of melody and infecting the likes of me and you, those foolhardy and convinced UK Subs fans (silly buggers we be).  Bouncing and trouncing, restless and spitting back and very much part of a certain era, yeah why not!  By the way these latter 2 tracks were recorded at Mr Som Studio in Sao Paulo, Brazil in 2001 - there ya go.

The next batch of tracks are the dabblings of Charlie Harper and his buddy, Captain Sensible.  I have reviewed these 4 tracks on this website before (keep up ya bastards) so will not dally about or over analyse here.  Recorded at Oscillate Recordings, Albourne in 2012/13 these varied offerings leave a good taste in the tuned in mouth with the opening dreamscape drift of 'Too Much Reality' a particular favourite that has grown on me since first hearing it when doing the initial review.  It is a creation with a sub-psychedelic lilt and easy mannered affect that magnetises attention and gets one moving with analytical gusto.  'Space Virgins' is an equally pleasing roam around realms outside the norm with once more a switched off observance the main characteristic of drift, combined with a slow moving rhythm.  I remember stating that I originally liked this one - no reason to change my mind here.  'Human Traffic' is similar but gets things more blue-tinted and has a little more irritation it seems.  A groovy little number that hustles and bustles with a sub-'Gunn'ed guitar drive and drawling, scrawling vocals paraded over the top.  Not bad.  'Kamera' is a bit of repeater fun, a song that wraps around and throws out a message we may be well advised to take heed of.  Almost a dabbled ditty in essence but with no offensive edge so why not indulge!

Onto tracks 10 and 11, both of which are Urban Dogs offerings and were recorded in July 2014 at Perry Vale Studios in London.  'Rebellion Song' and 'One Foot In The Grave' are two familiar songs to me, both of which have fine appeal to my inner sonic sensors.  'Rebellion Song' is one of those under the radar classics that stirs the soul and rewards with a rich and warming sensation borne from a noise laden with care.  A gentle yet massaging song that has much muscularity and convincing weight.  One for a group sing-a-long, a communal croon out when resistance is very much required.  The second song is very much Vibrator-slanted with Knox at the fore and the melody very reminiscent of the bands later composites where high string wanking and enthusing drums did the business.  Sniping and politically snatching this sharp barbed song is a richly corrugated account that weaves along with natural ability and I rate this as another minor pip of irritation – nice work.

The last 5 tracks were recorded at Manchester Square Studios, London in 1984 and come from a band containing 2 Subs members (Gibbs and Garratt) and 3 others (Wylie, Wesson and Scott).  In a time when New Romanticism was still around, the cleansed and hygienic pop piss was pouring as frequently as ever and when bands felt the need to experiment and reach commercialised pastures new this is something of an experimentation in things away from the expected.  We get five tracks all of a similar labouring texture with 'Complete Surrender', 'Sail In The Wind' and 'Think Of Me' coming across as insipid sub-sleazoid shit that conjures up images of wannabe Duran Duran dabblers or Teardrop Explodes taggers - oh the horror of it all.  I listen to many vibes during the course of the assessing journey and some I get, some I don't - some have depth, some are shallow and I am afraid these opening bursts of the last five all fall into negative territory as far as I am concerned.  Production wise they are charming and really well blended but when listening to the finished products one can't help be doused in mental imagery of clean-cut creeps playing a game and trying to crack the more acceptable realms of rhythm - bah.  Just personal thoughts but I am sure many will get the same vibrations - they have my deepest sympathy.  The closing brace are slightly more appealing but of the same noxious order with 'The Things We Saw' another slow emittance that moves with feline grace but still has that suspicious edge I find questionable.  A ponderous, indulgent song that leaves me in its wake but even I can recognise the adequate texturisation and sub-scene circles it will find greater appreciation from.  'King For A Day' is typical time soaked produce, has many accents and lilts that could be borne from many bands of the early to mid 80's horror show that exposed much fakery and much finger fucking nonsense.  Again, a well-played song, ideal for many in the groove but for this git - no chance.  Before I finish this last batch let me add that my tastes are very eclectic and I do like many flavours of sound.  I can also add that it would be easy here to feign delight at these songs and come across as a patient clever clogs of cacophony who finds these latter tracks cerebrally challenging, laden with depth and rhythmically invigorating - but that would be dishonest and that ain't a route I want to take – think fuckin’ on.

There ya go then, another mixed bag of sounds, some I like, some I don't.  I remain a UK Subs and Urban Dogs fan , I don't reckon I'll be racing to get the back catalogue of Target Generation anytime soon though - one can't like everything ya know.

   

MOCK ORANGE - PUT THE KID ON THE SLEEPY HORSE

Topshelf Records have been in touch again, this time I am requested to review another band who do not come from the expected punk zones and who instead zoom in on what is best termed as 'indified' airwaves.  I don't mind, in fact I always relish diversity of dinnage, even if I like it or not.  It keeps me balanced and sonically sane and reminds me that the sub-circles that exist are small insignificant ponds that those outside really don't give a toss about.  Anyway, here we have 10 tracks from a band who swing in from Evansville, Indiana and claim on Facebook to have interests such as 'melody, groove and vegetables' - nowt wrong with getting your five a day!  So, with not much insight and thrown in at the mucky end I prepare to listen in and digitally tap out my bit.

The opening batch of two throws up several numbers that combine consistent grungey vibrology fucked through with sunshine poppishness and enticing, seductive melody.  The underscoring drift is lackadaisical but there is a definite chirp in the end result, but one does need to take ones time.  'I’m Leaving' has a jarring edge to the wire work,  comforted only by the soft pillow vocal tones, not the authoritative slap of the tympanics.  The overall flavour one feels from this opening gambit is of a dreamy sedation floated forth from realms of sonic slumber and chilled out lethargy whereas the opening machinery of 'High Octane Punk Mode' creates an illusion cum delusion of something harsher and more happening about to transpire.  The Land of Nod though is soon trespassed in once again as a slow waltzing meander is taken through mechanoid structures kissed by twilight tones and scummed up with electro pulsations borne from a sky laden with ambiguous promise.  The guitars idle, toy with themselves and when coupled with the washed out vocals create a watercolour of bleached sonica.  I am out of sync here, in a tonal territory almost ill-suited to me desires - I wade in deeper.

'Nine Times', 'Window, and 'Be Gone' are all jerky, unsettled numbers, hybridising several sensations and falling into a categorising zone somewhere in between nowhere. Something ad hoc comes but all the while the band remain in a reclining position with a lazy underscore never too far away from the sensors.  The first of this batch is a shuffly shifter with a shiny outer surface radiating a semi-feel good essence that has some inkling of direction.  The second number vibrates harder but insists on using the same sugar quirked vocal style which on one hand attracts my curious nature and on the other has me scratching my bonse in befuddlement.  A strange coupling and one that very much keeps the bonse ticking over.  I am liking this the more I spin it - there is light at the end of the pain-bow!  Track the third shimmers and sprinkle twinkles with much refracted and reflected rhythmic light bouncing off and re-entering with all manner of subtle angularity.  The crisp opening magnetises immediate attention, the sub-cavernous, semi-oceanic vocals captivate and the swishing cadence of all that follows borders on mellowed psychedelia - I am left in the midst of indecision so I move on and leave you on a precipice of 'what the fuck'.

Next and 'Some Say' scum fucks in on mistuned airwaves before the sonic smog clears and inklings of light are found.  Whispery utterances come, the usual musical escapade unfolds.  I find this one a bit too insipid and of a somewhat ineffective stature despite it having a tinselised cum kaleidoscopic arrangement.  Mmm, one of those that just misses the point I think and dwells too much in one situation and drags out a point for far too long - oh the silly sods.  'Chrome Alligator' spasmodically fidget fucks with a genuinely disconcerting, unorthodox agitation that at first irritates but then forces further investigation.  When stripped out and examined we have something akin to regularity, albeit in a very loose and untraditional mode.  Nothing wrong with wandering off-line and stretching the membrane of acceptable decency and I feel this does just that without slipping into realms of foolishness.  Perhaps the band can be accused of overcooking the sonic stew but what the hell, this is a trespassing track that has many influences to relate to.

3 left, I am still on the outside looking in, it ain't a bad place to be.

'Too Good Your Dreams Don't Come True' is an effort that never really surfaces from its own submerged state and so crawls beneath the surface in a nebulous way and leaves an indefinite smudge on the CD I can barely make sense of.  A manky number that in many ways follows the set suit but in others falls into deeper polluted waters - or perhaps my patience is wearing thin.  I move on and confront 'Intake' head on and come away with a verdict of a more tickling song with a bit more appeal in the inner workings and a tad more positiveness in the potter.  There is a subdued waltz within the weave, a consistent pitter, patter of tiny feet tiptoeing through the acoustic undergrowth so I expect greater appreciation to fall this one’s way.  Who knows at this point, I am struggling like mad here!  We shut down and hit silence with 'Tell Me Your Story', a song that deliberately dawdles with its pants round its ankles - all nasty bits on show and radiating a smell only the most perverse 'in-scene' shitters will grasp.  There are many functioning aspects here that could have greater appeal if separated from the glutinous gunk but the band ply their trade with a certain intent and are obviously aiming for an output not in sync with my own personal preferences.  Heavy stuff, almost nagging in an obscure kind of way. The whole straining effect is tiresome for me and I bail on a duff note - something I never like to do but honesty must dictate.

No, not my bag folks and that is just the way it is.  If I had to recommend this it wouldn't be to any of my punked up comrades but would be to those who like to stray outside restricting circles and dabble.  One or two tracks work, but only in small doses and overall I think this release will be for ardent fans only or those emo-fied stoners who like things etched with some kind of misery - hey ho!

   
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