FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 18
MATILDA'S SCOUNDRELS - CROWLEYS CURSE
I am stuck in a queer quandary here with my preconceived expectations battling against an in-built urge of objectivity which, believe me, causes me untold hassle in the noise-tattered bonse. As soon as 'folk-punk' gets mentioned one doubts originality and almost reaches for a sonic script from which to read along to. Bastard, perhaps I listen to too much dinnage these days, perhaps I am in danger of tripping over my own tonal laces here and making a twat of myself - hey ho, better that than to do sweet fuck all. The band under the shitlight were formed in 2014 and are a sextet of feisty fiddlers springing from the hairy arse crack of Hastings, a decent area in the county of East Sussex (TRIVIAL FACT - I once nutted a pregnant dwarf in East Sussex as the voices in my head told me she was about to give birth to a cross-eyed cretin - bad form lady, bad form). Anyway I am rattling on here, 2 songs to do and I'll be as honest as I can (would you expect owt else).
'Crowley's Curse' wanders in with emotions obvious for this generic area. Having listened to more than my fair share of this kind of shizzle I find my expectations met and whether that is a good thing or a bad thing is up for debate - I know what I think! The production is pretty exact and assists in giving the band the sound they are searching for with all compartments easily picked out and analysed. Plucks and fucks come, the gobbage remains rare and gruff whilst through the jingling journey we get undulated highs and lows as pressure is applied and released. Not a bad track but it seems just shy of the finished article and has too many trappings of the sonic circle the band are in to get this assessing cunt delirious.
'Pisshead Anthem' is flip-side easiness and is a simple repeat beat tear-up that is hardly single material and lacks any depth whatsoever. It is a piss-pot song for those inebriated in the extreme and happy to listen to any old shit. Saying that, this is far from shit but neither is it earth-moving music to let your bowels loosen to. Traditional Celtic punkism with whistles, accordions, mandolins, guitars and gobs all combining to vent off a 'fuckless' bout of drink and dance toe-tapping tomfoolery. It has its place as an 'end of night' nob around, nothing more, nothing less.
I feel a bit deflated here, maybe because my senseless expectations got carried away or maybe not, who knows? The two tracks on offer are of a type, a type I am not overly turned on by (with the odd exception) and so I bail out here with the thumbs down that will no doubt upset a few and have a few nodding in agreement. There ya go, honesty first, arse-kissing bullshit never an option - I can still sleep good at night! The band will do fine I reckon anyway and should get their heads down and do their thing, all I can do is mine!
THE SEE NO EVILS - INNER VOICES
I have seen this band, have tried to book em' up on a gig after being impressed with their 'live' performance and their opening CD release but all to no avail. These Leeds based gits take some catching so all I can do is make do with their first full length offering and see if the quality is maintained or the bastards have let everything slip and fall down the drain of disaster (serve em' right for not jumping on a Fungal gig). Seriously though, I am expecting much here, a real uplifting bout of rhythmic garage poppism that will banish anyway stagnant cobwebs and get me bouncing around the room in unmolested innocence. The CD needs a big start, I want it and I want it now...ok look...
'Secrets In Me' is a giant of a song, one I picked for 'Song of the Year' back in 2013 and one that still does the business with this eager beaver of sound. Crisply moving in with delicious tantalising intent the developing swing in the string is sublime and has so much emotion and scenic value that I am utterly hooked. The brisk pace, the superbly lucid and breeze blown vocals and the overall fabric of the genre saturated song all combine to bring a gushing product I find irresistible. If you want to start an album on a lofty plateau then this is it, the only question that now remains is whether or not the band can maintain this excellence. The second burst is a more funked and fruity number that bounces with the same amount of effervescing zap but which pings a little more obviously. The gobbage is desirous of the job at hand, the wires and skins are in an appetising mood and work in a quality soaked unison whilst radiating a rhythm to get high on. A cultural episode of 'daddy ho' smoothie groovy succulence that just juices up the joints no end - go jig baby, jig.
Third in and the stunning 'Hanging Around' wraps me around its little pinky and has me moving to every sonic command. A strong song that boldly states each versed line and ascends to the fore on a superb string staccato that is mouth-wateringly magnificent and of a choice generic stable. With each rotation the song gathers impacting momentum and hits home with a growing conviction to be utterly absorbed. The band have a fascinating fancy flying free here and the numerous sub-generic flavours bouncing around the whole productive deliveries is wonder to my lugs. A quite convincing effort followed by another, namely 'You Make Me Move', a funkier monkey that bounds in, gyrates out a hip grinding pulsation and moves through a plucky arrangement awash with upbeat vibrations and zesty pizzazz. Resist this at your peril - it is one to get your boogiefied bootie banging to the beat. The fizz in the entire shebang insists we bounce along and the tight organisation of the creation has many meritous points to applaud and clap my hands I do. If this isn't enough this song is topped (for me at least) by the deeply textured and shadowy drama of 'People Of The Night'. This one has new avenues of musical intrigue to explore and brings to the table of tuneage a thoughtful bout of considered monochrome melody from recesses of the musical mire where genuine gems may be unearthed. Here we have such a find, a successful serenade cruising on seas of simplicity that have sunk many but help sail a few to lands of gratification. A cracking moment I think.
Into the 'Firing Line' next with sub-westernised patterns rotating on comforting thermals of pleasure that show the band can subtly change tack as well as maintain an undercurrent of consistent quality. A mid-tempo glide along a smooth sun-burnt substrate that sees the usual crisp strings, hustle drums and garaged gob all combine to make a sanctuary of sound I am perfectly happy to wallow in. 'Hooked On The Buzz' is a spicy fucker, bursting with flavour and leaving one salivating for just one more bite of the melodic meat. Grilled to perfection, peppered up with oral goodness and radiating an addiction to love many are indeed cursed with. Passion pours, frustration flows, heart tugging tension invades but all the while the backdrop of sound retains a hope, a promising outlook not to be denied - what a sweet combination.
'Sweet Thing' relieves tension and comes across as an escapist style tune, with head in the clouds and full of rose-coloured dreams. I like the residing innocence that comes after the preparatory strums as well as the free-flying commitment to love and fucking off the drag of the systematic situation many of us find ourselves in from time to time. The song has a 'one man shouting against the world' feel and generates a hope within the core that is perhaps the most obvious factor in swinging my decision to the truly positive side. A cracking song I demand you do not overlook!
'Werewolf Blues' is a tipple of horror-pop bluesiness that wanders through the graveyard of reverberation and sends sneaky chills down your spine. A stroll stippled with sinister side-glancing strokes that have you on the edge of your seat waiting for the killer shock. Impetus is found with the bass the main driving force and carrying the song to the final howl in predictable style. If I was opting for my least favourite ditty of this 12 track collection this would be it but let me state that it is far from a fang-less fucker. 'Rising Sun' flies in and is a superb pearler that moves with precision and an A-class calibre that once more elevates the band to the top of the hit list. That groovy and stylish swing with applaudable attributes aplenty comes in a repeat wave of exhilarating enthusiasm, all iced over with glass sharp strings and jostling tympanics. There is a controlled fervour at work within this one, a relish for the tuned task at hand and that, perhaps more than any other aspect, is what creates a conviction within my soul. Next and 'Ladi Dadi Do' is a sing-a-long jaunt done with a tongue-in-the-cheek and an remaining emphasis still placed on cultivating a jigged response. Uncorked, bubbling over and with the usual transparency the band has running throughout each and every number this is another authentic donation offered up for your unadulterated and unpoliticised listening pleasure. The superior distinction of quality work is still at the fore, this is a fine collection of songs.
'Runaway' gently manifests itself on gossamer light wire manipulations prior to being chaperoned by a vocal style of complete tickered transparency and a musical exactitude. The end result is of a concoction that exhibits supreme sanguinity, acute insight to the melodic mode and, may I generously add, maturity. This latter song is in some ways the most advanced effort, the one with the deepest layers found thus far that will perhaps pave the way for future releases - I hope so. A cultured finished with a touch of something urbane and subtly sophisticated - nice.
I rate this band, I have done so since I saw them perform 'live'. Catching up with them is a bugger but at the time of key tapping I have them booked for a gig in a few months time - fuck yes. In the meantime I am gonna spin this silver circle to buggery and I suggest you do exactly the same (then get to the gig as well nudge, nudge).
YESTERDAY'S HEROES - LA LLAMA QUE NUNCA SE APAGA
Erupting from the cultural bustling city of Medellín in Colombia this crazed crew of streetpunk shitters certainly rattle out their produce with much muscular 'oomph' and over-riding irritation and this 4-track teaser is served up in just the exact portion size we busy, but ever hungry tune chompers, desire. Of course, when streetpunk is mentioned in the pre-description, expectations arise, but as a reviewer you have to shake off the preconceived crapulence and crack on with all sway flung backwards. Fuck it, time to fling myself forwards...
'La LLama Que Nunca Se Apaga', steams in and headbutts its way to the fore of your attention where it blisters and bashes in no uncertain terms. As The Thing would say 'Its Clobberin' Time' and clobbered we get with a pacey eruption of tight-arsed musicianship awash with tense and tantrumised ill-temper that duly infects the listener. That opening verse is electric mania and needs a chorus of supreme cutthroat acuteness to maintain the glory. We get just that with added brutality helping the overall cause. From first to last the accent and aggression is spot on and if you like your vibes loaded with spittle-soaked angst then this is very much for you. Tis’ in the blood and I make no apologies for it.
'Donde Estan?' rattles along after the opening steamer and pulverises any lest remnants of doubt you may have over this crew. Similar in many areas but with its own credible fist fucking freedom this song comes at you in unrelenting waves of foaming spirit. I have a great liking for bands who go at things full tilt, without a care in the world for easing up on the accelerator. When bands do things this way and stay in unison the impact never fails to impress - I am bowled over at this point - 2 real firecrackers to get singed by, what more could this thirsty music soaked fucker want?
'A Mis Enimigos' acousticises itself and comes on delicate tones before a back grumble warns of things to come - oh ye silly gits, you should know better by now. The forceful thrust that gushes forth is overwhelming and one can feel ones punk rock mind melt with the utter madness and primitive lunacy of it all. The backbone is strong, the output twat-smashing and there is an embracing distinction within the discordance that just sucks in the basic sound sensors within the soul and leaves me thinking 'I should know better', but actually sees me saying 'Oh fuck it' and throwing myself into the melee.
'Mi Tierra' closes, I expect, I get what I want! A Stanley-knife attack of guitar work overlain with bludgeoning gob labour that contrasts and gives the song perhaps a little more longevity than its kick-arse kin. The terraced chorus is par for the course and throughout there is a trifle more control at the helm and those in need of a little head-banging respite will love this. For me the weakest wank in this quartets of riotous rub-offs but not a bad effort at all. I leave it there, I can't spoon feed you all the time ya lazy swines.
3 sizzlers, one average - gotta be truthful tha' knows. Overall I am taken, this is a good thump out of noise that in the most part trembles the todge and galvanises the globes - I mean, what more do we noise lovers want? Sometimes the most direct route is the best way to go, and there is certainly no fucking about here!
NO JOY - DROOL SUCKER
From Montreal come a dreamscape quartet delivering a noise borne from kaleidoscopic slumberland where dozing shades and shadows idly coexist, copulate and give birth to produce on the wayward side ordinary. The band push out here, apart from the snores, 3 tracks of heavily blended pastel tones that take quite a bit of time to adjust to and fully assess. Concentrated fodder with a blurry outline this stooped lesson of studious experimental head drifting is one to chew over several times and then make a decision. Hey guess who’s going to be busy again! Only three tracks here though so I'll slip into my reviewing trunks and have a quick dip as per.
'A Thorn In Garlands Side' is a semi-cavernous drift where high spectrumised tonal touches invade the sabled innards and something resembling light at the end of the tunnel is perceived. The effect is dappled and movement lazily melodic with an underlying weight that just shifts the senses. Suspicions are provoked as the innocent vocal tones get caught in cahoots with a more deviant discordance and what we ultimately get is a pairing that does little to enthuse trust. Switched out, hippy-esque dabbling that throws a quilted blanket over my overly riffed and rocked fruit. An oddity to dwell on further and further and one to play in the midst of far heavier and more riotous rip-ups.
Following on comes a ditty named 'XO (Adam's Getting Married)', another oddment that starts on animated heels of multicoloured washes before kicking up against a hindering wall and finding itself somehow throttled into a position of submission. A conflict of styles ensues with the crew fighting hard and clambering over the impediment with much strain apparent. The cacophony that is integral to the struggle is obviously strained and the listener gets drawn the wrong way with the effort going on. I find myself casting the same verdict as the first song here - make of that what you will.
Lastly we get the marshmallow movement known as 'Theme Song', a lullaby meander in deep cushioned lands of heavy lidded tonality that just trespasses enough into the flowerbeds of alertness to keep one awake. A slight ascension of inflection and muscularity gives the song a dose of 'oomph' very much needed but still I feel the whole shebang is rhythmically reclining and I am left on the outside dream-watching - how frustrating!
All songs are evolved from the most basic tonal substrates and chemically combine to create a pulpy end product very difficult to grasp and...retain! They have their own dittified dialect and come from a soporific realm that induces safety and comfort - now that is no bad thing even if you prefer more animated and aggressive vibes. Yes, as a small sampling this is worth nibbling at every now and again but nothing more than that.
T. O. Y. S. - SICKS
A debut album from a Leeds-based unit who are not easy to locate on the old cyberspace. From their bandcamp page I have this quotation - 'We are a three piece band based in London and Leeds UK, consisting of keyboard, bass and drums, and we play heavy bass driven dance floor indie, kraut pop.' Now that does sound interesting! The review request came via Timeless Promotions and the album will be released via Oddbox Records in June 2016 - all sounding good isn't it! Now, without further fannying about, - to the meat of the melody we go!
The first chunk of potential excitement to chomp on is a tune known as 'Liquorice', a flavoursome track (unlike the nasty sweet) that heavily vibrates its way into your cranial gunk and makes one hell of a reaction. Soup slops from your lugs, black shit falls from your hooter - perhaps the volume needs to be lowered. After a lengthy instrumentalised waltz the track develops into a swinging bout of sonic smoothness and rolls forth on whipped cream foundations that are very easy to lap up. The angularity of the song compared to much of the punked shizzle I listen to is a welcome relief and I find myself duly absorbed. I move on, track 2 is a 'Wall', a funfair ride of semi-ramshackle character. You know the type - you get tossed about and enjoy yourself but all the while there is a feeling of uncertainty, an inner pang something perilous may just a happen - nice isn't it! The opening synthoid surge is waltzer induced and spins around on its own firm fulcrum with happy, carefree vibrancy that really does invoke a feelgood emotion. Great movement excites and when we hit the main crux of the song we are already won over. What follows rides on the set crests and flows to the finale with consummate ease and gratifying pizzazz. These tracks need spinning to buggery to thoroughly grasp and with each rotation it seems a different layer is scratched away and a new characterised shading appears - great stuff! The somewhat sub-detached vocals only add to the fascination levels.
Next and into 'G-A-C' we go, another gliding breeze of brilliance with psychedelic tones escorting us on a effulgent trip into the escapism of Toysland. Here we see Noddy dance to the beat, clockwork trains whizz with energy and unified robots move with rhythm - the whole plaything array comes to life, as these tuned in Teddy Bears have a plugged in picnic to savour. Musical moments intercut the vivid and happening gob-assisted chunks and I am enthralled with the whole shake-down here and make sure the volume is racked up and my body is ready to fuckin' tremble. 'Soul Remains' comes next and is my least favourite so far - the reasons for this are simple - I have been given 3 stunners up to this point, have been given a delightful and easy ride and have got spoiled somewhat. The heady rush has infected me and this labouring crawl just falls into the shadows of its predecessors as well as going on too long with itself and spreading the impact factor rather thinly. Musically it seems a bit uneven and rather jumbled to me and somewhat caustic in its overall delivery. These are in no way always bad elements and maybe this is a mood number that needs the right time and right place – two factors I have yet to discover!
Undeterred and head still high with hope I aim for 'Centre Point' with a gush ready to push. I land lucky and hit a fuzz bump fiddle (words should come when they feel right - remember - no rules) of experimentation that eventually uncrumples itself via keyed persuasion. The blooming dinned drama envelopes the receptors and takes one by the gland (Oi sexy) into a swaying scenario of multicoloured escapism. The intro is in no rush, the singing style soporific, the sub-chorus sections gently rousing and the wind-down slow and steady. It makes for another captivating listen. 'The Sound Of' creeps forth, retains a certain darkness within the heavy reverb whilst skating over an icy surface that reflects steady and ponderous thought. This isn't a song to dance to, not a moment to release untold energy with - it is a mere saunter that provides a break in the more upbeat and inspiring numbers. Not my favourite but worthy of its place within the melee. The penultimate track, ‘Lucid’, combines elements from the previous track and what has gone before with a gentle bleakness washed over and rinsed through with the more assertive and invigorating key pulses that bring so much reward. The ebony and ivory rushes that are vocally abandoned move with majestic grace and untold power that I find truly magnetic and quite absorbing. The muscularity and inducing current is tremendous and I move into the last blast riding high!
We shut down with 'Desire' (in more ways than one), a heaving episode of relentless undulation and seemingly forceful stridulation. A trifle odd I know but that is the feeling I get, the sensation of throbbing body parts coming together and rhythmically rubbing up a bout of heavyweight tremulation. The essence emitted gets into the marrow and something almost intangible (maybe the so-called Z-Factor) gets to work. I take it, I applaud it and I reckon the CD ends on a solid level - and so it should.
A very interesting and profitable experience this for any self-respecting acoustic eaves-dropper. Something basic gets off with something more profound and we end up with a whole heap of earthy electro goodness to wallow in - we acoustic hippos are a grubby but passionate breed!
THOSE INBETWEEN DAYS - FIVE GO MAD IN MANCHESTER
8 songs, 8 dabbles. I know fuck all else only that this is the most recent fiddling from the mitts of Joey Mutantski, a chap who as an eye for the angular and a lug for musical leanings of many generic flavours. I go in without any expectation as well as having a kumquat up me arse (why not) and scribble out an appraisal something like this.
'Wrong' comes on scuzzy punk vibes borne from times of yore and upheld with a semi-snotty cockiness that portrays a song full of the most intrinsically basic elements of the artform. Spiked and popped in the same breath and built on a strict verse/chorus methodology that assists in making this an easy opening gambit that has a certain earthy naturalness and pick up and pogo honesty. A certain polluted liquidity helps matters no end and I am finding this a good breath of freeing fresh air (despite the noxious elements of course - God bless gasmasks). A great start and immediately juxtaposed by the more tepid and less forceful brook trickle of 'Blown Out'. A floated serenade that wafts from Heavenly echelons where the contemplative musers and bearded smoked heads lazily glide. A chilled out number that finds its place and is an ideal liquid desert after the previous ditty and a fine aperitif prior to the chasing number. 'Malakas Cafe' is a good grungey grind out with guitars and skins pounding out an abrasive drive whilst the front fucks mouth work rises above and operates with a distinct clarity and generically opposing lilt. Yummy fodder for time-travelled tune-twats and one that has a few more layers than first recognised. A song that has further potential I reckon, it may be worth further meddling.
'Sally No' is an odd song that strikes me as an imbalanced runt with several components toying with the idea of being minimalistic and out of kilter. The dryish verse leaves me a little flat and the somewhat warped and uneven verse takes a little adjusting to. If one fucks off and repeatedly comes back to this one the thread is eventually picked up on and elements from what has previously transpired make themselves apparent. Better than first judged and a nice one to jump free with. Next and 'All The Good Guys', takes time out to reminisce about troopers fallen and how the positive vibes and essences they radiated are also falling into the shadows. A crawling song with untold sadness etched within the heart this short sojourn into regret and panging pain is well-timed and gets its job done without unnecessary flamboyance. Knowing when to bail out is a crucial factor in any form of music making and I reckon the cord is pulled at just the right time here to make ya want to dabble again.
'Squatville' taps in, wire bumbles and then gobs off with pulpit effect, a hallowed preaching it appears and one from a standpoint that takes into consideration a state of play many feel the need to immerse themselves in. It is a a song a few will be able to relate to but the product overwraps itself here and labours a point that many won't be interested in. There is little undulation within the 5 minute plus escapade and I find myself losing focus towards the latter end. Not a bad DIY effort but just stretched too far. 'Interesting Mum' is a better attempt with the dirtiest production on show and the most sinister wordage used thus far. Seemingly borne from the pimpled arse of a teenage luster who feels to need more than just a handkerchief and tub of Terry Tossbag's Jacking Juice this is a wet dream fantasy cum to punked life and spunked forth with frustrated energy releases that may just border on the orgasmic - the dirty swine!
We close with 'Falmouth' and back to the soft, fluffy pillow remembrance we go with all tones acousticised and fluffed up. The chance to escape is had and dreams of a getaway are conjured by a magical wand of hope and pending liberation. A hippied up inter-galactic sensation comes and as I glide through the cosmos in my flower covered kaftan, and matching space helmet, I regard this as an ideal accompaniment - and why shouldn't it be? It leaves us at the end of a CD that has much to offer.
A good multi-melodic, alternative trip this into territory left untouched by many who are immersed in their own pools. A shame if this gets overlooked as it is worth an investigation that will no doubt give many a listener something to ponder. As per, I suggest you seek and enjoy - tis the only option you know!
GRRLFRIENDZ - WELCOME TO PLANET LESLEY
A band that are no more but one that I feel are worth reviewing and throwing out there in the hope of getting them one last blast of note. A 3-girl glory hailing from Auckland in New Zealand and playing some sugary sweet pop punk garage that squeaks and squeals with utter sanguine resonations that I find great delight in listening to. Simple as A, B and C but not all can grasp the raw and the ready within one molesting mitt and throw forth with such accuracy. No fuckin' about, splash and dash...
'Home' is a steady lesson in how to rise up with intent, jump from your absorbing mattress of apathy and kick down the whole day with a real arse tearing bout of tension relief. The first pulses are bulldozed away by a rising vocal passion that soon turns frenzied with the melee of twat fuck tympanics and scuzz fuzz wire work. The glorious bitch burst means business and lashes out with taloned fury - a real head rouser, just what any CD needs. Into the clatter batter forthrightness of 'The Bubble', and a strong feminine fuck back and two-fingered salute to the plentiful bullshit and bollocks found, out there, in the murky world. The chomping music propels itself with sweet underscrubbed abrasion and the scent given off is both musked and well tusked, you have been warned. I like the clarity of components, the bold popped and strutted sanguinity and the easy repeat beat melody that, like a good constrictor of cacophony, squeezes out a positive reaction from the listener.
'Boy' tubby tumbles in, gets escorted by crisp semi-acousticised strings and squeaky squeal girl gifts. A controlled and somewhat 'on the leash' verse that aches to get loose, something that is apparent by the chasing pre-chorus anguish. The chorus that does come (or should that be cum) let’s itself go and thrusts and lusts in increasing measure with juices obviously flowing and senses of decency going...AWOL! Not a bloke’s number but one done so well that the prospect of turning a sexual corner may be closer than we think - ooh heck! One of my favourite chunks is 'Boy II', an episode of spillage that uses the formula of contrasting the chilled and chomping, a clash of seemingly ill-suited neighbours of noise that are forced to reside side by side. What happens is that we get a greater lucidity into both sub-extremes and for me at least, appreciation is cultivated further. When these lasses holler as one they don't half make an impact and when these toasting tantrums come amidst segments of restraint they shine all the brighter. A feisty bout of sexed up fuckery is ours - oh those emotional girls.
The halfway house to call in at is slagged down as 'Photographs'. Here we mutter inwards, with delicate touches and soft wordage that lay soft underlay for the more scurfy upper carpeting that has a greater degree of sensation and invigorating pizzazz. I like the opposing layers though and walk over these with attentive tootsies. With a running time of 4 minutes 30 seconds this is the longest sonic sausage in the pack but the meat has many flavours and I reckon this one is cooked half decently - and towards the final sizzle spits with good spite. 'School' tries to sneak in but can't help but make a slight racket. A rock chickoid number with a certain strut in the stilettos and a certain rebellious throb in the bosom. One that fails to tickle the jaded senses and leaves me spilling out seeds of average views. A bit too static and the chance of a real tear up is not taken. The subject matter begs for a blast out, oh heck you can't please everyone all of the time lasses. I bound on!
'Weed Boy' shakes us up with a short journey down popsicle-ville with a no nonsense ramshackle rub up of robust regularisation that starts at point A and finishes at point B, with the in-between parts bared and brandished in pacey fashion. 'Streetkingz' is a jerky effort and she-spunks in sweet style with a real spirit aflame and an irrepressible desire to ping about and make a form of poisonous merry Hell. The girls at the steering wheel guide us up and over some rickety tracks on this respectable run-down rollercoaster of rhythm. So liberated, so unaffected, so real! We shut down, shit down if you prefer, with the last upchuck known as 'TV', perhaps the most obviously pop and punk push out, loaded with rusted carelessness and energised restlessness that loses patience with the goggle-eyed sofa spuds who absorb the rays whilst wasting their days. Structured around good vigour and a rising rambunctious focus this one nearly falls over its own fat arse but thankfully - doesn't. A good full stop methinks.
That's it, in and out, we have been shook all about and here is my take on a CD that has been overlooked. Have a peek, poke around and...play!
STOJ SNAK - SCREAMER SONGWRITER
My 5th review concerning the melodic labour of this creative minstrel. Do you need an intro, do you need information regarding the artiste and what may, or may not, transpire? Well go put a finger up your anus and swivel, I am not willing to repeat myself, you should keep up to date and get clued in to the scribblings I do - you know what I mean! So I go in here excited (because I know what has gone before) and hopeful of a grand release (because I do optimistic) and try my best to get a review together that is as accurate as can be (because I am not an idler and I care about what I do). It is all there for you to mull over and if one or two, after reading this, get off their arses and buy a copy I will be happy with that. If one or two totally disagree and think I am a tone-deaf cunt I'll be happy with that too - I'd be a fool to get rankled!
A 'Prelude', a wind up, a still, serene panorama of positive prospect is lain down like a verdant carpet awaiting our tootsied attention. We wander in, breathe deep the wonder and wait the expected tuned scene scores...nice!
10 degrees west...
'Fuck' is a familiar fling of feisty fruitiness that drips with the glorious juices of angst, ill-temper and the desire to maintain a tune. What a wonderful tickle trickle of melody this is and the questioning stance and spit-back restlessness that arises from within the worded weft is sublime. The slant comes with the aim of prodding the arses of those who frown on various sexualities and the behaviour found therein - it is nicely put across and makes a very pertinent point. For your interest (or disinterest) I am not bothered what people do between themselves as long as they don't shag around (cheap, selfish and ghastly behaviour with a lack of self respect I think), talk about it in those coarse and insensitive ways (you know who you are) and fall victim to fashionable fuckery that bends the mind (what a shower). Go out, fall in love, be faithful, respect yourself and others - simple hey. The tune here is strong, really invigorates the senses and if you are in need of a good seeing to this may well do the trick (sonically that is). A fuckin' great start!
Shove it up yer arse (if that is legal these days guffaw, guffaw)...
'Laughter Brings People Together But No One Wants To Fuck The Funny Guy' is a cute song with a very sobering edge (aww the spoil-sport). Foot-stamping in, screamed forth with enthused desire and duly holler hammered into your face with the usual vibrancy this one is one to consider amid today's web slag mess and bad-mouth society. Everyone's a critic, everyone is looking for a put down - it creates small circle harmony and snuggles the spineless and helps them feel...wanted (snigger). Our Snak-a-Jack singer exorcises his demons of frustration by belting out a very impacting effort that gallops like a nag in tight knickers - oh neigh lad!
A calmer moment, a 'Parental Disclaimer' - oooh ye crafty swine Mr Snak. The oral organ is vibrated (oh yes), the throat opens and scratches out some sagacity for the youthful who may be a little miffed by the duff advice given from their elders. Whilst not just settling for being a cacophonic counsellor our warbling worrier adds in a little encouragement and reminds us that we can get up and go and have a little more love within. All sound stuff and do you know what, I am loving the tune yet again, this guy has me licked at the mo, I am an honest gent, surely I can have the bastard yet - nudge, nudge!
I am having a break - where's the kettle...
Clever wordism regarding appreciating what you have and the here and now comes to the centre of our attention with the honesty of 'Spoiler Alert' another refreshing zephyr of uplifting thermality. The brisk pace, the open-hearted reality and the 'bloke in the same boat' lucidity make this another treat for the tuned orifices that are, if you are wired up right, connected to those itchy tootsies that were just born to tap - and tap they do! A delicious ditty, no-fanny farting offensiveness or rectally rogered sagginess - all firm, in good order and effective - Go Snakman, go!
A skip about, a replay of what has transpired, and onto the next in line...
A roughing up in the tidiest way possible is what we need and the title track of 'Screamer Songwriter' comes with the insatiable infection our gob on legs gives. A call to those feeling isolated, or indeed those with arses packed with apathy, to get up and fuckin' yell. Make your voice heard, make a stand and get your point out there, everyone is equal, we all are deserved of our opinions and to get them out there and place them under the worldly spotlight is crucial to the overall betterment of society. Listen to this one carefully, tremble with the pulsations, use your noggin and get stirred to shout, get roused to have your say - oh, and enjoy this grand ditty.
I shout from the window, 'Go fuck your circles' - thank you Mr Snak, it feels good...
'Lullaby' is a soft song with a sharp edge that predicts the coming of chaos from which will bloom a new start, a new hope. It is good to hear a different vocal style, a less gravelled and gruff approach and one that perhaps is more typical of the acoustic arena. A waltz of potential rebellion, a tender moment that cultivates dreams of a new world weaving, perhaps away from much of the political and a egofied dross in which we swim now. A nice inclusion, undramatic and opposing the general flow. The final rising call capitalise the feelings set - he's a good un’ this chap!
Calmed and yet ready to pounce...
'Privacy Is A Crime' tears apart the lunatic security shithole we all fall foul of and comes out exposed, raped and readily ruined. We give so much, reveal the most intimate details and duly become filed, fattened up and fucked. The great watchmen hold all the cards, we bare our souls, be ready to be socially sodomised, eternally demonised. The final chant of 'Format Everything' may seem an insane idea but it holds true with anarchic ideals and genuine reactionary rebellion. Are we too trapped to take the plunge? Are our egos too big to switch off and not be noticed? Many questions arise from a livid pustule that pops with noticeable clout - ouch!
Up and ready, shall I delete everything now - fuck the review...oh the conundrums...
'Old Friends And Chocolate' is a familiar tune to these cauliflowered lugs and serenades my softer side with its homage to good friends and good times. No mouthing off here, no manic raving, no profound questions asked. There doesn't need to be - have it, enjoy or abhor - many will, many won't, a drunkards song for me, a soppy-eyed end of night for those that get half-baked and teary - silly cunts!
Boots polished, arse still geared up...
A kicking trundle comes next and throws a good punch into the mug of that macho doctrine that creates so called 'real men' and then lets them free to make a fuckin' mess and cause so much unnecessary bullshit behaviour. I suggest at this point that those listening to this avoid becoming one of those fraudulent new world men who tick boxes on one side by doing all the cute things in life and then jump on the other side and become grooming rapists and underhand cunt spoilers. Two-faced game players who trick many but not this old cynic and alerted bastard. No, fuck macho-ism, fuck frauds, and fuck deception. Great song this, a wise angle thrown in and one that grips the gonads of the wannabe big dick brigade and squeezes them back down to size. Big man, yeah - still a fuckin' joke!
Rage is an energy, I cool down for the next treatment...
'White Male Middle Class Blues' is a lengthy mouth off and to give you an indication of what it deals with here are the liner notes:- 'Denmark, where I'm from, has often been appointed as the happiest nation in the world. A recent survey showed that Aalborg, the town where I live with around 200.000 others, has happiest citizens in Denmark. So there's a relatively big chance, I am the happiest person in the world. To me, that's a very depressing thought...'. Good hey! If you are happy and you know it clap your hands - yes clap your hands to the demands of the ones who want you detached and grinning like a goon. There is no room for the contented in this shitty world - are you daft, demented or deflecting your feelings? I like this wake up and smell the rose’s song, think before you smile I reckon is the slant - and why shouldn’t we?
And to the last...breath...
'Ronkedor' contemplates the end, the misery and pointlessness that comes with it - why do we chug on? After a dumbed down start, a controlled intro where frustrated passion and care-free fuck-it combine we get a release that shows the inner fire. This is a melancholic drift in some ways but in others provides a stance of carry on and see what comes tenacity. Well placed at the end of this CD it would also go down well at the end of a set, with everyone joining in the 'na, na' simplicity and forgetting the uselessness of everything - you will die, no one will ask why, in fact barely anyone will cry - get over it and do something!
And that is that! Can you tell I am keen? Does my respect for this rolling and strolling creator shine through? Well so what, I strive for the truth as near as I can get it (an impossible task) and aim for personal honesty at all times (twat) - that is what you get here. Thumbs up, thoughts provoked, thighs parted and 'whoosh - a final flatulent gust of applauding wind is cast - smell the stench of success mother fuckers!
THE BORDELLOS/SCHIZO FUN ADDICT - KASSETTE
I am long overdue with this review, the tail is eternally being chased and sometimes the odd silver circle gets left in the heap. I crack on and deal with a split cassette release that sees each one hand-stamped and hand decorated, a labour of love no doubt. Here is some bandcamp info 'Tracks 1-11 (below) comprise the new eponymous titled album by Schizo Fun Addict - while tracks 12-22 comprise the new eponymous titled album by The Bordellos. Each of these also takes up one side of tape apiece. We’re also hooking up with the amazing psychedelic gurus at Fruits De Mer Records who are providing a strictly one-time-only CD version of their festive split from Ex Norwegian/Permanent Clear Light. The only other way of getting this is as a lathe-cut 7″, only available to FDM Members’ Club members. Rarer than rare, is what I’m saying.'
All sounds interesting and with all proceeds going to Save the Children let us see what Schizo Fun Addict (NYC area) and The Bordello's (St Helens) are ruddy well up to here.
By the way this donation is sold out apparently, I am sure if you ask nicely though a copy will be whizzed your way - nudge, nudge!
A new approach, an embracing review with highs and lows noted.
The first 11 tracks come from Schizo Fun Addict, a band tampering with twitchy digits and some community leanings and certainly in no rush to get their musical point across. The band offer up 11 ditties, with blended tones from several pits, these being something akin to experimental, electro induced and futurised hippiness. There is a definite drifting motion but the opening scuzz warning of 'Lake Of Fire' belies this fact and moves with a decent force. This initial assault eventually crumbles into a mess before radiofied madness chases and we end up with a confusing coming together of various elements that, when given spac - soar, when knocked together - confuse! Through the next ten offerings we get taken to many curious corners of the cacophonised closet where chaos, determined direction, focus, ad hoc eruptions and angular shards all get bumbled together and chucked our way. I move on and assess in a couple of analytical chunks.
Highpoints are frequent with 'Make A Stand' a bold fuzz thrust with honest he-vocals intercut with some delicious she-inclusions that brighten the whole scorched soundscape. A nicely arranged article of sound that sticks in the receptors and is easily picked up and played. 'Lotion Chills' rises from communal weavings and festival fevers and crawls forth on magical airwaves that experiment and find some small fragment of success. 'Beggin' For Shelter' has aromas of 80's alternativeness mixed with meandering obscurity, an obscurity born from hands outside regimed parameters and organised routines. The song is destined for favour but mars itself by drifting on too long. This lengthy continuation is better designed for the paperweight gossamer of 'Dream Of The Portugal Keeper Part 2', an eiderdown feather float of barely touched tonality that has words to mull over and re-digest at several sittings. A mellow moment not to underestimate.
Further on into the meat of the melodic matter comes the multi-faceted bustle of 'A. M. Story', an assault that inter-breeds previous delicacies and new found tensions that both bewilder as a unit and please as a solitary element. From something decent an insult arises and this creates only perverse delight in those not restraint by fashion. A very intriguing number. 'Photon Adventure' follows suit in a spacey kind of way with a more ambitious atmosphere sought, albeit in a 51 second instrumental. We close the account of Schizo Fun Addict with the DIY trundle of 'Diesel Dolphin' an almost ramshackle and flimsy number that seems ready to fall apart and become a different sonic beast altogether. One cradles with care, tackles extra listening time and still comes out undecided as to whether or not this is a finished article - I think the band are doing things deliberately.
All change - destination Bordellos!
The first three tracks are the triplet to admire on this CD with each one gaining in impression and leaving me quite delighted. 'I May Be Reborn' sidles in with a charming sub-shimmer that is escorted by twilight ponderings and radioed dabblings. The semi-fractured vocal cracklings have character and a distinct vulnerability and this opening gambit certainly does provoke attention. From the frayed and fragile to an acousticed effort that is far more sanguine and certain of its aims. 'Chocolate My New Rock 'N' Roll' is a cute title and one that hides the fact that this song is primarily about giving in to the woes of love and indulging ones passion elsewhere. A song here that finds greatest assistance from its neighbours I feel, the preceding tickle and the chasing bout of brilliance, namely 'Hallucinations'. A fantastic low smoked lilt of more frangible gravitation towards cerebral empires where strange musings both manifest and muddle. A high summer draught comes, goes and leaves a slight...chill. A stunning moment.
Further along in this second collection of songs and peaks and troughs come in the form of the varied experimental oddments. 'Hit It' is s severe collapsing 'no, no' whereas 'King Of The Bedroom' is a twisted curio that seems insanely perverse and crookedly detached. Following these two mind cripplers is the floating tranquillity of 'Melody Inn', a better cutlet and from the eider down accent where the band seem to find most success. A timid extract that avoids adding baubles of tomfoolery and just meanders with its own desire - not a bad way to float although this is a definite mood piece.
Travelling down the final stretch and acoustic points to take note of are the seemingly scared shitless 'Star Light' and the key and voice dominated sub-hymn of 'Temperature Drop'. This latter effort is a prime example of using the bare minimum of musical charm to get across the point of your product with maximum effect - it is a job well done methinks. The penultimate track is similar whilst carrying extra assisting baggage but doesn't suffer as a consequence. 'The Girl Belongs To Yesterday' is a semi-hippy song as is the closing 'Who's To Blame' with both tracks touching on tender nerve-endings and private and personal emotions. The idling, reclined rhythm is what captivates, is what makes these snippets pure summertime listening matter. Offerings to slumber with when the mind is covered in cotton-wool and the body is in a state of near catatonic meltdown. Questions, answers, maybe no solutions at all - switch off, accept the style and most importantly...consider.
That's it, an overview that takes into consideration the shape of things that came, caressed and confounded - all in warped measure and, in the main, to my unending pleasure. It is a listening experience that some will just walk away from, especially those punk bastards stuck in their own mire - ooh the gits. Some though will take time and will tune into to the diversity and deliberate deviations from the traditional that so often gets on ones wick. There are one or two genuine highs here with that marvellous snippet 'Hallucinations' one I hold in high regard. Your call folks, all I can do is scribble and suggest (for what little it is worth).
THE UNDERDOG - LONG TIME DEAD
A good old stalwart here who busks his way around, plays the odd gig and just tries to resist the fuckin' piss-awful flow out there so many seen really adept at ignoring (both lucky and silly bastards methinks). Is this a punk CD, is this a blues CD, is this a bout of buskerdoo slapped down on a silver circle? Who gives a shit, I jump in as usual and do things with a stout and honest ticker and respect for the plucker at the helm of the wires.
First up and 'Dirty Roulette' rotates my way and throws up its own individual slant with a mid-tempo westernised throw down of adequately elaborated sub-blues that emits a confession of being a victim to a good old rock out. The controlled groove is ornamented with ad hoc touches that persist within the noggin and keep one involved right up to the final wind down that seems to generate further enthusiasm - not bad. The slowed grilled methodology continues with the sobering 'Long Time Dead', a song that states a firm case and walks along a line that is more than a little unstable. Observant and run down we have here a stripped bare episode that embraces all the primitive facets of old school pre-punk meandering where tentative steps delicately radiate tendrils of explorative experimentation and self-analysing curiosity. I get the feeling of something borne from the back alleys here, a contemplative moment that registers with the inner outsider - who knows, maybe I am wrong but I do like this one.
3rd in and a after a quick chat-up intro we move into the creeping sleaze that sends a warted hand up your trousers leg and begins to charm. The movement concerns the disarming temptress we know as a brass, that seductive harridan that plays on your weaknesses and wanks out both your scrotum and your wallet. The mode taken here is sexualised with a copulating suggestion had and a tension maintained. The end hump sees the whore under the spotlight reach her vaginal zenith and the song ends on a high (or are we all just faking). 'Small Town Loser' is typical deadbeat deliberating, this time though with a never say die rhythm and a twinkle in the determined eye adding a whole extra slab a savouriness to the dish. When everything turns to shit hope can be found in the rhythm and if one has a sobered acceptance of the dud hands life deals one has a chance of crackin' on and making the best of a bad lot. Listen in, chug along and get off your arse seem to be the main ingredients to winning your interest here, which, in truth, are points never to debate!
Next 3 and 'Railroad Blues' hits the tracks and jauntily chugs along with harmonica brought into play as small encouragement. The wires vibrate with a determined thrust and a sub-riff ripeness that work alongside the azure-tinted dreaminess of the vocals. Again we adopt a lazy, reclining outlook, it is the man at the helms signature style and with the synergy of the aforementioned facets all is well. 'Taken Too Soon (Song For Mark)' is a song that is not my concern, a private moment I have to stand back from and view - tis called respect! The tribute is personal, very tender and heartfelt - I intrude with care and leave the verdict to you, sometimes one has to know ones place. 'Inject Me' gently escalates on trembled wires before waltzing into a tale of ultimate depression and hopelessness brought about by an enslavement to the dreaded substance. Carefully delivered with alarming insight this touching tale of addiction comes with a harsh reality and startling soberness that indicates what a demanding bitch the drug can be. Our artiste plies is trade here with pertinent exactitude and this just may be the best song he has ever penned - a real tangible account of torture.
Onwards and 4 quickie dickie doodahs me reckons. 'Born To Rock' is an easy jaunt with a repeat tickle that bores away at your resistance and eventually finds some response due to nothing more than the acceptance that the geezer playing away here is absolutely into this shit. It is a winning recipe - a simple tune played by an immersed fiddler - no bad thing. 'Walking The Line' is similar in methodology and sticks to a direct route which may be a case of deliberate cuteness that plays on the said title. Another easy escapade without too much frill with the only gripe being that the song may suffer as a consequence of chasing its predecessor - too much of the same thing perhaps. If plonked into the midst of a full on punk CD though then matters are looked upon quite differently - tis all angles, moods and moments folks. One for the connoisseurs next with 'Rockin' The Blues' ponsing about in the depths of immersed acoustica that twangs the inner ticker and plays the soulful sensations to a tee. At 5 minutes plus you have to take time to get into this but hey, what's the fuckin' rush people? Obviously this is the epitome of what is transpiring here and if you are not in tune by now perhaps you never will be. Pull the rip-cord and...fall baby, fall! If you are in the groove then let’s dance and move on. Last of the flighty four is the stuttering 'Give A Little'. This one is a thoughtful outpouring that never finds true liquidity and perhaps relays a trifle snippet of uncertainty due to its tentative strum work. Not my favourite sonic slag in the rotating whorehouse but such is the listening life - I'd be a lying bastard to say I liked everything and I certainly won't say that to butter people up and cultivate a flimsy friendship. Sorry mate, just being honest!
Into the final runway and with 6 to tackle I go in open-hearted and as true as can be - what a silly turd. 'Busker's Beat' is a chirpy number despite our leads dulcet tones ha, ha. There is a hope shining here, a feeling no doubt that each street-player must feel at the start of a new day, an optimism that this is the day to make a good profit, get some good feedback and do one's fine bit. It is a sterling task these minstrels carry out and one that smacks of a pure DIY ethos. You gotta love em' so why not just enjoy this tickle and spare a few minutes pondering these doofers!
What the fuck - feedback fuzz attack, I am downloading, re-loading, off loading - aaaggghhhhh.
Back to normality...
'Won't Change' confidently sways in with a restrained Roy Orbison weave topped over with stated radio-gob steadiness. A clashing of components, a worthwhile coming together of opposing accents and one that has a very sinister edge and perhaps noir-esque leanings within the movement. A curio in the can of cacophony, one I need more time with....please! 'Lucky Charm' returns to the usual operative flow of sun-kissed wire twinkles and whispered oral escorts - an innocent coupling that grows and grows on the listeners framework and with strong roots of uncomplicated rhythm bleeds out a round of genuine applause. It ain't rocket science folks. A cover next, one that starts with high flown twanging and deflects from what is about to come. 'Fade To Grey' is a brave attempt and tries to convert what is a genuine classic into something quite different from what it was meant to be. For me it is a cracking little cutlet that gives an alternate view of a ditty engrained into our psyche. The number strips down the original and gives it a street-borne make over with all industrious effort aimed at keeping things slightly frayed, less glamorous and, ultimately, more approachable. The original was a masterpiece but this is good imitation art with its own identity!
Last 2 and spaghetti western cum shadowised ghost story 'Borley Revisited' moves between misted graves with insidious craftiness. Maniacal laughter makes way for rehearsed vocal statements, statements that seem weighted with sub-threat and underhand warnings. This is a docu-mentary yarn that travels onwards a little too much and dilutes the fear factor somewhat. Not bad but nothing to raise too many goosebumps. We close with 'Born To Rock (The Loaded Mix)' and my review is as thus – 'ditto'. If you have read this far and concentrated you'll know what I mean.
One more CD reviewed and my miniscule bit is done. I hope I have captured the flavour of what this buskering bugger is trying to do and I hope I have given some insight into the whole approach and general attitude of the plucker - either way - dabble for thyself please.