FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 51
 
 

WEIMAR - CURSE THE SONGS/JOHN DOE

The band under scrutiny here are a collective eclectic bunch of 'erberts all swinging in from different sonic angles and offering up an overall discharge that avoids any distinct categorisation.  We have an ex Black Light Mutant in the mix (a ruddy good band that) and an old buddy from a band back in the early 80's (stand up 'Eddy' and take a bow) plus two other dabblers one of whom opened a Fungal gig under the guise of The Speed of Sound.  There is a range of sound on show and all I am requested to do is dissect two tracks and cast forth my Fungalised thoughts - here goes the usual honest scribbling.

'Curse The Songs' is a lengthy delivery laden with alternative sounding, indie labelled essences that traverse the substrate of time and bring to the fore something reliable, easily acquainted with and yet utterly fresh.  The opening sequence is tentative, seeking and almost bashful.  A sanguinity is found, the light skipped fore wires work a treat against a beavering substrate of bass work and some primarily cymbally nervous tympanics.  All throughout the energy is wonderfully fluttery, finds increased levels of prowess whilst emanating an inner disgust and a musical insight for us to revel in.  There is a DIY aspect that heightens the honesty, the song, despite over-running the 5-minute mark is easily devoured by this overfed git and after playing over and over I am seriously considering offering them a gig slot just on the back of this one song - I hope that speaks volumes.

'John Doe' is the flip track, it combines touches of countrified croonings, folk ramblings, more independent hints of sub-times of yore.   The overall approach is uncluttered, every individual contributor is afforded space to do their thing whilst contributing to a somewhat lo-blow-out of intrinsically unflustered music.  The tempo is middling, the flow unhindered, the delivery subtly appealing without being too vulgar.  Perhaps in some places things are a little too exact, perhaps there should be a few more frayed edges for the more lowly dogs but speaking from the gutter with long term scars, I find this easily digestible fodder and a ruddy good change to things more crudely spiked.

So a brace of tasters, one thoroughly convincing, the other enjoyed but having a less obvious impact.  If the band are going into the studio anytime soon the only things to be considered are the inclusion of a few speedier tracks, a couple of short additions and perhaps a good old instrumental to start and close the offering.  There is a whole lot of potential here and to me it seems like music being played by people who just have it in their blood and let's be honest, if these guys weren't making music there would be some serious masturbation going on that's for sure .  Yes, stick at it chaps, tis far better for one's mental health than playing the purple tipped trumpet all day.

   

CRASH INDUCTION - SHOCK TO THE CISTERN

A 4 piece from Northampton/Milton Keynes who formed in 2009 as a cover band (ooh the silly sods).  Thankfully the band decided to create their own constructions and played their first set of original material in October 2017.  They have moved on, played some gigs and are now asking ye olde Fungalpunk for a review (they are even sillier sods than I first imagined).  Of course I said yes, the band have a certain colour scheme right up my street but that doesn't mean the review will be glowing, in fact, as I wrote this intro I have no idea what my thoughts will be - fingers crossed hey folks!

First up, 'Pharaoh’s Curse' comes and is a jaunty little jingle filled with DIY accents and a certain cheerful application that is easy to digest.  The seaside is the place where the tune is pitched, the first verse is comedic and simple and tells a tale of a sun-seeking 'erbert who comes unstuck and ends up with a dose of the shits.  The string work is chipper, the drums skip and roll without intricacy, the verbals are scribbled onto a stained sheet of toilet-paper and sang with 'bloke down the pub' reality.  One can almost envision the crapping sufferer with trousers down, sanguine grimace and kiss me quick hat having a real duff time - ha, ha - serves him right!  'I've Been Banned' is a basic punk splurge of sonic tomfoolery regarding an inebriate with puked on tootsies making an arse of himself in the local retailer of booze.  The product is bog-brush noise complete with stinking shittery and undigested fragments that add to the overall acoustic excreta.  This one plays things too simple, it fuzzes along and despite a perky guitar wank it never really elevates itself beyond the level of 'simple'.  I think in the 'live' pit it will go down a whole lot better, watch this space.

'Ladyshave' is my favourite thus far, a good lick (cripes), a trembling pleasure and one done with idiotic comedy at the fore regarding a lush bush of pubic undergrowth that has become something of a problem.   The aim of the shaving is rather out of sync with my approach but the song is a nice sensation down below and appeals to some tucked away part of me that should know better.   Nothing overcomplicated, nothing too profound and plenty of vulgar phrases - ooh me loins are ablaze.    'You're A Dickhead' is a bumbling bee with a sting in the chuff that is brandished via a song of the most basic construction.  The chorus is a bare-bollocked offering and readily undercooked showing a greenness borne from germinal DIY realms many will forget they were ever involved with.  I like the raw side of noise, I like things bordering on the shabby, here though a little bit more 'oomph' would have been so apt, a bit more fuzz in the buzz readily needed.   The song has promise, for me this is unfinished business.

'Cross Dresser' continues a comedic theme that leaves me in fear of the band getting dragged into a mire that duly detracts.  Each to their own and many just want to have a crack and just enjoy - this can be no bad thing, in small doses that is.  This is an uncomplicated song, an open wound of straight ahead punkery from the depths of the DIY underpants.  Hairy conkers, ready-rubbed shafts and scratched arses are all exposed, along with a few tickles like this!  'Spoon In The Knife Drawer' rust-buckets in and asks the eternal question that can ultimately lead to those with cerebral difficulties to get rather upset.  This is a wrap-around, warp the sound number to get easily involved with and not take too seriously - so I do and I don't - sometimes it is just what a reviewer needs.  'Posted It On Facebook' bass rumbles in, spurts along and deals with the madness of the on-line world and people’s insane desire to justify their existence and every move.  'Look at me, look at me - I am having a good time aren't I' - is the thinking behind the fuckery and in truth, it needs to stop.   Crash Induction go about dealing with the lunacy in their usual uncomplicated forthright way and tickle the senses no end.

3 quick flicks to keep the impetus rolling.   'All Hail Barry Scott' regards that fictional fuck-wit and seller of drain clearing poison.  It is a piss-taking bout of pseudo-adulation that dissects the myth of Cillit Bang and shouts the joys of the cleaning fluid that is second to none.  There is an unhinged madness deeply exposed, the band seem immersed - I am frightened.  'Homophobic Girlfriend' is old-school tomfoolery with a pre-punk affect and a lengthy tale told concerning a lass with leanings tilted perhaps a little too much the wrong way.  If the truth be known I am not keen on this, it needs a good kick up the arse during the chorus cuts and a real injection of pace to give it the crucial 'oomph' factor.   The running time is too long and it just leaves me as cold as Adolf Hitler's nob during his final days in the bunker - bah.  'Under Attack' bass bumbles, skids, ups the ante with some good honest to fuck scuzzery.  The output is dirty, full of regulated music and sticks to the basics without fucking about off track.  I have little to add - just get a few beers, play loud and pogo!

I fall into the back stretch, 'Travolta' is a song I don't like, it goes on too long, never raises itself from the flat-line and is too much of the same.   Sometimes you can like one song, hate another and there is very little in it - here is such a case - this one does absolutely nothing for me although it is in keeping with what has transpired - an odd moment and one I flick quickly on from.  'Number 1 Fan' is an ego-riddled piss-take that could apply to many self-obsessed fuckers in the music scene - let's face it, the scene is riddled with this shit.  Over the years I have come across some right old tossers who try and play it humble and then let slip a few remarks that expose the narcissistic idiocy running through their veins.  I like the abrasive accents of this one, the cutting direction of the verbals and the convincing way one feels that a mind has been overtaken by a maniacal inner belief.  The opening string cuts, the forthright lunacy - I think it may rub up a few people the wrong way this one - here's hoping.

Next and the sprinting energy of the confessional known as 'Stacy Bushes Car Park'.  This is a good street burst dealing with a moment in time when a dick was dipped, another fanny fouled and two pimpled arses humped in unison.  There is nothing romantic in these liaisons, the band say it how it is without much emotion or to fair, importance.  In many respects here is one of life's regulated blips exposed, I like the tune, the content still makes me shudder as I seek some semblance of sanity in this mad, mad world.  The closure is a bonus ball stuffed up the attentive rear via a sub-live setting and concerning some dubious sexual behaviour the band seem too familiar with for their own good.  It is an acoustic peck on the closing arse cheeks and ends with the synthetic crowd verbally advising the band to get off out of it - I say no more.

Look, this is hit and miss stuff, some will love it (the pissheads, the foolish), some will hate it (the feminists, the Cleaning Fluid Liberation Front) some will even go so far as to listen in and offer the guys a gig (the mentally disturbed, the perverted oh, and me).  I have had an aural pootle and I like some, I don't like a few but I appreciate the effort of having a go.  Now the band are booked on a gig and I expect things to be even better in the 'flesh' - it could be a quite sexual experience - ooh mother!

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
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