THE CRASH MATS - GIVING IT BIG LICKS EP

The Crash Mats have just got better and better over the years and are a local band I am quite fond of. Amiable chaps, totally DIY and without bullshit attachments - oh how I hope they don't blow away all my belief with a shit offering here. The band are a 3 piece hailing from the outskirts of Manchester and play a mix of weed soaked, wanked off, skankily grubbed up punk that at first was a trifle uncoordinated but has gradually grown into a well versed, well rehearsed mush of melodic noise. The band look more and more accomplished each time I see them and who knows how far they can progress. This is the latest instalment offering 5 tracks that gently tests new found belief. A bag of pox or upright cocks I'll be my sure-fire honest self and let you have it full in the face - there is no other way as tha' should know.

We open with the roughshod bluesiness of 'The Girl I Like', a thriving bout of swaying groove that is loaded with 'fuck you' arrogance, shake that ass belief and 'up yours' attitude. Highly smoked, grinding into the temporary shield of neutrality and immediately getting one to wonder just how far this band have advanced. This one is short, intoxicating and may I suggest ideal for those on a mission to get bombed - it be a fine opener and with its fully saturated sound and controlled DIY flavour I am really getting this bastard.

By fuck I thought Kid Creole was dead - just listen to the opening sequence of the next track then - appears not! My coconuts are out (hairy globes that they be) and I am ready to rock em' hard and spill the inner musical milk when...the most typical bog standard punkage ensues. Back in I pop the plums, zip up and await a minor disappointment - I don't get it. Although the most straightforward track this swift moving number has zest, tight musicianship and its own balls as well as a pick up and puke flavour and a good ascension in temperament that tickles my bone of discordance. It has a good honest flow so rather than look for minor flaws I pop out the old testes of tuneage again and bounce em' along like they were initially meant to do - spunktastic!

'Monkey Boy 2 (The Revenge)’ is the most routine outpouring of the lot with that verse/chorus structure only broken by pleas to get high whilst the players look to offer a minor escape route from the general gist. The winning qualities are again the refusal to overcomplicate, the perfect positioning of each sequence, the sub-reckless plot that seems to constantly suggest an overspill of the acoustic applecart and the aforementioned moments where the grittiness is smoothed over and a more desperate chilled out feel is injected. Play a few times is the suggestion and the true flavour of this one will come to light - quite a ditty in fact.

'The Terrible Tale Of Pablo' is an essential ear attraction that begins with deliberate drum smacks, an undulating, bobbing and weaving bass and an escorting lightly manipulated and upstroked, not choked, guitar skank. From here the song duly erupts into a surged up burst of corrosive noise that captures its own melody whilst rough-housing the whole construct up a little. A song very much built on contrast and a song very convincingly delivered - one of my personal faves from the 'live' shit house to be honest and now a fave on CD too. A bass from the undergrowth, an instantly attractive riff, some gruff, dog end rough, gobbage and a fine verse that really has some easy swing within the grime. A guitar break, a sanguine chorus that avoids complication, a pure episode of a band cruising, moving onwards and upwards with the bit right between the broken teeth. Stringwork is impressively relaxed, changes tones without fuss, is produced to a standard to meet the noisy needs of this advancing unit and is pushed along by solid stick labour. A fine finish is 'Rubbish Truck' and leaves me wanting more.

By far and away the best release to date by this great set of tuneful turnips and one that will surely take away any doubts anyone has had over the bands credibility and ability. When I first saw this lot I was mightily unsure and since then they have eventually turned me into a fan and had me more than a little convinced. This full stops any uncertainty, bangs home the fact that there is still more to come and that is a great thing to witness. All local 'erberts should lap this up and anyone from farther afield should also dig in and pick up a piece of the action. Why? Because you will be supporting 3 of yer own, a solid band and all 5 tracks are worth their money..and don't forget...keep em' enthused and there will be more to come - now that sounds good to me!

STOJ SNAK- FUCK EP

A liberated mentality pouring out words of wisdom should be quite acceptable in this day and age but alas there is no fuckin' freedom and instead much bigotry and prejudice out there that impedes the flow of niggling questions that may advance our whole state of play - some people like things that way! The Danish author puts it this way:-  'You wouldn't think that writing songs about free, consensual sex would make much sense this day of age - in fact I almost threw out this song because I thought the lyrics were outdated and redundant. However, it seems ridicules and quite scary events (like the current Russian stance on homosexuality) pop up every now and then to remind us that the freedom to be who you are and express your love the way that you find best is not prevailing everywhere and that this freedom is something still worth standing up for. If for nothing else than to show everyone, who feel that their sexuality, choice of partner(s) or whatever is being looked down upon in one way or another, that we are many people everywhere who are on their side. Love is one of the few uncorrupted things that make this world worth living in. So fuck how you want to fuck. And if anyone else tries to tell you differently; fuck them!   This EP is for everyone who dares to love...'

Wise words and provided you know what love is (many don't and use a stupid mask to hide their shag around selfishness) and aim to do no one any harm I reckon you can do no wrong in taking heed.

'Fuck' is a beautifully passionate number with erudite lyrics getting a pertinent point across regarding limited thinking, controlled values and piss fuckin' ignorance that hinders a natural flow where freedom should be the respected driving force. The temperament throughout is utterly convincing, the stringed notes plucky and feisty, the lone vocal moments perfectly delivered and thus encapsulating the brilliance and belief of this screaming demon with mean intent and utter focus. The sweet melody in some respects could be accused of conflicting with the raging words but I feel this contrast, this opposition, only enhances the whole song and will undoubtedly attract more than the sunshine listener or grubbed up anarchist. Fuckin' magical stuff!

'Crooks And Criminals' is wonderfully textured with sub-radioed and strained emotion dripping from the throat of the deliverer whilst keys are so complimentary and give a well worn aspect to a song riddled with precocious insight and 'suss'. The machine-like grind magnetises the lover of DIY reality and the artistic end product is a delight to wallow in and dutifully absorb. A few strummers place too much weight on the structure of the song and lose a bit of spirited edge within the creation - not so here - a shining example of someone with burning issues that he needs to shout about - very nice.

The bonus track of 'How Much Tear Gas' is another peach, pronounced in on a strum, rattling ‘back at ya’ with the sonic armoury brandished with pride. The leader of the pack flashes along and whips up we humble followers with ease via a spirited, all action restless rhythm that spouts more sagacity and faith in the future. Eventually guts are spilled out (yeah love it) and the true vivid colours and hard beating heart of this artiste are there for all to see - no gripes here.

THE CHEWERS - CHUCKLE, CHANGE AND ALSO

Nowhere can be a wondrous place, free of all malignant and suffocating influence, out of kilter with the many set patterns this bastard race creates. The creation and destruction of ones own cacophony is unblemished and so succeeds and triumphs with untold purity and reward. The Chewers seemingly drop out of nowhere and suspend above the flat-line and set about bending the sonic airspace so has to tear rents and expose new sensations, be they utterly depressing, exhilarating or just plain old disturbing. This demented duo are described as ‘two freaks from the woods of West Virginia’ which may reveal more than we at first realise. Yes, we are in unknown territory, every move is monitored, one slip...and ya sonically bummed - oh Daddy, where's my Daddy!

The outer verdancy is parted, we see ahead a dark and mysterious forest, in we foolishly go and...create an abstract view of this jazzed avante garde outburst.

A creeping piece of crippled disease that gets beneath the skin and awaits a response. A note, a pause, an episode of subdued, sinister tale telling in its most basic style. Immediately the band are placing abstract statements at our feet whilst awaiting a kicking or an expulsion of praise. I am offering neither just a cold hard verdict - odd, eerie, insane but testing - that is no bad thing! Many a finger fucking pluck that ponders the mini slice of death (as Poe states) comes, goes, backs up the initial suggestion of experimentation. Tests of the channel adopt a primeval riff, mechanically moronic functions apply themselves whilst breakdown vocals dissolve with regularity - the clockwork toy of tuneage is breaking not faking - the end is nigh, we duly tune out - in an unhinged kind of way! Attempts to get going are impeded by the hands of interference, the raping maulers of awkwardness. The pavements walked are indeed black and white but the footsteps lain down are hazy and immediately lost amid a blurred backdrop of repetition and sci-fi/pseudo praising repulsion. A real crushing wraparound to end an opening bunch of sheer disagreeable sounds that perversely intrigue. We are into a stumbling stride - let us venture deeper and explore various shrubs of sonica, rotten stumps of rhythm, condemned and collapsed logs of sub-music.

Morbid pieces of drip fed insanity that come from a comatose cretin lying prostrate in a bed of defecation and satanic seeds is what we get. Contact is attempted, spittle runs from the corner of crippled lips, everything remains incoherent, a cusp of death moment - we move on to the next sick bastard without a care in the world whilst initial tendrils burst from the dead mans arsehole and duly bloom into black flowers of doom. Fumble fucks with elastic members are by a pre-masturbatory moron who fears missing out on an orgasmic moment and pulling out too soon (or too late if ye be an impatient git). Ticks, tocks, annoyances of the mind whilst electric wasps and battery driven beetles of restlessness gradually come to life. The detached vocals are eerie and dangerous as is each instalment of a very psychotic bout of experimentalisation. Niggling man for sure and the buttocks rise and fall with unpredictable, sickening regularity as we get fucked rotten and so does the entire foundation of our reasoning.   The acoustic anus spouts robust fruiting bodies of the mycological kind, the psychological kind – the kind we want to digest!

Shattered jazz accompanied by a robotic elf that is indeed bad for your aural health invades centre stage, his wife gives birth to wired demons. Again the general pace is slow and ponderous, the sub-vibe alarmingly suggestive of an impending mental collapse, of a world coming to a flickering, pathetic demise. I suspect there is going to be no change, no conformity so I may as well just absorb the tricky tones. The final bursts are almost demonic from a space age mental lab with creatures prodded and poked by disregarding probes of cool metal and invasive vulgarity. Almost zoo-like in essence with many a quadruped raped to the racking rhythms proffered. Crippling computerised imagery forever arises before glazed, dazed optical orbs whilst confessions to being filthy come from the gob, admissions of cacophonic collapse come from the warped instruments - it has me thinking the track list is out of sync and what I review isn't what it appears to be - another dastardly turn of events throwing me further and further off balance. An inner satisfaction for wallowing in the shit, being layered in scummed putrescence, turning the guts of the upper society is had - the knickers of noise are hitched higher, they cut the acoustic shitter in half, we stagger, spastically jig in a frenzy, swat rectal flies with arthritic hands - drop in a ragged heap - beaten.

SOCIAL SCHISM - DESTINATION NOWHERE

Gobby, opinionated, fast, aggressive and bloody likeable - well that's how I find this lot, what about you? The band I dealt with in their early days (seems like ages ago but I am sure it ain't that long) and helped them along a little whilst they found their feet, contacts and some sort of stance. Thoroughly loveable people who gave a couple of good performances on the odd Fungal show – ta! The band have moved on since, it has been a while since I viewed them or indeed heard any new stuff so I am keen to assess where these feisty fuckers are up to. A line up change has brought in some femininity (poor Ben just didn't have the knockers for it) and so I expect a good deal of variation within a very whipped up soundscape. Anyway - let us see what these Essex hardcorian 'erberts are offering these days and duly get to the meat of the melodic matter.

The warnings arrive, the skies darken, a bass line is brief but sets the stage before the initial power surges of an all out blitzkrieg attack are upon us. 'Price Of Liberty And Life' is a real classy opening salvo of utter alternating aggression that lets you have it in yer complacent face full fuckin' blast. Immediately one wants to get up, erupt and smash the shit out of all those indolent twats who produce nothing and reduce everything - thank you Social Schism. The guitars are thrashed, the drums molested and clattered, the twinned tonsil sniping very fuckin' tasty and splattering venom filled saliva over every fucker who wants it or not. The band sign off from this first onslaught with rapidfire assuredness - I am impressed and reckon if they maintain this level of violence the CD will be a classic. 'Slave Trade' chugs in, offers a duel between two irate beings that copulate and give us a nice bout of bitch/bastard rage. The metallic guitars flash, the bass weaves with the best of em', the drums charge along and keep all things aflame. A riotous rib-rattler, no apologies, no let up. Not as meaty and flamboyant as the first and lacking the surprise factor but a bold offering neatly injected with a riff up moment that raises the quality mark. I am still with ya dudes!

'Squatter For A Day' (well we all know those don't we) is a questioning tirade that relies on the built up energy and fury the band have thrown forth thus far. Tempo's alternate, throats are still shredded to the max, more control is had though and that makes for something slightly different. The double ended vocal style is embroidered with clashing threads of garish colours coughed up from lungs of passionate hatred. Not a bad burst and the short running time is welcome. 'Destination Nowhere' next, a bass tickle, feminine angst delivered with control, buzz saw injection, bog brush chorus - over and out. More bass fiddling and 'Nihilistic' hurries its arse with segments placed in position in usual order, ripped open and displayed and rattled forth without too much strenuous effort. A midway bout of 'as you go' fluidity - without threat but without flaw and any hint of change. 'Society' creeps with a skank before a tin canned hollowness of guitar escorts the first verse and duly adds a different texture to what has gone before. The chorus cleans up matters and creates a fine contrast between the urgent, angry, disillusioned and all that is kept in check. The bass weaves, sticks do what is necessary for this kind of ditty - a nice juncture within the swifter pieces.

Next and the ‘boo boo’ moment, namely the corned and sickly predictable 'How Far Is Too Far (How Far Can Too Far Go)'. A real disappointing tribute piece that many bands crack out in moments of thoughtful retrospect and more often than not coming up with a piece that leaves one quite cold. I get what the band are trying to do and the emotive angle they are playing for but...a cool no, no from Fungal. Just not enough bite, not enough disgust with things that can't be changed, not enough pride in the chest. Hey - that is how it feels and the way the band have put this CD together it's about time they threw in a Fungalised dud. 'E. B. D. raises the bar back to the belligerent heights and nails a high tempered chorus within a general whip up that does the job. Maybe the production values on this CD are more complimentary to tracks like this and the previous track suffers as a consequence (worth considering when I play again). Back to it though and yes - this latest burst is what the crew need to stick at - short, sharp, up yer bracket and outta there.

'Fascist Police' is an expected title as they are inside and outside the scene with their ubiquitous idiocy - a real bind to bear for all who don't need the restricting shit they spout. Once more we race along with the bass a notable force that adheres all components together - Id expected nothing less. More he/she gobbage, more biting noise, the temperament is kept nicely in check, the whizzing force sucks us in, the inner pogo-inducing instrumental is sublime - not bad at all. 'Are You Angry Or Are You Boring' is more cluttered than many of its counterparts and only just squeaks by on the right side of din-laden decency - nowt wrong with the odd close shave. It is the usual quick thrust many bands throw in and with its rough and rotten edge it is just as well it skips along - I like these short fucks up the attentive arse - they help reinvigorate the senses. 'Rise Up' uses the now typical formula and although has a bit of 'oomph' it goes astray during a sub-skanked section that just doesn't cut it. Too clouded, enshrouded by upper scuzz and so not clean enough to create a startling contrast between the songs segments - it happens. I find this effort doing a lot but achieving little as a lone number - it just kinda gets lost in its own steam. 'Mi Li Massacre' builds itself up with extra chuggered and buggered belief before taking stock, allowing the drums to roll the band into the main thrust and then...adopting a routine too similar to what has already transpired. Plenty of gumption, nice switches in style (however subtle they may be) and a good opposing vibe between the cruising verse and more pissed and head-slamming chorus that is semi-radioed out and wired up with ill temper. We stagger around, threaten to finally explode but instead get caught in a ponderous episode of primal screaming and then...well we eventually get to the much needed last screwed up blast - about time and nicely puked forth.

Last two and 'Fingersmith' goes with the defiant flow and just gets on with things in expected style, a somewhat chanted number to chomp along with that has little variance from the set theme. The closing 'Truth Is The First Casualty' is much more like it with a skanked mode of melody that showcases more about the band than one could be excused for overlooking. A real ghetto-ised vibe with a feeling for the song at hand. As pace gradually increases the effect is greater although I do feel the guitar could have been crisper and the bass more resonant. The band loses themselves in the moment though and that heightens the conviction for the listener - a fair closure that never tries to be nothing new under the pock marked sun.

THE JANITORS - SELF TITLED

Tuned in, tuned up, Toronto based trash with limitations exposed, wanked off and duly slopped about and delivered via a very DIY standpoint. The grime is evident, the surface scuzz infecting and therefore...this is my kind of sonic shit. The focus beneath the filth is to keep things primitive and melodic and I have to say this crew do that with utter, gratifying precision. Again however the review will come in from all angles and I'll try to be a victim of nobbled neutrality before putting calloused fingertips to worn down keys. Many won't find this kind of raw sludge to their liking but for me it is a form of untainted purism that paradoxically is, indeed tainted (in a natural way).

Side 1 and...

We open the slurry tank, get covered in disease, the first acoustic aroma to hit us is christened 'The Swamp', a hard slapped bout of clattering discordance upholding a strong drive, an almost shoddy appearance and a utterly washed out garage aspect only the ardent admirer of this sub-genre will favour. The glutinous gloop that is the main structure of the song is thrown with suggestive mayhem and awkward insistence and other than the midway switch off I am wallowing in the chaos. A rattler rises, a mean hypnotic rhythm is had, a chanted repetition is thrown forth and 'All Day' grinds out its lunatic war dance. The twisted vocals amid the turmoil of the crushing groove is solid and the whole song smacks of absorbing lunacy where the ones under the mental strain are truly happy that way. Give them an instrument, some free time and the resultant mix is an almost horrific slab of sinister sonica the perverse will ping to.

Moving on and 'Girls, Girls, Girls, Girls' continues the dustbin lid dose of melodic bacteria with a gloopy loop bout of nutted high pitched idiocy. The song floats along on taut whinges and for me it is a definite failure which detracts from the grittier side of the band. I move on sharply with an acid trail left in my wake (as way of warning). An industrial breakdown followed by a repetitive chug and 'Your Son' scrapes its ass along rubbish strewn slipstreams were reverberated, underfed acoustics abound and make for a routine bout of secondary dirt. The discordance suggests a fracture in the sonic fabric is imminent, several ripples occur, we eventually get through without all torn asunder - average I'd say. 'Mindfuck' has more irregularity, more danger, more suggestions of unpredictability. The intensity is kindled, the melted mush of scorched madness is splattered, an almost piss-taking sing-a-long is inserted into the ditty's dirt cum fuzz box and the final collapse happens as expected - not bad sir. 'My Stupid Girlfriend Hates Christmas' is a fouled jingle that breaks through the scuzz and has a reasonable washed out grain running throughout. The gobs are slightly molested by the blade of mental instability, the back grown decoration is dusted and somewhat tainted with yellowed stains of retrofication but this is an honest bout of bilge to wallow in.

Onto Side 2, therefore...

The opening track welcomes us with persistent nervous uncertainty and a superabundance of crumbling cacophonic order with the band amid their own 'Party Time' and losing their heads therein. Zipped, buzzed, zapped and purely indulgent idiocy - somehow the bands arses scrape by a severe textual beating and give promise that if they garage things up a little more and go for a serious routine this duo could have some hypnotic shit on their hands. 'Swim, Swim' is B-music plodding where a lunatic warning comes and one expects the rubber creature from the deep to rear up and bite through our organ filled abdomen. The waters of rhythm are sloshed about with deliberate strokes, the inner fishes of tone are blurred and scales drop here and there as well as levels of mental decency. Again the band dabble with tomfoolery and just get away with it. 'I'm A Robot'' is a pip and captures the band at their fragile and repeatoid best with a chorus that chants, a verse that opposes and irons things out a little so as to give some respite from the chorus cacophony that has its wires crossed and just avoids blowing an inner fuse. Music to lose yourself in this one (provided you are stressed to fuck and ready to mush yer mind).

'Hide Your Eyes' rolls around the horrorfied vaults, utters a sub-tribal essence before screaming up a fur ball of howling urgency that aborts the pre-set comfort zone. A tale of two tones with the mellowed out raped by the frenzied and so creating a juxtaposition to ponder. Not a bad crack at all but not as good as the fruited and flurried 'Yardsale', a more abandoned moment that nails it early on despite the rusted production values many will find distasteful. The vibe is enthusiastic, the outlook has a 'couldn't give a fuck' joy, the arrangement magnetises the ones who like primitive concoctions. The slow down and finalising wind up is an error and if the band would have bailed sooner the song would have been so much more impressive - never mind. We close with 'This Song Is Not About Oscar Pistorious' a disturbing hybrid between sub-country and sub-romance that lovey dovey-fies itself and ends up as a bout of disappointing crack-pot-ism! I can see what the band are trying but hey 'not for me dudes'. I, like the previous track should have done, jump out early.

NIGHTSHAME - SHAME EP

Grubby DIY from Italy with a distinct slant towards retro US rock and roll garbage that has a distinct aroma many sniffers will miss out on. There is an artistry in getting a sound to be sludgy, pebble-dashed and ultimately unaffected rather than a feeble attempt at polished pretensions which emboldens only desperation and a sell-out aspect - but, it ain't no easy thing to master and way too many fall short. These days punk is a nebulous creature that exists in many forms within many sub-circles thus creating variety and unfortunately division. It is healthy, it is diseased, in fact the tag has hardly any weight at all now and the only threat it holds is to its own legitimacy but in all this confusion we get many assorted sounds and that will do just fine for me. Here is just such an expulsion, my task is to assess, be fair, critically persuasive and provoking and to (I hope) enjoy. Geronimooooooooo!

At the head of the cacophonic pack (after the 'Intro') is a song entitled 'Pander Smile', a fuckin' marvellous escapade in slagged garage with a yelled opening that opens the floodgates for natural nastiness that purist punkoids, and beyond, should lap up. Non-conformist, out of kilter with all the pretentious shit that takes a style and follows and one up the arse for the noise that takes no risks. Straight from the gut this visceral sub-violence is glorious garbage dragged from the trashcan and thrown all over your own organised area. Guitar notes are tossed around with abandon, the drums slap and shuffle with equal casualness and the grimed tonsil fired expulsions are very snotty, very rough-edged, very convincing. 'Tigerdog' snaps quickly on the stinking heels of the previous track with keen and hungry swift chomps before slamming out its own sonic stench and virulent fist pumping epileptic insistence. The band cock their legs and piss forth a sound that is irresistible lo-fi, under nourished passion that has much to slam around to. Almost self destructive in essence, quite probably built on 'get up, immerse yourself and go for it' attitude and that is the only way to do it. Capture your style, believe it and let it all hang out - the band do so and loosen things up right to the last strum. 'Nailless' gets right with the programme and clatters along amid a whirlpool of utter decadence with all process factors set at level 'raw'. The verses swing around with the leash broken and the intent to do damage at an optimum. The excellent impetus magnetises the lug, the sleazed edge attracts those 'in the know', any garage man worth their salt will jack off to this until they bleed. Ejaculate your life force ma'an!

'Criminal' reminds me of a local-ish band (MGB) and one of their fine riffs that rocked my unwashed undercarriage. This time the riff forces me to keep the said nether regions unhygienic as the polluted lick is very dirty indeed and right up my sonic shitter. A blue light warning, the said riffage, the first verse that sears the brain - it all paves the way for a relentless grind of garage bilge water that it is a pleasure to drink deeply of. Night Shame are bang on the mark, are nailing a sub-generic sound with convincing tones and I am loving it man. 'She Monster' twinges, fucks about, is brought into line by cymbal rap and then snottily struts right up into yer mug ask asks you for a session of scratched attention. The vocals are on the cusp, the noise nasty and the whole darn affair is piss soaked with painful desperation to get a discordance across that drips with heartfelt emotion and passion - the band do just that here and with the pursuing 'Nightshame', a cutlet that chinks in, tribally ploughs its own suicidal furrow and then becomes absorbed in a mighty mush to melt the mind. The flow seems endless, the drive utterly destructive, the raw unbridled delivery pure DIY of the finest calibre and utterly refusing to play ball with those out of the shitty sync. I think Nightshame reach two zeniths here along with several previous highs - don't listen to the doubters - so far this is choice cacophonic compost.

'Smell Of Poor' is a similar drawl of dinned up dirtiness but a little less effective, which in truth, is to be expected after the aforementioned belters. This one seems just a little too frayed and out of kilter with itself which highlights what a dramatic precipice these artistes find themselves composing on. They don't quite fall into oblivion here but in parts they come close. They hang on by their soiled mitts and pull out a song that leaves me split - the fluid bits impressing, the staggering bits depressing - they were due for a Fungal faux pas - not bad though. 'Old Bitter Heart Heart' closes and gets back in the groove this time with a more oppressive and weighted power that drags the bottom of the rhythmic riverbed and so clouds the clear waters and makes for another sludgefest. The band screw it hard for the finish line and whip up an end scuzzle of crummy foamed relish - splash, the band drown in their own delightful, self fouled waters.

Yes - this is priceless crud that those with well worn punk stripes should adore although...many won't. I can see why it isn't everyone's cup of vomit but for me it is the bread and butter of the scene, the real deal and where much talent can be unearthed. It is a dangerous playpen however and if the band don't watch it they can have quite a nasty acoustic accident - be warned. Try this, walk the plank - like it, loathe it but please at least have a listen.

BRASSICK - BROKE AND RESTLESS

I saw this band very recently (as of writing) and met up with a young fruit on drums who is really a charm. His skills have grown and here he finds himself in the midst of a band that gave much to consider on that debut viewing. Hailing from the Brummy scummy area (in me humble opinion ha, ha) this crew offer up usual punked fare scorched over with the smoky vocal style of the feisty front lass. Still finding their true niche of noise the flavours are slightly awkward against one another but variety is an essential spice so this minor flaw can easily be overlooked in the interim before the band move onto better things (which can only come by keen effort, listening to external advice and just keeping at it). Here is a CD I was requested to review, 5 tracks to test the water, many thoughts to keep it dripping.

'Pelt' opens with sanguinity and hard infecting vibes before the roasted female vocals ride along on the riffage with tonsils torn inside out and kept truly aflame. A sub-metal thermal radiance is emitted as well as a very full on intensity that the band try to scorch you with. Hectic and yet organised, feisty and quite terse and setting an initial torch alight to begin this mini conflagration. 'Broke And Restless' skanks up, stays as raw and ready as its predecessor and has many moments where the cacophonic strain is at its max. Once more the girl at the fore almost rips herself a new vocal fanny as she squeezes out her delivery with almost painful passion. This fiery aspect, the opposing structure of the song and the brief but re-igniting interlude make for the best song thus far and keep the initial curve turning upward. This ascension continues with the more thoughtful and well structured 'Hitting Home', a ditty that sees the band reach higher and grab the booty with both grubby acoustic hands. The lead lady is allowed to flex her emotive muscles whilst the players provide a perfect escort for her to truly shine - in her own rasped and reality riddled way. The verse and chorus interlock like two bodies fucking and the end result is one steady climax. The movements from the rhythmic to the more teasingly staggered are precocious and show this still young band have much to offer. Great stuff and backed up by the open wound that is 'Rome', a less immediately impacting song but one that gently persuades with slow and steady caresses. Rather than snatch at the erogenous zones with hands all zealous the band work their way slowly up the inner thigh of attention and leave one pondering - the style seems almost sub-sexual, almost preparatory to something bigger and better but this will surely do for now. All components are complimentary to one another and at this stage that is more than enough. Add some strength, varied outlooks and insights and Brassick are doing the business.

We close with 'The Streets Provide' another restrained number that has certain punked trimmings, a quality DIY effect and a controlled melody that is nicely corroded by the gravelled gob work. Is it me or are many going to overlook the wonderful talent here - I sincerely hope not. This song, as well as all its comrades, contains a strength that is, at first, not really apparent but when noticed the whole collection rises.

OFFICER GOTCHA - TOWARDS CUCKOOLAND

Local to King's Lynn and Norwich this band have stomped around their local patch since 2005 and have attuned their skills and are ready to roll further afield. The band have quite an obvious sound but mix in many angular influences and so come up with something readily identifiable. It ain't easy to stand out from the crowd but one way to help is to play with a few big names which this lot have certainly done. Those big names though do consume so much interest the smaller bands have to fight for air at the bottom and some just get choked out - hang in there chaps and just keep doing it your own way. Well, here is a review of the songs to try and uncover how I feel the band are doing thus far as well as what makes em’ tick.

First to spill forth is 'I Fucked Up', a bursting bout of honesty that is clipped in, bassed up and then screwing deep with bronchial guitars. Vocals are spiteful sounding, sniped, sub-snotty and nicely off kilter with the rest of the sound. The minimalistic intercuts, the corrosive gushes and the somewhat restless aspect of the song gets you immediately into gear and wondering what route this CD is going to take - I like that aspect. 'Unpack Rachel' is similar in sonic stance with its bare bones and clutterfuzz mix. Swifter, slightly under-produced (which is no criticism) and with the odd tempo switch this is a complimentary piece to the opener and maintains what the band are about. A funny old song that lacks any rigidity of construction and general predictability which can be good or bad dependent on the mood of the eavesdropper. I am still unsure about this bugger and find it a troublesome mix to try and pin down - bah.

'Bark' 4 taps and then twists out a sweet melody before getting down and into the steady verse where the words are snottily delivered and the rest of the cacophonic mush is comfortable and avoiding a full on thrash out. The chorus is short and enhanced by a back wail before another bout of screwed tight guitar ensues. The overlay is strong and yet the construct hints at something not fully distended - just a little more room for some sonic nutrition I feel but, this is far from a bout of noised starvation. The gripping rhythm makes it as well as the non-too fussy construct - on we go. 'Princess Of Destruction' is a troublesome bout of schizophrenic noise with the most cluttered and corroded parts found thus far and, the most spartan and open. The individual switches in melodic mode come and go and we get left all a daze with a song that needs several rotations to fully grasp. It works and is surely a fine 'live' song to ponder. The band show they can do it noisily or with subtlety - no bad thing indeed. 'Steve Shut The Fuck Up' just drives along and is the least charismatic jaunt thus far - an unambitious number that seems to just jumble up several Officer Gotcha spices and then switch up the rapidity level and go for it. Pretty basic to be fair and just a routine rip up - but sometimes that is all that is required - I leave you wondering!

'Don't Cry For Me' has a hectic intro, cools it down and sharpens things up and then chugs via the first vocal assisted segment. There is an undercurrent of hatred within this warped loved up ditty, there seems to be several places where one expects a full on eruption as the front man struggles to keep his cool. The acoustica is emotionally alternating as and when necessary, the whole sensation is of a band trying to hide a self destructive mode with an attempted plucky fucky number - they don't do half bad.

Rat-a-tat - 4 quick ones.

'Queen Of Rugby' is a fine ditty that never looks over its shoulder and nails quite a confident number that reaches for the finish line as soon as it starts - and gets there with a crackin' melody left in its wake. 'Albert, Victor And Angel' is another saturation/evacuation episode that is drenched in suicidal overtones and wretched pondering. The twinge of the guitars are apt, the empty cuts reflective of the deliverers mental state, the pursuing spillage of frustration a matter of consequence - a well built number to feel. 'Victoria's Secret' is rapid-fire at first before adopting a ping and pogo riff and then promising a regular bout of predictable punkism. This may be very much the case but the crew do things with a convincing edge and have their own mix down to a tee. The tones are as you where, the quality level consistent - if you have struggled thus far you are fucked, if you are enjoying proceedings there is no reason to get pissed here. 'Change Your Mind' closes the quartet of swift assessment and is a heavily pulsed ditty that palpitates before becoming more jerkified. Surges come and go, the medication doesn't work, it brings about no change - usual fare - is that a bad thing?

3 left and I am cutting a dash my dear old peruser.

'Catch 22' is heavily cymbalised, is versed chuggage, is more opened out in the chorus cuts and is rounded off with a venomous holler of 'I fuckin' hate you'. A really confused piece with a mentally that is well and truly crippled just like the chasing 'Trust'. Another episode of a tortured soul who is having no trouble saying his piece. The vibe I am getting is of embryonic pop punk trying to develop into full on sugar pop sweetness but being held in check by a bitter edge and a persistent infection of the instruments. Occasionally things get lightened up but in the main there is a whole heap of venom in the mix. Both tracks compliment one another, they are representative of what Officer Gotcha do - should we complain? 'In Your Eye's' closes, begins with deep bassism, twinges with hurtful guitar, stops and starts with the usual spite, has an increase in the ambiguity between carefree and caring. The sing-a-long aspect of the chorus isn't lost and the final verbals of 'You can fuck right off' should have been expected. We get an acoustic bonus and as ever that will be for you to judge - it does offer a different option for the band, no bad thing.

LAMBINATION IV - DEADLAMB RECORDS

Proud sponsors of the SAS Tour, great believers in the Underdog cause, fine people pissing in the wind, peddlers of all the natural noise out there that more often than not gets rudely overlooked. I could add more, Deadlamb Records is the label I would point any up and coming DIY merchant towards as well as anyone who believes in punk rock purity and none of that nostalgic, big band bullshit that dilutes all credibility. Based in Athlone, Ireland I can't say enough good things about this crew and do hope this large collection of tunes isn't a bag of shite but a bonanza of many flavours from across the globe (I do suspect it will be). So in we go, familiar faces, old faces, big disgraces and of course something new - it's sounding good already. Press play now...

Do not fuck about or ponder, nail, move on, be straight!

Mongrel offer the commanding strength of 'No Gods, No Masters' a real fighting piece of rebellious refusal built on sonic structures that are punked, metallic and very fuckin' heartfelt. The band have long been a fave of mine, here they show why with ever-improved talent and venom. Officer Down immediately vary the styles with a sub-new school uproar entitled 'Bleed It Dry', a high action, high tempo, fully equipped snippet of modernistic composing that has much energy, much over-scuzzed intricacy and a superabundance of desire. Spermbirds rattle and brandish their sonic weaponry amidst a whirlpool of shouted, heavily clouted cacophony. 'Stacks And Piles' is a searing number primarily built of torn tonsils and incessant string assaults - I like it, as do all that as transpired thus far. Nomatrix are instantly recognisable and offer their Ireland based belligerence called 'The Clown Parade' with usual DIY gusto and articulation. A well structured tune with a few u-turns within the mix that keeps one intrigued. Venom is controlled, musicianship also but with reasonable danger - good work my fine set of bandits.

Next 4 and the hectic 'Crime' by German destructors Scheisse Minnelli, an abusive outburst of acoustic electricity that is as busy as fuck and totally in yer face with slam dunked effect and inserted twisted stringwork. Nicely produced and quite ornate as opposed to the intrinsically basic thrust by the fine DIY merchants known as Animal Train who deliver 'Thin Thread' with bubbling enthusiasm, new found snap and a quite convincing honesty that has gotten my vote over and over again. They go for the throat of the matter, deal with it efficiently and get the fuck out - I love this crew. Sick On The Bus are well versed and long term abusers of noise and produce here a self-proclaiming anthem entitled, funnily enough, as 'We Are Sick On The Bus'. This is a sing-a-long celebration of 'fuckless' gobbage that stings and infects the listener into primeval punky action. A nail-hammering moment from the word go with an inner dissent and utter spirit to thrash it out most blatant. Produced to get the best from a still flourishing band - massive moment!

When Alice Broke The Mirror hail from the Ukraine and come at you with a whizzing tempo that is intercut with darkly sub-gothic and fairground utterances. Known as 'Pennywise On Massacre', this song is a hidden curio I have to reflect on - the verdict always comes out as positive. Danish techno rattlers The Mighty Midgets strut their stuff in a sonic circle I don't usually find to my complete liking but, as is the norm with this fast as fuck fuckeroonies, I find myself absorbed by the brilliance of the incessant clutter that is 'Burn After Rolling'. How they do it I do not know but one thing is for sure - they do it so darn well. 30 Miles is more new school but this time in a cleaner, more processed format that has me somewhat out of step. 'Last Day Before You And Me In Amsterdam' has obvious US influences and comes across as a typical Epitath Records imitation that is done so remarkably well. Loads of stuff like this out there but not too much being released of late - well played, hygienic, very sub-genre specific - opinion may be divided - I like this stuff but only in small doses whereas the pursuing primitive DIY rawness of 2 Sick Monkeys is much more to my liking and is a basic blast from a very fine band who are built on 4 well wobbled wires and several slapped skins - oh and some scorched gobbage. The tune called 'Bullshitter' is classic 2SM puke and so wonderfully believable. Great primate shit for certain!

Arse Biscuits jump up next and rally against the 'Greedy Bastards' with an unfussy, non too complicated outburst that comes, goes, says its bit and keeps it neat and fairly routine in between - they get away with it but more would be needed on a full length offering. Italian skankage next with Carry All throwing out a cracking episode of intricate tuneage known as 'D. I. Y'. The style of ska is utter new-school and loaded with many twists and turns, much pace and numerous brass attacks to keep you drowned in a sonic shower that seems, and is, relentless. It dips into Skacorian territory but is too slick to get overly rusted - a mini pip. Social Schism pop up and belt out an abrasive he/she yell fest that is taken from their most recent recording. This one finds em' flourishing and thrashing it out at their most sanguine and spirited. 'Slave Trade' is alive, aflame, aggressive and...I fuckin' love it.

I am ploughing ahead here, 8 tracks on Side One left and then another 22 - ooh my passionate head - blown to bits by an abundance of quality noise.

Track 15 and 'Excuses' nail it with the static explosion of 'L. O. B.' a tumultuous number that is like a million flies on whizz trapped in a sound box whilst being kicked to buggery by some wound up and restless musicians. Suggestions of 'erbertised street angst are never far away - meaty indeed as is the wrist cutting brutality of 'LAPD' by the unpredictable beast that is Hostages For Smack. Right down the crack of the acoustic arse this shit-laden number reeks of under-processed noisy nutrition and is slammed down with utter conviction and roughed up rabble rousing awkwardness. The HFS crew are a band I still have to catch up with - purely my loss. Revenge Of The Psychotronic Man are a band I have known a fair while and have seen grow from a melodic outfit to a riotous riff-tearing hardcore band that go at it full tilt and barely come out on the losing side. 'Another Day' is as expected, fast, tight, rattling and fuckin' wholesome. Leather Zoo pop in next with a contrasting ditty that has numerous textures, a passionate female at the fore and some fine riff and roll merchants at the back. A soaked sound, some solidly nailed moments, a sweet inner cut where guitars and skins rise in unison - Leather Zoo have a classy streak, they exhibit it time and time again - 'Charlie' is an excellent inclusion. Back to the whizz bang mania with the Japanese 100 mile an hour jerk offs spunking up a wild sound known as 'Brain Buster' - seems apt somehow. Blazing with no holds barred this is straight from the scorched earth society who mean to go on sizzling no matter how much the temperature rises - a holocaust of riffage. Up For Nothing donate 'The Slouch' to proceedings and give a pseudo skanked start pursued by a US sounding triumph that is played really well and has a freshness borne of the late 1990's. The breaking scuttles enhance the drenched din that follows and although on the side of the hygienic I still applaud spiritedly. Ligeri 73 spill up the charged sub sensuality of 'Cani Randagi'. A quite intense number that delivers from the heart and has orthodox verses, chorus cuts that increases the intensity quite gently and some twisted guitar that sets the controlled effort alight - not a bad do at all dudes. We close side one with the brutality of 'Mental Block' by Ziplock, a literal acid bath of burning sonica that is thrashed and bashed by musical bastards who just want to cause pain. It is harsh hardcore but still retains the basic constructs of a listenable song and however raw and primitive it may sound this one is a scorching finish not to underestimate.

Phew - 22 tracks down, 22 to go - no wonder people don't do CD reviews - too much hard work their idle fat arses can't be bothered with - pity they contribute nothing else either - aagghh - get the fuck out ya parasitic twats.

And so the long home stretch - and if the going is as good has it has been thus far I shan't complain and won’t have to brandish the assessing whip - always nice to come away from a review without too many scorched arses in my wake.

Splntr open with 'Drive', a nasty piece of searing putrescence that drips forth and duly fouls the listener’s initial anticipations. Beginning with spoken gobbage and a grumbling bass the song soon dissolves into an unstable bout of furious aggression that is a one way train headed to oblivion. Wired up the wrong way, freaking out with too much tension this is a crazed opening gambit eased by the brassage that begins the fine repeater 'Hit Number One' by the Irish jiggers Liz Is Evil. A basic structure enhanced by strong tones and the aforementioned brass this is a fine number to groove along with and has a strong compacted feel as well as a 'let it loose' vein of encouragement. The class that is 'Night Of Treason' plough forward next with the excellent 'Speed And Glue And Rock 'N' Roll', a blue light bout of street honesty that punches fast and accurately with an intrinsically strict punk mode that overcoats the fact that this band have so much more to offer. A fine ditty taken from a fine album which you really need to check up on. First Time Riot are a band I have dealt with in the past and have always done the business. Now with a few new members it seems the style hasn't changed at all and 'Stand Up' is good old honest melodic punkage with an urban, drinking man's edge that adds to the conviction factor. This is a band for the wise wanderer on the cobblestone, concrete chants for the ones who want no sub-text - I love the band, I love this song.

Time to strip things down, back to the sleazy chambers were sonica is screwed all ways and coughed up as a globule of horrific filth. 'Little Miss Stakes' create sub gothika with the bleakly ornate 'Dr Frankenstein', a shambling dancer loaded that creates many ghostly shadows and perverse sub-sounds. From the tuning in, the cry of Colin Clive whom has created life, through to the finger clicking intro and then the all out grind this is sable sinisterism played in the style expected. Nowt like a chill factor. And also nowt like a reckless tear up - enter A Sudden Vengeance Waits and the cluttered clatter called 'Drag Me Down'. A travelling train along a doom laden tunnel with all sonics rattled and cavernous and all instruments clouded in plumes of freshly created steam. The driver at the helm is unhinged, happy to charge to oblivion - the playing passengers seem of the same mind - a nasty piece but worth its position on here. Rasta Knast throw stones, Rasta Knast hurl a specific brick, the brick is marvellously textured and is aimed straight between your awaiting lugs. 'Haunted House Of Sligo' is a westernised, slingback of hot roasted desire and gallops on victorious tones created by a band who certainly rise to this compiled occasion. A very triumphant tune flashed like a good un' and full of lone and unified gobbage that captures a professional essence that catapults this one right to the fore of proceedings. A new lease of life has been given.

A band I have always backed and spouted about are Obnoxious UK, a fine outfit who keep it real and very melodic albeit with a horror theme that is done so punkily well. 'Amelia' finds life in death and travels on a well groomed rhythm that contains a few subtle touches and keeps one intrigued. The song is spiced by a slight catacomb overtone and is made more approachable by a genuine DIY undercurrent. Fine chaps and a fine song to boot - check em' out people. The Senton Bombs are another band I have shot my gob off about from the early days and no matter who doubted, who shouted me down, I stood by this lot because I knew they had the potential - quite humbly I point to this sample as proof to back my loyalty. 'Do Your Job' is one of many pinnacles this rocked up, non-punk band (thank goodness) attain whilst injecting their pure identifiable sound into the sonic arena. It is no coincidence that many are now waking up and smelling the skills of this crew and I for one am happy about that - they fully deserve it. Again fine gents and fine fiddlers of their weapons (oh come on now you know what I mean). Powerful, intricate, blistering - fuckin' step outside the box and swallow some of this shit man.

Dance On Your Grave fire their 'Paper Guns' with a bitchy snarl that shakes up the nervous system and really shows when a girl wants it they can just go ahead and get it. The transformation from what seems to be just an irate number into a fuckin' rattling scream-up of furious intent, that is glamoured by pushed to the max guitar work, is a joy and this group of Malaysian melody destroyers have me more than a little interested. Very feisty and keen to create a din - note to self - seek and enjoy! Zoo Party are a quality crew who nail rhythmic ditty after rhythmic ditty and place emphasis on good old guitar licks to rock and roll their way onto your favourable side. Routine verse, superb unifying chorus - 'Another Pack Of Lies' is joyous stuff and travels straight and true with a great production that gets the best out of this quality unit. I have reviewed 2 CD's by this bunch and have thoroughly enjoyed em' both - go purchase and be prepared to pogo.

Electric Frankenstein next and the groovy ghoulie known as 'Super Kool' a stop, start, flash and surge number dripping with dirty deliveries and sub-sexed acoustic ambition. This lot know their aims, they have their chosen style mastered - the hollowed out and the utterly filled smash and grab attention - the band nail it. White Flag hail over 'Radio Free Misanthropia' and deliver a similar song to the previous track with a polished grooviness, much flamboyance and all consuming riffage. This lot roast things are little harder and certainly ram the airwaves with a superfluity of tones - try it. French crew 1984 rise with stealth before a nail gun attack leads into the absorbing melody soaked first verse where no room to breathe is had and the overwhelming wave of tonality hits hard. 'Failure' is far from such and is another soaked sonic piece this time with suggestions of Americanised acoustica and something quite street-based. The crew persist with their straight-ahead riffery and pound out in glory. Mens Rea palpitate in acute radioed style with a hive of activity that seems to be on the brink of a major collapse. 'Student Strike' fights the steering wheel, keeps on track, but only just - but the unified hollers help and perhaps just avoid a full on crash. Be interesting to see what else this crew have on offer and what their exact style is. Retro skankage with a calypso-tinkle comes via 'Wasting My Time - Radio Edit' by Malarkey. The sharp contrast between the wise ass and the more aggressive works and again I have another band who have me wondering what their exact mode of melody is - which is always ideal. When the band clatter it they rise high, when they drift with sub-generic characterisation they create befuddlement - I like that. Pop punk next and the routine but rhythmically precise and fuckin' enjoyable snap, crackle and pop of 'Rock 'N' Roll Is Great by Rock 'N' Roll Television. A sugar puff bout of carefree pleasure that is foot shuffling, arse wiggling, wide smiling unadulterated hedonism - and why not?

5 left - can these digits take it.

The Knuckle Downs nail a US intense bout of vigorous musicianship we have a few bands tackling even though they hail from the UK. The influences are obvious and the crew fuckin' take what they have and wrap it up and slam through your personal mailbox without apology. 'Fade Away' is a boomer built with hungry hands and if this lot can replicate the fire over several tracks they are surely a band to watch further. 'Flat Back Four' next and their modernistic, individual sound that is technical, carefully thought out and always delivered with such sincerity. I have a lot of time for this crew and the excellent chaps they be - they have been a reliable fave of mine for many a year - here we have evidence of why. Just get out and support em' - the foundations of the music scene and highly talented twangers they be. 'Better Days' brings in many shades of sonic expertise - I hope you aren't colour blind.

The Squintz and 'Fuck Them All' begins with a 'Sustitute-esque' riff bearing belting around and travelling along in a rough house, belligerent way with a footy chant influence and big booted weight - back of the fuckin' net gents. Decline haze it over with the drawling 'Concrete' a real flavoursome western-esque episode that captures obvious influences and throws em' right back at ya. I can think of a few similar bands but that shouldn't detract from the steady talent on show here - not necessarily my thing but by heck it is a good do. The closure to the whole 44 tracks is entitled 'Some Saskatchewan Song' by Cricket, an oddity that bumbles on bass, slow sneaks in the back door and carefully does its stealthy thing. This isn't what one would deem as a punk track, why should it be, it is a ditty played with slow perseverance and tidy rhythm - an unexpected way too end but quite delightful anyhow.

That is it, I am whacked, whipped, worn out. This is a corking 44 tracker, it is as cheap as chips, I love it and the ethos behind it - if you still ain't interested then just fuckin' forget it!

SPITUNE - 01

I always knew Gary Eagling (Eagle Spits) was having a breakdown - here is 100% proof (and I still love him). The eternal twiddler and tweaker of tones this restless 'erbert will fly in at ya from all sorts of unexpected angles and so duly upset many a punk with drilled in rules and regulations and certain standards that really are a load of whole 'scenester created' bollocks. Fuck off, here we go.

'Faceless Killer's' is plodding irritation designed to horrify, to provoke thought, to grind out a response. Eagle has problems with this world and wanders down a self-created hollow tube of resonant questioning where, as he already knows, he will never get any answers. The words fall forth from seemingly defeated lips, the urban tools of tone are played with submissive weariness, the whole drift seems to go on forever - reflective of the misery and suffering on this orb of idiocy. Don't ever think this is music because this is deviant tonal experimentation outside of anything melodic and destined to really fuck off many a spiky top and beyond. The rhetoric is fine, the lack of variation is overwhelming - I get it and I don't, I like it and I hate it - I think the bastard as had me as he knew he would. 'Badgers And The Disabled' is submerged ranting in a controlled style with words coming by the bucketload and mashing our heads with individual frustration spilling over. Again a non-musical bout of wayward anarchism - non-rules without rules and therefore duly free and off the cuff. Almost ad-libbed and I suspect each time this is played the content is different. The gripe I have is the running time and the general persistence of one long vibe - I do wonder what that fine gent Eagle is up to sometimes but am no fool and recognise a true punk spirit refusing to be strait-jacketed by others idiot traditions. Again I can see the stance, witness the worry of a troubled soul and as a piece of art can grasp the meaning but as a musical offering - no comment (which is saying more than a bundle of words).

'Causalities Of War' is a dearth, a death laden passing between this life and the next that hovers in limbo and states things how they were, and are, perceived. It is more of the same and the vocals are too dumbed down to have an impact. I take a break now before my head melts - and here's me thinking you liked me Mr Eagle.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz, fart, belch, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz - ring, ring - get up Fungal ye twat - noises to assess sir!

Next up and 'DV And Friend' scientifically pulsates like a robotic respiratory disease full of asthmatic constrictions. Eagle mumbles away like a sinister propaganda machine whilst the targeted mind goes about its business seemingly unaware - but not quite. This one reminds me of a governmental hypnosis that would be played whilst one goes about ones everyday tasks - a background fuzz that permeates the sparse innocence and plentiful gullibility within your soul - quite scary in fact. 'Empires Fall' sidles inwards, no change of pace whatsoever, the usual steady scrawl across the whitewashed walls of silence but this time totally immersed in a slowly swirling liquid - a bridge too far, we topple into indifference because we are getting too much of the same - I don't like this one at all, a dreary affair - I get my assessing parachute and jump - it is needed before a major crash of a talent takes place.

The last 3 are entitled 'Mustaloid Menace', 'Never Mind' and 'Poteims', the first being an explicit example of more warped womb music if you ask me, a womb filled with cannabanoid fumes and foul liquid where a sailor floats alone and says his piece - hoping for the day when the uterus sucks and he becomes no more - victim to the lower vaults of vaginal nothingness - well that's how I am reading this. The second is dumbed down tribalism that never kicks up a war dance - what a mistake? The third instalment of the latter end trio is troubled, constipated art convulsing with too many thoughts of decadence jumbled into a hellish dreamscape where our liberality and morals are questioned. There are many interesting thoughts here but that darned sound squish is aggravating - bastard.

I am outta here...

For me personally this CD is purely about experimentation and unfortunately detracts from a chap with much relevance and many wise words to spill. It is our loss I feel but I am glad that I have been allowed to check out one of the many directions this wayward Eagle will tend to fly if not fully reined in (and there ain't much chance of that). The whole escapade could have been better with intercuts of pure vocal violence and surging bomb attacks similar to something 'Negativeland' would have done - this time its a no, no my friend and I await the follow up where I can say 'yes, yes'. One must be honest or the purity of respect is fucked - like in most instances anyway - blah!