A-M-I - ANTI-MEATHEAD

A new band, a bloody young band, a band looking to be the future of punk rock - by heck what a task! There are connections here, you should know about them but I will leave it at that, these things hold no sway or influence and I shall not patronise these buggers by giving them a sweet review due to the said attachments, floating propaganda and lack of years on the clock of ages. It is music, to help one has to be honest and judge it as part of the whole rather than as part of a favoured niche, the upshot being that a reviewer can never have many friends, will always be on the outside looking in - sorry chaps and this Fungal can, and is determined to, do it only the truthful way. One thing though, if its grand it will be praised, if its shite it will be constructively criticised, if its average it will be stated as such - hold yer scrotums, tense yer buttocks, the myco man's assessment goes a something like this.

The first cacophony to be confronted by goes by the basic name of 'Stuff', an effort that begins with a neat rhythmic push before stripping down to the acoustic waist and keeping things minimal. During the first exposure of the chorus the song gets down to its duds before scrubbing down and showcasing a little more of the 'ooomph' factor. We eventually progress to a flashy guitar sequence, a string shudder and final holler out that is a repeater beater accompanied by that taut guitar work - the song gradually fades, not bad at all. A synthoid rotor turns, hypnotises, gets joined by radioed mouth work before ill temper bursts from the chests of the rocking protagonists and only then does the song bear raucous wings and truly flies. A spite filled number, an underscore of youthful angst, a grinding sludge that is constantly whipped along by the bands determined spirit. 'Billy No Mates' is a nagging whelp that goes on but has a good spunkiness about it and a fair fiery underbelly. A blip during the verses where an uncomfortable stagger niggles this listener but other than that, decent enough.

'Implode' counterpunches with saturated bursts and more hollowed out moments thus creating a two-faced twat of tuneage that maintains intrigue. The band come into their own at this point with both countenances of tuneage portrayed well and giving the band numerous options and exhibiting the fact the crew are happy to push themselves and not stay safe with easy 3 chord upchucks that do little to flex musicians muscles. I like this one a lot, the clout within the tuneage when the band rip it up, the overall tight delivery and the thirst to unload their personal disgruntlement appeals - it has an incendiary feel, it has much vitality - rum buggers! 'The Beach' shakes its arse, kicks up the sand, strolls with subdued steps, adopts a style similar to its predecessor but is less certain, less clear, the sonic sun is hindered by versed clouds that just miss the target. The chorus cutlets are simple but effective but the spoken moody segments just need that extra preparation - lacking a touch of emotive iciness, just falling short of the atmospheric levels - shame. I can see where the attempt was destined to be but from my humble and fungalised perspective I feel this one just strays from that end bulls-eye.

Up steps 'Meathead' next, a sinister swine with its snout snuffling along and spraying shit this way and that. The stringwork is scuzzy, the unified hollers highly rewarding, the orchestration of the song pleasingly applaud able and with another overlay of guitar work doing the chanted explosions this could have been an ear-bleeding burst. I shouldn't complain though, perhaps the most basic song of the lot but one of the most butt kicking numbers that reverberates around the assessing buttocks - ooh mother! 'R. A. T. S.' has a grim approach, ploughs out a harder edge with an encrusting filth within the machinations of the outpouring that gradually festers and adds to the relentless disease. The band have their heads down here, hit some tidy riffs, chop up the waters with many excitable shifts and spasmodic twitches. The roars come, the H/C influences pour in, testicles of tonality are hung out, waggled and backed up with a 'fuck off and have it' attitude - there ain't nowt wrong with that chaps. 'Worm' next, ok I hate the intro, it deflects from the gist of the song, the exposure of frauds. When the band go for it the effect is far weightier, more worthy of your attention but the chorus is an empty inclusion, void of any 'ooomph' and so deflates my end verdict of a ditty I just don't like. We close with 'Svengali' a turf kicking rumble that points a finger at the poser punks, is it meant or not? The attitude is we'll be who we wanna be which is all we can ask of anyone but after years of prodding and poking in this melodic mush I can guarantee there ain't many who are holding up to the grade of 'genuine'. Sorry to smash your illusions lads. Anyway, the song is a routine burst with well versed wordage but the dudes keep it all in check and create a tidy effort. Not my personal fave but nothing to handle too roughly - the promise is there.

So A-M-I have been examined, listened to and judged on who they are, what they throw out and their potential. Not bad in truth but still work to be done and I feel personally, they just need to make that collision between the surging moments and the prominent switched off moments more powerful, more definite. You get two bonus tracks which are single versions of 'Meathead' and 'Billy No Mates' which shows the bands can alter the approach and have their own flavour to work with - interesting. If the band keep motivated, avoid all the clap trap and kudos cock shit then this could be an interesting journey but if they get suck into the circle were false praise is dished out, ego is at the helm and people aren't sincere in their advice then the buggers are doomed - be warned, Fungal is upfront, straight and on yer side. 

CITY SAINTS - KICKING ASS FOR THE WORKING CLASS

'Kicking ass for the working class' is not only the title here but is indeed this bands motto - you can see what is coming can't you? This Swedish outfit have intent though and try and avoid the clichéd route the motto suggests. There is some serious experience within the crew with ex-members of Perkele, Aggressive and Rickshaw all throwing in their money's worth and contributing to an end sound that is...well, that would be telling wouldn't it. The best way to see what the City Saints are about and what this CD brings to the overburdened table is to read on, makes sense don't ya think?

The first foot to fly through the door and make a wholesome racket is 'Gonna Ball', a song that throws me immediately off balance with its mid 70's rock and roll rawness and pub rock honesty. I expected a bout of tattooed Oi done in the most obvious way but instead I get this, what a nice surprise! The underfed lowdown groove is startlingly effective and the vocal style is suitably apt with the song insisting you get up and join in and, most of all, do it with a smile on yer mug. The song believes in itself and progresses from a spit and sawdust pip to a swine with big arena ambition - a firm commencement that leaves me slightly impressed. The title track next, 'Kicking Ass For The Working Class' a chassis of a song trundling along on ramshackle rhythm that has much earthy clutter and clatter with the front guy adding the fuel with his hard perspired tonsil tear outs. The bass and guitar are kept abrasive and tonally minimal with the drums doing the basics and keeping the old engine turning over. The charm and greatest asset of this song is indeed the stripped down approachability and I am just hoping it continues throughout.

'Rude Boy Rock 'n' Roll' slightly ups the ante with a pacier delivery (it seems) with the attracting vibe combining with the street sound and creating a good old flavour to taste. Enough power in the punch, ample simplicity with the rhythm, certainly enough pick up and play accent within the whole concoction and the introduction of yet more clichéd solo snips and the switched out moment that has the old harmonica making its presence felt is choice - good work thus far. 'Slippery Joe' is more good time feel with the weekend release desired, the need for party time shenanigans thirsted for. Don't read anything more into this, it is quite simply a sup and celebrate moment without frills. 'This Is My Life' ascends from a stripped out, tinnily strummed opening through to an expulsion that drips with laid back infection readymade for the drunks in the pit who need to take their sweaty feet off the pogoing gas and just have time to slurp and sing. Not the most thrilling song, a sing-a-long moment to embrace and played as easy as be. You know the score I am sure.

5 rapido bursts to evade a 'getting on yer tits' disaster! 'Fired Up' has more old school pub rock rawness and scarcity of flamboyance but just captures enough of a polished rock and roll honesty to make it thoroughly enjoyable. Thoughts ponder a Hotrods-esque creation with a guitar lick just past the midway section distinctly familiar and a real test for your noisy knowledge banks. A Sham and Pistol hybrid begins the next one with the Oi-esque crawl unexpected, especially with its snagging lilt that once more begs for all to join in. 'Flame of Fire' is an odd creation with numerous familiar touches but with a greasy vibe that can't be caught and pigeonholed. 'Strong And Proud' is almost Chas and Dave meet Mr Muscle with its old Cocksparrer undertones and backstreet boozer earthiness. The whole package is there to raise the glasses and spirits to and comes across as a likeable, rough and ready shindig with a mean tint in the overall sonic shadings. I like this one. 'Living Hell' shimmers, pounds, breathes through torn lungs and moves with clobberin' time desire that turns the whole direction of the CD around. These guys have many options and it is nice to see them prod and poke with pace alterations within that lo-fi sound. We cut a dash and sprint through the song and head into the arms of the final effort  of this mad dash quintet. 'Our Town' is more of the same, this time etched with homely favour, scrawled with the same approachable vibe and welcoming openness. A pipe is blown, texture is enhanced, it all gets a bit soppy for me, that bleary eyed, end of the night slushiness - I am too old and too irate to get sucked in - ye all have a good time now.

2 left before the final verdict - I need a big alteration of noise. 'City Saints' has another well drilled opening with the head of the motor pumping in the most obvious style before cutting out, recharging and chugging along with the usual City Saints groove. Here, the production loses more grip on the handlebars of impact and the end colliding result is of a song not doing as much damage as it should. It is well ground out, pushed hard but with an extra layer of stringwork and that gob given more boost it could really have kicked yer arse. Finally we have, 'Sick Society' the most naked song of the lot and one that really travels furthest back and plucks and fucks out a toon that flashes deep blown blue, hums with harvested homage to sub-generic circles normally outside this box and glints with highlighting blacks and whites that create outside contrast and inside clarity. A cute way to fuck off and leaves us with the aftertaste.

The good is that this CD is consistent, has some right old dancing ditties and retains its blatant street cred whereas the bad is that the similarity between songs is a little to repetitive and the production doesn't emphasise the output enough. The ugly is the fact that this band are primarily overlooked by many listeners in this crooked scene - I hope this up-front review provokes your interest because believe me, despite the truthful criticisms I have, this ain't a bad do at all.

HOOLIGAN - CRIMINAL DAMAGE EP

Another review for the Hooligan lads who are gradually turning things up a notch led by that fine, honest and determined gent David Linehan. There is now a thirst within the crew, a desire to dig in heels, kick some shit and to produce some bold and sinewy tuneage with that extra helping of class. As the curve turns upwards so do my greedy and persuasive expectations, can they meet my demands once more? We get 4 tracks here and I feel that is enough, these EP titbit tasters are not to be underestimated and in my personal opinion, after reviewing over 900 CD's (at this point in time), they do seem to make the biggest impact if done to exactness and with the mix well thought through. So here we go, I am expecting a big deal here (forgive me oh passionate players).

'Criminal Damage' opens, is played to the full and leaves my jaw right on the fuckin' ground. I desired the band to move up a gear or two but this is a marvellous moment to admire. Obvious influences are poured in, be they directly through the bands experience or via their favoured flavours but that is, for me, by the by, because Hooligan rubber stamp this opening burst with their own character, their own new found belief. 'Street Punk Heroes' is a fine upstanding chant but really overdoes the Upstarts strain and is almost a slam-dunk doppelganger from back in the day when the AU squad were finding new highs. Overlooking this criticism this is highly enjoyable noise with good clear vocals, a fine drilled and tight assed efficiency and an immediately pick up and play catchiness you will not fail to get snagged by. It is a simplistic affair made into something beyond its status by neat intricacy and exact adherence to well versed insight that will serve the crew oh so well in their career. The closure is more mimicry and I wonder if I am missing the point of a quite deliberate homage here - apologies if that be the case, no apologies for the honesty though. 'Bastards' cymbally scurries before being kicked about by triple 9 guitar work. Things become coruscated, the front man hollers amid the din and leads us through a stated verse to a chorus that swings hard, rises on a fair wave and rants away with defiance, encouragement and belief. The sonic saturation levels rise higher, the perspired spillage needs a little patience but soon proves itself to be a well versed thoroughbred running on untamed hooves that kick feisty dirt up into yer mug. You have been warned.

We fuck off, with the greatly titled burst of 'Keep The Faith', an upchuck of sonica that has a brief hint of 'Kids On The Street' drums and then adopts a 'What's My Name' riff that is glaringly obvious and should be pointed out but shouldn't detract from what a fuckin' fine track this is. The blend of the main three components of verse, riffage and all consuming chorus is sublime and for me this, and the opening track, are the marvellous cacophonic kernel of a sweet double nut to savour and then swallow. I saw Hooligan, was let down but did indeed keep the faith because I was darn sure something extra was there. Many just moaned and walked, I pride myself on sticking with things, trying to give solid advice and hopefully squeezing buggers onto better moves. This is fuckin' wonderful noise and I would just like to emphasise that you should never give up on some bastards too soon. Thank you chaps.

I love this 4 tracker, it has just enough essences of old and new, highlights the quality of the band and brings much promise for the future. Lads you have the baton, ye are building up a good head of steam - now fuckin' run like buggery, keep chasing the mistress of quality and know that Fungal is hot on yer heels kickin' yer arses (in the most polite and well meaning way). Passionate punters - sniff this one out, if you feel it stinks I apologise, if you love it then I thank thee - just spread the word.

PETE BENTHAM AND THE DINNER LADIES - I LOVE HERE

I have seen this lot once, well I was in the room while they played their stuff right in front of me - the problem was that I was smashed on QC Sherry and really couldn't focus both optically and aurally. Since then, I have heard many toons, that alcohol induced dip was sincerely my loss - this lot sound good - twats. They play their own thing, a sound they describe as 'primitive rock and roll', and as we move through the cacophonies the in-built quirkiness and none-too-serious edge comes to the fore and we find ourselves getting more and more comfortable with the vibe. So all things look promising, this should be a routine pat on the back but...never count yer chickens until they hatch and when they do, always be prepared to pluck and fuck with honesty!

First up and that artistic scrawler, chess player and textual twiddler 'Marcel Duchamp' is given a going over with a low-fi rant and chant escapade that has a 1950's TV flicker, a ranked radio essence, a scratched and scathed surface. The opening rock and roll rumble is promising, the potential is tapped with a simple 'set up and play' ditty that delivers a groovy vibe as well as a suggestion of not following the crowd and keeping yourself open and alert to new challenging aspects. The song avoids confidence tricks, shrugs away any fake overlays and instead creates its own magical appeal by being very earthy, approachable and unfrilled - a quite appetising start to this anticipated silver circle of sound.  'Can A Boy Be A Dinner Lady' poses obvious questions about sexism, prejudice and all that dated nonsense but does it in a cute and clever way with a fun thread had and woven throughout the whole song. The entire drive of the song concerns throwing away those labels, to strive for difference and to have a good time whilst doing so - preferably to the beat of this tidy tune. He and she vocals crossover, copulate and give birth to a brassed up swing of chorused delight - a real snazzy segment to get yer breeches hooked upon and where ye can dance away, bare assed and without worry. The slapped intro, the swinging chase, the cold and stated male gob work, the sweet lilt of the lasses throat warbles and that crucial simplicity make this another fine song to enjoy. 'A New Way Of Living' is a dreaming song, one that yearns for a semi-Utopia where the power of the people rises to the fore and the masses have a better deal all round. A leisurely approach is adopted, the band are in no rush to deliver this commune-like ditty. The message is to refuse the abuse, to take things into your hands, to claim the rights of the common people. A good camp-fire sing-a-long number to create unified comfort and all for one spirit. The waltz is smoothly poured onto our laps and we should soak it up with good appreciation.

Onto the next one, a feistier number designated with the name of 'Dead's Not Punk', a thinking reversal, a piss in the face of the ones who think it’s all about rot and roll and being a wreckhead with a ticket in the hand to ultimate punkish oblivion. Glassy guitar shatters, forthright wordage, a brassed finger up the overall tuned jacksie and this one gets on with proceedings - I like the fact that it spouts about the goodness found in veg and that the age old saying concerning the apple is thrown into the mix - now if anything, that is punk - angular twats. 'Don't Listen To The Government' is as it says on the tin, done against a tune that is dictated by idled drum tumbles, assisted by westernised blued guitar twinges and casually mumbled in a cold hypnotic tone. An almost timid female utterance is added which creates balance and the song moves along in creeping caterpillar determination. The band gradually rise on a steady curve but then slide back down to the initial crawl - not bad but not my favourite - I like it when the band add more spunk (take that any way you will - which could be just what the band say before they deliver their more semen soaked packages - sorry, I just can't help myself).

Talking of white rain, the production of love liquid, the splash of sonic seeds - 'Bangin' On A Plank' could well be a song about masturbation (remember Worm and their ditty 'Yank Yer Plank') but is more concerned with repetition, the inability it seems, to make any progress. It is a woodpecking moment that perseveres and hammers away without much distraction. The skanky serpentine wind up, the clear cut components that are posted our way with subtle accuracy and the overall sugar sweet indulgences by that fresh female all make for an unadorned, trouble-free listen - it will do for me. 'I Spy For The DIY' has countrified canoodlings going on before sobered statements come and take us down an avenue of questioning awkwardness. The support goes in favour for the get up and do it style, the mode that avoids selling out like many worshipped wankers who devalue their beliefs and make a mockery of the scene. Many pay no heed, their Gods seem untouchable - fuckin' wake up will ya. The toon is by the by here as the ethos turns me on no end but as a sideline may I just add it ain't a bad old effort, albeit once more intrinsically basic and to the point. 'Workin' For The Man' is almost a line-dancing bout of jig-a-long insanity, a real quirky affair that creates visions of gooned buffoons shuffling in unison whilst their crossed eyes stare vacantly ahead and their toothless mouths chew on a strand of maize. This one has me reaching for the Fungal adjust button and takes me to a level outside my appreciated and ever-expanding zone. Decrying the working game and the drain it has in exchange for a pocketful of coins is what I pick up from the song and I find it quite cute that this somewhat punked theme has such an opposing tune. I prefer other songs but I can easily sit and smile to this and take in the fine old wordage - why not?

'F***' is a quicker tune that has unexpected foul mouthed spillages and bundles of scuffed lo-fi retro rhythmology and sincere advice on watching your step with the faceless fiddlers out there on the web waves.  A jittery tune filled with unsatiated zest, it has that restless undercurrent that agitates, keeps one listening and on the precipice. Despite being a nervous noodle of noise it has a comforting charm with its unaffected moves and that for me is something very precious and what the band need to hold on to. Last offering, (boo, hiss, we want our money back) - 'Motorway Song' is a crawling cruise that makes slow headway with its low gear trundle and happy hippy drop out minimalism. Escapism pours from the pores, advertising pressures are pondered, the lidded cadence is certain, angel delight fluffy, somewhat pastel in tone - a queer way to drift off into the sunset, goodbye sweet serenaders.

You get a bonus song, you know the script by now and in keeping with the theme - do it your-fuckin' self. I like this CD and have the band lined up for another viewing. Now depending I can control the pop swilling and pay full heed of the acoustic offering I expect a good old presentation of darn decent music - get this CD, go see the band and let us compare notes - this is punk, it isn't punk and who really cares?

PS.  Since finishing this review I have caught up with the band – wow, just fuckin’ wow - and if you want you can read my humble gushings in the review section of this site.

COLIN'S GODSON - AT THE SPEED OF SOUND

Comic strip pop of the most believable kind with many soothing sounds and atmospheric aromas coming this way with the CG crew forever on their toes and keeping things most entertaining.  Each chapter of tuneage they have released thus far has been an enthralling journey and I am just hoping this next outing is just as captivating. The book unfolds musical page by musical page and we are taken on a purely escapist trip without thought of kudos and in-scene tick boxing which is, utterly and totally, more punk than a lot of stuff I plough through. I love this unit, I would hate to be confronted with a bland episode of noise that throws me off kilter - it does happen, the curse of the fan and reviewer I am afraid. Anyway enough of the unfounded worries, let us see what we have on our trembling mitts?

Ignition switch, sonic movement, we are tossed on a feather into ‘Negative Space’, a preparatory intro done with the most delicate of touches, is this a teaser of what is to come or a Ruddy Herring that will lead us into murky waters downstream? I know not but what I do know is that I have ‘Greater Expectations’ and so, it seems, do the band. This second snippet of aerated pop foam is a virgin cloud floating by on a breeze that is loaded with resignation yet, I feel, an underflow of hope borne from the comforting pulse of the synth, the promising lilt of the vocals, the consuming wonder that is delivered via the quite sweet tune. This is the CG Crew soaring without tension, utterly relaxed and oozing an unassuming fragility, with a certain vulnerability that makes you want to reach out and embrace the whole creation. It is a short and marvellous extract from an ever growing catalogue of fine compositions that I am happy to browse through at my casual leisure. ‘Instagrammed’ comes on more encouraging sub sighs, tonsil induced highs before treading on wafer thin notes that undulate with climbing and well developed thermals borne at the hands of these proficient artistes. The pang within the nucleus of the crooner is blatant, the dreary overtones nicely sugared and so enhancing the appeal factor for those not well versed in this mode of melody. The tinkle twinkles, the babbling river of bass, the sunny glimpses behind the clouded lyrics make this another unintrusive listen – luscious stuff.

‘Ghosthunting’ billows in the greying net curtains with shadowed whispers that exhale misted clouds of bewildered breath. The band open with a sub-flourish followed by a wire wobble before levitating themselves and duly self gliding around the inner rooms of their own languid, yet perceptive emotions. Another lovely spillage that, if one tunes right in, has more honest grandiosity, than given credit for. I like this lot tha’ knows – does it show? ‘Lovestung’ is indeed in that helpless state, infected by the adoration bee’s poison, pricked in the ticker by the stinger of the buzzing sensation giver. The band unload their fever with a consistent swirl that invigorates images of the sun-kissed natural world where one can find solace when one is alone, seemingly lost and in need of a desired loved one. This is fairy dust magic, life-affirming escapism that may in fact be a paradox but somehow still rings genuinely true – we border on the art of short, sweet perfection.

I hitch up my breeches for fear of getting carried away, stay sober young man, stay bloody well sober!

‘Orange Wednesday’ is fond memories rekindled of yet more love soaked intention. The cascade of tender expressive rain is awash with strained anxiety and a thread of poignant passion which undoubtedly wins over the eyes and ears of the beholder. Gracious and amiable are two words that bound to the fore of the mental matter, they seem apt and yet there is much more that can be said – here I shall leave it to you, what do you think? A pulsing ‘Interlude’ and then to greet the closure is the finely titled ‘Beautiful Mediocrity’, a stunning number that has no illusions. It takes all the rusted and dusted blandness in its stride, is acceptant of the indifference out there, realises that the acoustic urine sprayed into the wind is all blown back with little praise and attention involved – it is indeed a shit old melodic world. For the sheer hell of it I would like to pile on the depressing dung and nail this a complete tuneless turd but alas it isn’t and maybe, just maybe mind you, this is my favourite track of the lot.

I leave the review, so long for now, I have a broad grin on my ever-concerned boat race, please take this advice given in the most friendly way – do not miss out on the compositions of this very gratifying band – they really are too good to overlook.

CHEETAH CHROME - SOLO

An escapee from the Rocket from the Tomb, a survivor of the one and only Dead Boys and still plugging away at the noxious noise this mature bugger is back with a 7 track tickle of acoustic persuasion. The dude claims to have ambitions of playing right up until the day 'he kicks it' and that shows enough passion and belief to void any argument I could put his way. The question is, will this awkward Fungal Fucker find favour or fault within the sonic spillages, will the assessing pecker stand proud or shrivel in disgust within the underpants of honesty and so bring many a frown on my views?  Only one way to find out, you know the script, get yer reading glasses own and scrutinise!

We open with an instrumental burst that is a fuckin' unadulterated gem, a real keyed up curiosity that weaves around the colourful spectrum and blends in the most appealing shades with natural ease. The upbeat textures, the continuous wrap-around flow gives me visions of an ocean of sonic freedom with discordant dolphins racing by, full of life, invigorating the scene with their inner joy and 'at one' peace. The whole rhythm, the unified tempo and the end productive mix make a pleasurable gateway to the chasing six pack of cacophony. I look forward to the next donation with anticipation at level 'idiot' - nowt new there then. 'Sharky' jumps into the lucid waters, cuts its own liquid pathway, this time with heart searching strain and skin shredding focus. Fragile shimmers from a lonesome guitar are soon escorted by regimented skin work and other wired touches. The initial utterances from the well drilled gob is of a very easy, sincere and professional standard with a slight smokiness and whiskey scorched tint being most prominent. The wonderful strolling nature of the song is precise and the emboldening vocals and gentle rise towards the latter end works a treat. Do not underestimate what is going on here, westernised and self investigating with a care in the construction but containing a sub-off the cuff approach that upholds the reality.  Interesting indeed.

'Rollin' Voodoo' begins with an unsettled bass grumble, is joined by an apache wardance rumble and a westernised guitar shimmer. We cross the plains and become more urbanised with sub-radioed gob work stating the case rather than singing. The lungs are opened out, the result is more pleasurable even though this is a crawling moment full of thoughtful indulgence and patient pulsations. Not the most liquid track, perhaps a little too roasted and the inner guitar sequence, although well played, is a bit to Americanised for this pernickety shit. We resume the initial flow after the 6 strung exhibition with a rattlesnake shake continuing and adding to the sinister sensation - it is what it is but isn't necessarily entwining its slow serpentine form around my side of favour - hey ho. 'Stare Into The Night' opens with sanguine positivity, moves through a deliciously laid back verse with Chrome in a supreme comfort zone and thriving in the noise made. Each move is flushed with desire and belief and comes across with a pure conviction as well as many facets of joy. Cool dude affect flows through the gaping veins, the drums develop and do themselves proud via a zest and zing within the strings that comb along the beach of sound and remove any hindering residue thus making for a pleasant sonic stroll. Crisp, infecting and alive as is the chasing 'No Credit', a ditty that blooms brightly despite the desperation of the situation. Smooth running rhythms, feisty vocals with full control the order of the day, a sharp shootin' tinge is apparent throughout as the search for a fix goes on. The application of the noise is in keepin' with the torn up emotions that have a griping need that must be satiated and this song leaves me in no doubt that the CC dude has many angles to come in at and many spices to toss into the general dish of discordance. 'Nuthin' is more prepared, more careful in its approach and moves with slow creeping steps loaded with physical hesitancy but soon gains a certain degree of loquacity and relieving verbal rhythm. A tale etched with a 'lived in' theme and tattooed throughout with an abandoned outlook that seems almost to have given up. The acceptance of fate, the more paused moments and the inkling of 'what the hell' make this another sonic saga to roll along with and appreciate a song that is borne from the tonsils of a worn warrior looking for answers.  It has strong sinew that holds the musical muscle to the bone, helps keep things lifting and fighting - join in the war.

We close with 'Love Song To Death', more delicacy, more stubborn output that gets to where it wants to be. A loved up man turned sour, a soul haunted melody, another bout of introspective searching with conclusions sought in an ever confounding miasma of external trouble. The man at the helm is scarred, he has his own personal baggage but he ploughs away, furrows that brow and applies himself to the sub-acoustic task at hand. This may not be the swiftest blast of noise you will ever hear but it doesn't have to be because it reeks of sincerity and factual persuasive words. Good work Cheetah.

7 tracks, 7 reviews, I hope in the main I have encouraged you to check out the tinkerings of this dogmatic artiste who refuses to lie down and fuck it. There is an erudite undercurrent apparent with a life exposed in small snippets of orchestrated noise that really have more depth than many will give credit for. For me Mr Chrome must keep on, plug in and play and fuck all scenes and remain unblemished by external bilge. It is a shit life, sometimes we hear someone who realises this and helps us cling on to the good points and deal with the dross - this is the feeling I get here, it gives me aid and, with complete sincerity, I hope it helps you too.

HUNG LIKE HANRATTY - HUMAN PIG

Shock schlock treatment here given via brandished bare wires that will electrocute many into a stance of protest and unsettled anger. The band under the spotlight hail from Sutton-in-Ashfield and state quite clearly that they are a punk band, nothing more, nothing less - boo, hiss - I want more. Now prior to reviewing this CD I had heard vibes that the band were getting a bit of stick in the scene for daring to touch various touchy subjects, to tread on boundaries and to be utterly forthright in their approach, my response is as thus:- what the fuck do ya want punk, what are your desires and if you don't like it do a review yourself. This is an open arena, we will never like everything, get over it. I take each CD as it comes, have seen much stuff of this ilk over the years and remain free of the shackles many bastards will tie you down with and the ropey rumours they spread like shit stained butter. Hung Like Hanratty don't try to be anything clever, make many pertinent points about this life around us and do not wrap their words in cotton wool for fear of alienating anyone - get the drift!

So the first bursting boil to spray its noxious pus all over your squeaky clean lap and question your misdirected ethics is cursed with the title 'The Ghost Of Jimmy Saville', a veritable poisonous bout of head crippled vomit that is peppered with fuelled energy and a desire to get into the pores of your goose-bumped flesh and...infect. The shell-suited twat who forever had his digits on a cigar or a scrotum gets further humiliation via a song that plays its cards without care but nevertheless knows only to well what hand it holds. A well composed song with gutter brush lyrics, a fine spleen vented and a snagging catchphrase of 'How's about then'. The construct, takes aim, fires and rattles the arse - is that the intent, I think so! 'Clean Up Your Dogshit' is a pertinent song we can all relate to with the turded wordage hitting a point that leaves anyone with a sense of communal decency agreeing with. Those idle fucks who have a pet and then let it crap here, there and everywhere need the foul excrement rubbing in their eyes.  I can feel my angst rising as I listen to this demanding song – oh man. A pulse, cymbal skip, a controlled verse before the irate overspill comes with the message loud and clear. I like this, it deals with a point in no uncertain terms, it takes no prisoners and has a belly full of tuned tapeworms to poison the canine owners with, as well as your good selves (for spite). 

'Scrap Metal' is rag and bone tossology with an unfussy tale of the sub-refuse collectors cum human vultures who collect yer old iron and make the best of it. A whizzed up cockney pub shindig this, where beer is swilled, fags smoked, smiles come in bundles and the jigging knobbly knees go at it like a whizzed up grasshoppers. Homage is paid to the heroes of Oil Drum Lane and you can almost envision that 'dirty old man' spitting out his worn and wanked teeth and having a piece of this - dust driven basics that are sometimes very much needed. 'Overdose And Die' is one up the rear for the do-gooders and the ones who are bombed out of their thieving useless skulls and contribute nothing to society. We are all well versed in the hazards of hard drugs, we all know what the outcome will be - so if ya dabble and take the risks don't bitch about it. That is the message behind this intolerant attack and for me, if the scene has any bollocks left, it is a veritable necessity of this noisy pit to be sometimes outspoken. We all have views, agree, disagree - get over it and make yer point as loud as you can. Hung Like Hanratty certainly do that and steamroller any dispute coming their way. The opening guitar threat is brandished before the expected explosion comes with the ripped tonsils spitting the disgruntlement across and leaving no note of apology. The band believe society would be a better place without the smackhead scum, arguments on a postcard to...! Like it or not, the song sticks in the noggin like a turnip up yer ring (so I am led to believe).

'Danny the Tranny' will undoubtedly jump on the lower digits of the self appointed politicians who claim to be correct and will most assuredly upset those liberated enough to have no bag with whatever your sexuality and fetishes. My personal view is that if ya wanna do it, cause no one no harm, and don't fuckin' flaunt it then just shut up and get on with it. This lot have a little more to say about it and nail a noise laden with unsettled and foul-mouthed invective. The opening is gentle, puts its fingers in the mucky fanny pie before unleashing a full on attack towards a cock-swapping chap known as Danny. I like this one even though the crudity is moronic and the lyrics have that Carry On predictability - the song is once more snagging and you can either be all high and mighty and walk away or relax and boogie on down to a spiteful burst of sonic shittery. 'The Devil Went Down To Wetherspoons' is hot on the heels, rambles its guts, whinges and twinges before stop starting the strings whilst drums bounce in parade ground routine and the gob gets off with a story of trying to drink with the devil to save yer hopeless ass. Nice to get away from the toilet-based tomfoolery and just rock it with whilst Lucifer nudges your nether regions with his todge tickling trident. A decent do that will surely not offend anyone. Next up and 'A Very Quick Song' is given a very quick review - pointless.

'Mr Cabbage' is perhaps the most offensive song of the lot with its seeming scathing prod at someone with a mental defect, an unintelligent being on the outside and there to be laughed it. Unfair and on the wrong side of the Fungal ethics but hey, the music is dandy with good impetus. My gripe is basically that mental health has a lot of dumbed down propaganda out there even if the causal agent is physical but more so if it is a sincere head problem - outpourings like this will not help despite the ones who will say it is just a bit of fun. But, this pit is a free for all and the band deliver what they do full of passion and spirit and if you overlook the morality then have it, pogo and smile - better than moping all day and getting overly serious I suppose. 'Nowhere To Park' is an expulsion of ruddy faced frustration with a situation all drivers will get irate with. One road, so many spaces, too many cars - the result, foul words, head in a self inflicted spin, no solution to an ever growing problem. This vented spleen is bog basic, keeps re-upchucking the title and hammers home its point with relentless energy - a short lived joy that ends with a Travolta based scrawl. Another annoying aspect of life is those pesky street walkers who are loaded with tickets to test your temper and a desire to keep your wheels within the boundaries of the sometimes warped law. 'Gordon The Traffic Warden' begins with thumping prowess, gobs off in usual up-cunt style, offers a violent alternative and overspills its guts of hatred all on your apathetic plate. Stomped up with a homage to an old comedic classic this is another transparent tune to not read too much into - this is hardly rocket science or intricate techno-acoustica but just bread and butter gutter nutter expulsions who have many annoyances. Love it.

'Chemical Waste Truck' follows similar routes, jabs, hooks, drills home various power punches and deals with those pollutant fuckwits who make their cash whilst emptying their unnatural waste on the natural innocent whilst 'Cardinal Kid Fucker' exposes the hidden agenda of many holier than thou deviants hiding behind the flimsy mask of religion so as to satisfy their perversions. It happens, why sweep it under the carpet - nothing shocking, nothing outrageous. Out of the 2 tracks I prefer the former although both are using a too often repeated recipe by this stage and my earlier warning is emboldened and needs further heed paying to it.

'Human Pig' is a song that may just well upset but I have, over the years, come across many people who have various illnesses and are wheelchair bound due to nothing more than obesity. Don't shy away from these uncomfortable occurrences - what gets me is some genuine people who have been dealt a rough hand are suffering even more because some of these gluttonous buggers are playing the game and are happy in their self inflicted fat flagellation. Toes trodden on, insult heavy and two fingers once more to the hippy hopeless - a shuffle reinforces the offensive drive given, the whole report of rattling rhythm is there to maim the mental framework - stand up, take the bullets and suck on. We close with 'Ned The Well Hung Horse' a snipe at David Cameron – unnecessary and pointless as we all know what a cock he is anyway. Don't waste the time chaps.

ZOO PARTY - UPON9

Hailing from Sweden this band had me waiting way too long for a 'live' viewing before I finally caught up with them and took in their convincing noise. This 'in the flesh' set was very rewarding and so more pressure was on the band to meet the needs of this Fungal assessor. 2 CD reviews have been gobbled up, digested and spat back out with praise aplenty and so when this third offering was given (as well as a free T-shirt - cheers chaps) my anticipatory levels soared and I was laden with big expectation. Can the ZP people do the business or will I be put in another awkward situation where my honest approach gets me up the shitter - I can’t change, I hope the band realise that and with the best of intentions in I tumble.

I forward roll into 'Angry-La', a song that greets with grandiose clashes and smashes before planting its feet and preparing for a full on sonic sprint with heels kicking hard. The guitars are tight and taut, the crew tear along with white heat desire and encompassing unity so as to deliver a highly melodic opener that has all the adornments of this fine band.  The song contains the usual zippy zest and gets one immediately up and bouncing. Built on articulate riffage without an over indulgence of unnecessary showmanship this one is a powerflash, with the odd screwing snip to neatly enhance. 'What Do You Want From Me' chants out its title, immediately involves the punter, has that shout out clout that magnetises the noise obsessed soul and with its 'la, la' sections, lucid and well hollered vocal slant, the crisp arse ripping guitar strokes and clobbered skin work I can move swiftly on and be fine in the knowledge that the band are beginning where they left off - in sterling fashion.

Track 3, a donation known as 'Why Must The Good Ones Die', a strum, a heartbeat, a glassy shimmer and a comfortable move into the panged question of the title. A sedated and stated verse with numbed vocals almost detached from death as a self-protecting stance before a wrenched out chorus bangs its head against a wall with restless requests. A steady ditty, not flexing its muscles but stringing along with the current flow set. 'Human Prey' is more like it with its pronounced opening, stop start follow on and rushing river rapidity that is only disturbed by the erupting bubble blasts of the title shout out. At 1 minute 33 seconds this needs to be nothing more than a short sharp karate chop to reawaken the senses - ouch. 'Upon9' continues with a brief slam dunk, a bass rumble beneath a whinged and twinged guitar moment and a plod drum approach that insists the verse continues and melts into a simple but well drilled chorus cut. A determined piece that ploughs with furrowing riffage, full zoomed in focus and icy coolness that will not be distracted. The accented gobs, the sharp strings and general ZP inflection make it a treat for a fan, the others can decide for themselves. 'Ain't That A Shame' is a poser to answer, is the song good enough or indeed a real shame. Slow, acousticised, hollowed and quite vacant - I have tried, tested, tuned in over a lengthy period and stretched my patience like a rubber man's foreskin but I just have to hold up my sticky hands and say I bloody well hate this song. Anaesthetising, somewhat zombified and annoyingly empty - sorry chaps but I can see where this was meant to go, what mode was sought but the production and the dreary drone just don't make ideal bed partners and whilst one drifts one way and the other tinnily grates we have a song to pass by on.

'What You See Is What You Get' soon obliterates any misgivings as to the destiny of the CD by climbing rapidly on strung desire and overloaded electrified impulse before riffing its own arse out and hitting a cheap and cheerful sing-a-long spike filled with an in your face openness. Here the guitars thrive amidst a self-created fracas that kicks and lashes out with utter conviction and as a result sees the band take great plaudits from this Fungaloid noise lover. 'Bi-Polar Express' is another victory that begins with a hybrid Therapy/Exploited wire twang that instantly injects life-affirming vivacity into the whole shebang. Punctuated blow outs come, cruising moments and then we are on the destination track and ploughing for home with a mental health rewarded via a fine wrap-around expulsion that raises the whole spirited frame. The band are in the zone, at their finest and doing it in such a simple way with a fine production values, unfrilled strum outs, clattered drums and a see through construct all round - think about it techno-twangers.

3 speedy overviews, 'I'm Your Only Answer' cruises on well fuzzed feet, soars with well oiled and simplistic chorus cuts and chops up now and again with strict acuteness to the strings. 'I Wanna Be A Wannabe' cascades away, shouts out, continues to tumble, finds its way and staggers to the final push with Zoo Party just scraping by with a stop and start, drum interrupted offering that ascends at the last and leaves a somewhat sweet deceptive aftertaste - I must double check this over and over to be sure of my verdict. 'Get Out Of It' has an intro/chorus I am not keen on to be honest but has a verse cut that is very fluffy, light and somewhat rock and popped. The song contrasts and has me split down the middle as regards a verdict - I feel a slow turn of the thumb...downwards - just not enough conviction here - sorry chaps.

'So Many Second Chances' begins with poised and assertive strums that get better as the volume is pushed upwards. The band flow tidily with their set sound and maintain the new found pop angle that only needs so much attention and shouldn't detract from the crews heftier and more incisive songs. Not bad and saved by, as always, the terse timing and good guitar work. The closure and 'Why Must You Be Happy When You Can Be Normal', is a shout and sing-a-long effort provided people take note. The zip in the overspill shows the band thrive when this mode is taken and what I would like to see the band do next is a 5 track speedburst with melody pushed to the max and old school riffs poured in with abandon. Think on!

THE MOTOWN 7s BOX - RARE AND UNREALSED VINYL - VOLUME 2

I missed volume 1 of this 'Sound of Young America' celebration and as soon as I was requested to assess this follow up release I jumped at the chance. You see, to dabble outside of my fractured circle is always welcome as my tastes are not restricted to any specific genre despite my love of the more spikier and angst driven vibes. This collection features many singles and their B-sides that were never released at their time of recording due to untold reasons. The upshot of this is we have on our mitts a fascinating collection of vibes from some solid gold artistes who made more than their mark in the loved up sonic pool in which they swam. Let us not delay, let us examine these overlooked constructions and see if the flavour is appealing and if, in some small humble way, I can give hint at what this package holds.

We open with Jimmy Ruffin's creamy delivery of 'He Who Picks A Rose', a bout of sage advice delivered on cushy croons and delightfully distinct ruffles of the sonic substrate. The pulsation is gently rocking, the brass injections accentuating, the overall lilt of the song typical of a generical era when the joy of love enthused, when the necessity to produce casual drifts was encouragement enough for many fine artistes. This initial bloom shows the vocalist in the zone, considerably unflustered and filled with his, and the bands, self made flow - fluid stuff. Gladys Knight and the Pips next with yet more sound words this time dripping forth under the acoustic appellation 'If You Ever Get Your Hands On Love', a melodic massage that increases the application of intensity quite beautifully and floats on feather-light touches laden with bubbling undercurrents and zested orchestration. The swing in the hips of the body of sound is fascinating, the backing and leading vocals totally absorbing and silkily ascending and descending with a superfluity of aplomb. The motherly modulation of Ms Knight's mouth work is admirable and for me the whole concoction is ideally in sync and active.

2 songs dealt with, no flaws had, no criticism flung from this Fungalised swine. Onwards and Stevie Wonder next with the wrenching number coined as 'I Want My Baby Back', a song with a persistent heart beat that pushes all along with its glistening throb and thrum technique. Sax sneaks in, adds a little lubricant to the composition and of course our one man Wonder uses is dedication to the art form and his undoubted spirit to maintain the magnetic levels - I move on still impressed, I expected little else. The Contours change proceedings and advise you to 'Take Him Back If It Makes You Happy', a cool breeze blowing thoughtful leaves around and occasionally whipping them up with spontaneity so as to keep the whole swirl moving. The sonic spectrum is shaded with pastel delicacy and somewhat slightly blended with care to avoid any glaring and discomforting edges. A regular sway is maintained as a vital undercurrent and the coffee stained vocal style soars with aplomb on this watery substrate. 

The Spinners dumb things down a little with the withheld release of 'We're Going To Be More Than Friends', a subdued burst that needs a kick up the jacksie via the volume dial to get the most from this slightly static song. I feel a bit deflated after this one, as though all the usual tick boxes have been marked as a matter of course without any real passion injected. It has a decent churn but I find myself a little out of kilter and not fully magnetised by the impetus which, it seems, is a little patchwork in essence. A personal view and one which many will disagree with but there ya go. Not the greatest or worst song I have heard. Kim Weston next and with a positively persuasive construct entitled 'You Can Do It'. This one is a guiding motherly embrace that injects inner sanguinity and warm self belief due to its well meant and comforting oral croons and cushion comfy backdrop bounce of caressing sonica. The nudge in the back is well received and the opaque, almost imperceptible sub-sexiness of the vocals is a dream to fall into and disappear - a real pleasure. More inspiring tones to buoy the spirit come next from the natural vocal gifts of Brenda Holloway and her authentic bloom known as 'We'll Keep On Rolling', a remarkably terse encounter that leaves us blessed and wanting a trifle more. Tinkled, reinforced by exact shadow hollers and a controlled feisty rhythm this is a minor glimpse into unaffected brilliance – an agreeable offering. Onwards and the tremendous pick of the pops for ye olde Fungal Fruit known as 'Angel Doll' by those reliable stalwarts of this chosen niche, The Temptations. The crisp flicker of flutterby strings, the harmonised eider down release of the song title, the slightly sandpapered reality of the lead mouth and the repeat sweet push that occasionally ascends into wondrous realms of tranquil stress release and heart pouring honesty all combine to construct an unadulterated episode of love soaked gushing - wow!

Marvin Gaye follows up with his warm and creamy swirl known as 'My Love For You'. A serious start lightened by chilled breezes exhaled from purist lungs and almost whispered utterances from the famed front guy. Floating clouds that occasionally reveal a hidden sonic sun, whose rays it is a pleasure to bask in, this is a construct that is far flung from anything outrageous but is done with such encompassing belief as to be another absorbing listen. The Four Tops chase with 'I'm Grateful', a tune that from the opening drum report, harmonised sugar and delightfully touched and tinkled first verse cleans out the mental cobwebs of negativity and doubt and carries one into a land where passion and pride within the work are blatantly obvious and where an almost off the cuff overspill is delivered with laid back and yet involved vocalisation at the fore. All is neatly shadowed by lighter oral accentuations and make for a song that is a pleasure through and through. 'Sure Is A Whole Lotta Woman' is dished up via the reliable cacophonic cooks, The Isley Brothers. More grinding groove, more street soul rawness and certainly more deliberate desire with all players in the zone and pulsating with a totally infectious beat. When groups of this ilk move with such direction even the most ardent outsider can surely applaud and appreciate the relish and salivating focus thrown in and so duly join in with the magnetising blow out. Alive and kicking, brassed with care, bouncing on platformed heels to squash your indifference - a real knock em' down effort.

The closing pack of three opens with 'Barbara McNair and her confident serenade of 'I Know Better'. Superb oral offerings, settled swathes of soothing charm, open acoustic fields that sway to the parental breath of our lead lady who proves beyond doubt her vocal capabilities and her ability to produce a fine song against a backdrop of sub-orchestral movements that entrance and subtly massage. Many expected ingredients are tossed forth but done so with perfect accuracy and with an ear for an exact blend - tasty. The Velvelettes bring us 'That's A Funny Way', a staggering song that eventually wanders with a seeming carefree soul and misdirected innocence that is driven wherever the impulse takes it. Tender and toned to fragile levels but with a slightly uncertain edge that just leaves me a little unmoved. In parts when rear and fore gobbage softly duel I get involved and then a moment arises where I feel outside the true circle - it does happen and I move on undecided. Just as we are ducking forward to strike the finishing line The Originals pop up and insist we 'Don't Stop Now', a final fling of all love induced male utterances nudged our way on consistent and liquid lines to meet the needs of the true connoisseur. It is in keeping with all that has transpired, it is a fair track and ruffles its feathers now and again to awaken any waning interest (as if you dare) - a firm and well thought out full stop.

MONGREL - EVOLUTION

Mongrel rock! Mongrel clamp their hungry maws over the passing music fans genitalia and bite real hard, duly tear and never ever let go - it is what you deserve. You see, this fine crew (who have already had 5 Fungalised low-down’s on this site and still smell of black metallic roses) slip into a micro niche between more obvious genres and so, sometimes can get a little bit lost in the pit. I don't like this, I like bands to have a fair crack of the whip and at least get people checking them out and making up their own mind - hence another forthcoming textual spillage. I have big expectations but a stubborn streak that won't be swayed  The band, even though proven in the past, must still keep the high quality coming my way.

In slide the 'Snakes' a slow moving muscle beast looking for life to drain, eyes to hypnotise, ears to magnetise. Bold deliberate riffs hit, drums crack away, the lass at the fore exudes a sexual professionalism and straight away we are thrust into a quite excellent bout of athletic strutting with all tendons taut, all fibres tearing at the epidermal seams. Resonant, containing subtle Thompson Gun attacks, altering pace with threatening suggestion - the complete racket inhales and draws in your entire attention. I have a reaction, non-allergic, I still need assistance, ah - thank goodness for the 'Oxygen Mask', a fine moving creature with more persuasion, more lustful tones, a finer clash between the hammering and the caressing - be warned - both areas are as deadly as each other. The hard billows toss around the senses and get one wary, ultra alert and expectant of a cool sultry breeze to seduce the emotions. The whispered air rush comes, the fantastic mesmeric function of the crew makes this essential aural viewing and ones lugs are snagged within, of all things, the hooks. This is a quality example of how a band, with the deepest confidence, can create a stir without relying on pace, anger and all out thrashing - a quite luxurious listen indeed.

'Consumed' begins with a doom laden string flick and some heavy handed skin slaps before the vocals come and somewhat relieve the tension, albeit in the smallest way possible. The melodic maelstrom turns with mechanical metropolis efficiency and sucks out the guts of the listener and duly grinds to a well minced pulp. Mongrel are gliding and even during the cock rock break, where extra flamboyance is added to the mix, the crew seem to be doing all without perspiration forming. 'Best Revenge' is a sincerely nasty number with a tribal underscore rumbling a tattoo of plotting intent. Thoughts of wrist slitting and suicide are had, overcome but always there in the background just keeping the eavesdropper nicely unsettled. From the opening grind, through the spite tinted central segments to the final chuck of the deadly dice this is an intriguing number to savour.

Last track and in keeping with the steady flame burning we stick to the regular pace and heavy artillery of the riffage with 'Over And Over' initially wire wanking then grimacing briefly before heading down a familiar route with all components glossed up and mightily effective. For a 5 track offering this one completes the consistency set and really burrows deeply into the sonic system where our receptors are happy to glut on such power drenched titbits. Clamp on to Mongrels pap of toneage and let the bastards wet nurse you until your belly is bursting - no finer way to feed people.