YOUNG ATTENBOROUGH - ISOLATIONS

Youthful poppoid dabblings done with fresh, spacious vitality that avoids angst and ill temper and instead relies on innocent charm, under-processed warmth and clarity and, may it be said, approachable honesty. These Brighton squeakers donate to our aural peekers some spirit soaked honey from their well trembled speakers and give hint at something traditional and carefully coated with a yesteryear vibe that clutches at go-lucky heartstrings. Indified throughout, perhaps suggestive of post punk DIY and of course done in such a way as to be up against the wall and pissing in the wind of glossy commercialism - keep it dirty chaps, fuck the too hygienic approach.

Toes in the sonic slurry, the first sniff is splattered as 'Perceived Obsolescence', a lo-fi snippet of whipped cream cacophony loaded with aerated acoustica in between nudges of delicate application that is touched with shadowed utterances, unified pushes and stripped down noise to give the listener the chance to inspect each and every component. What you get is what you may need but the band only apply a certain pressure with a kindly persuasive noise that sees each contributor in sync with his immediate surroundings and donating to the final upchuck a necessary ingredient. The paused and stuttered moments are perhaps a hindrance to what otherwise is a neatly flowing song - take note, when soaring, do not pause for further effect, just go with it. 'Cables' tidily wobbles inwards, pulses are restrained before a relaxed guitar switch is adopted with a sweet, undercooked melody arising with chipper vocal tones injected.  We are led to several sub-chorus moments with strung wires mood altering at will which results in a fine upsurge and then a disappointing tuned out dreary dawdle that takes the edge of the fine opening potential. I can see the attempt at contrast and mode but am honest enough to state that it really doesn’t work in this case. When the song picks up the dropped baton though it flourishes it with conviction and runs like a good un' to that sought after finishing tape, only winding down when the job is complete. Similar to a beautiful countenance marred by a disfiguring scar - you shouldn't stop and stare but you can't help it and it does ruin the effect of the overall appearance - a crying shame.

'Sadness In the Family 1: Judgement Day' and 'Sadness In The Family 2: A New Hope' is a nice coupling built on the bands staple diet of light angularity and tender uncertainty that combines with more forceful moments and greater pronunciation in the delivery. Drums scatter their primarily rustled up enthusiasm, the second cutlet sees the strings strummed with flurries aplenty whilst vocals throughout stay somewhat calm and semi-detached. The band find time to indulge and showcase their talent but I am liking it more when the band stick to the basics and flow with determination.

'That Ain't Bread (It's Toast)' starts with sugar melody and moves into a washed out first verse where vocals are wonderfully delivered with innocence and naiveté at the fore. The band swap lead gob duties, it works a treat and we continue in the winning vein with a minor gem uncovered. This opening massage of low brow tonality is emboldened further by the pursuing switch to a more demanding approach that is just a couple of notches up as regards power and intent but, due to the bands talent and accuracy, contributes to what is the best song of the lot. All components come together and showcase Young Attenborough at their finest - a moment for the band to dwell upon further.

You know the score by now, I always have a quick surge to keep things fluent and rolling, the dice is rolled - oooh 5 quicky dickie overviews.

'Credit Where Credits Demanded' fumbles and rummages in its own pockets before examining the contents with stripped bare spaciousness. The song is a hiccupped account that has many paces, various tones and an almost choir boy inclusion with more definition but with the production here they fail to make the impact - nice try though. 'Borrowed Bikes' is a snap, rattle and slop that needs that extra chomp in the delivery to get the whole sonic point rammed home. It is a somewhat flattish song but if one takes time the components for a strong surging piece are there. When the band add weight to their thrust and induce a greater speed the whole construct grows. Just get that separating line between dark and light/fast and slow/languid and feisty more emboldened and the whole output will rise in stature. 'Sadness In The Family III: Back In The Habit' continues a theme I applaud and is a product that emanates the youthful zest of the band that really magnetises my interest! The thread indeed contains a weary pulse, a tint of sadness and many touches to add further melancholy to a greying outlook but the upbeat inclusions when tones rise re-ignite some sunny hope. 'Sadness In The Family IV: An Unexpected Journey' is a dour song, a real downer that creeps on numbed and dumbed tootsies that have a busking element and washed out appearance. Very doleful and with the testicles of flamboyance held firm in tight transparent underpants I get the feeling that I want the crew to self abuse themselves and get their total bollocks bared. These refined moments are all very well and good but really have to be delivered oh so accurately to get the best out of them - work to be done I feel but in no way should the band shy away from the tasks at hand. Again a neat song with good groundwork but just lacking the elusive twat factor. 

The last 2, let us get out of here in good time - 'Little Bit Of Unease' may cause just that if you desire a powerhouse chunk of riff arsed rock. The YA brigade play it softly yet again and rely on certain touches, pastel shade softness that now and again is forced onto the canvas a little more deliberately This one has a good pulsation and a decent amount of upsurging moments to applaud but the long drawn out dawdles could do with a whipping and stripping. We close with 'Planned Obsolescence' a brother/sister of the opening track that highlights the fact that the band are thinking. This final blow is a positive full stop to proceedings and yet again deals with the media machine and combines high flown, low drifting moments to oppose and counterpunch. Indulgent underpants however are there to be tripped upon - be careful and now and again hitch up and run like the devil.

THE BRONCO - WEEKEND/BRAINWASH ALBUM TASTER

A Swedish unit here that mixes early punk essences with the fragrance of today whilst obviously adding a dash of rock and roll aroma that makes for an all round ear catching, melody soaked pleasure. Loads of experience is poured into the mix and the resultant rhythmic noise is a sure-fire charm for those who like things easy, digestible and with some subtle kick ass passion. A short sojourn into the sonic world of The Bronco here, I hope to capture the style and leave you intrigued.

'Weekend' is the first taster under the Fungalised spotlight with first impressions of an articulate stress free drift kept afloat by nothing more than careful production values, much well earned insight and a relaxed state of mind when playing the entire vibe (despite the statement of having only '49 hours'). Undulations are kept comfortable rather than relying on trough and peak shocks that so many come unstuck with. The strings are clean cut, the drums unrushed, the backdrop of whispery wails a sweet shadow to the professionalised vocal offerings. The song works, it doesn't get wrapped up in its own glory and so overcook its own arse - it is always a good thing to know when to full stop a creation, The Bronco do it just right!

'Brainwash' is the second teaser from the forthcoming album, a clean cut, adequately produced spillage of rock and rolled US sounding honesty with a definite commercialised aspect throughout and an obvious 'drinking at the bar' stance adopted. Mid-paced, foul free and with worn vocals, a glassily strummed pre-chorus move pursued by a simply strummed title chunk and the slight ascension to the last gob off - not bad but fading into the background due to its predecessors impact.

MISGIVINGS - DEMO

Pushing punk persuasion from Portsmouth via a new-school band that will tickle the taste buds of those liking things powerful, highly melodic and with much technical tomfoolery. A niche within a niche is where this noise finds itself mostly happening and it comes forth without any pretence at anything other than being a bit of good noise based on belief, beer and good times - we really shouldn't argue with that. Only 2 songs to tackle, 2 upchucks to potentially molest the aural orifices, the first of which is...

'Gift To Nobody', is a pot pourii of gathered sonic scents thrown into a mixing bowl, duly tossed with meticulous attention and scattered about the sonic pit with liberated abandon, albeit with an austere adherence to new-skool pulsations. The augmented power rouses neutral eavesdroppers and gets one thrown into a somewhat sub-assemblage of fractured noise that, like many offerings from this niche, needs time taken with. First meritous point noted is the excellent production standard that gives the whole concoction weight and of course potency. Don't look for any procedure injected prose here, don't seek out routine verse/chorus replications that wrap-around, get intruded by solo swaggering and then wind out. No, this is semi-angular leakage that makes an impression with stringent tightness maintained and in keeping with the adopted cacophonic cranny the band happily plough away in. It isn't to everyone’s taste but is played mightily well - make your own decisions.

The second burst from the demonstration of the bands tuned in wares is penned as 'Disappear Here', and commences with a submerged click of a wooden metronome that is soon shot down beneath a blanket of positive vibe making and good old well aired vocalisation. Again deconstructed from the familiar formats, re-wired with frilled (and thrilled) artistry, given much gusto by in-built and readily released fervour and held together by some power moments that do the business in many ways. Once more this is a song that needs sticking to and will certainly not be favoured on one or two listens alone - have patience keen eavesdroppers.

Hey up - 2 tracks and out, a hint at an essence, is thy curiosity aroused? I can feed you small morsels, I can only suggest what is on offer and give my feelings - if you have any gripes go get reviewing and throw yourself in at the deep end. This band are good, will find themselves playing in the usual pits if they don't watch it - my advice, avoid labels, avoid strict generic expectations, avoid the users and abusers and...fuckin' enjoy the ride!

PROPANE 4 - PINPRICK

I had heard good things about these guys and whilst organising a joint gig with a fine fellow promoter I found that they were on the set bill - a bonus or a boo boo I care not - it is all about getting underdog buggers, who have a more than obvious chance of being overlooked, out there. Propane 4 come from Doncaster and play a strict old school noise from where their hearts are found and their desires dwell. 3 of these chaps are no spring chickens and have definitely been plucked a few times whilst the drummer is on the younger side and in the midst of a time warp it seems (poor bugger). I like my music up to speed and relevant, I am wondering if the band can win me over with the old style innocence? Only one way we can answer that one!

The CD begins with 'Everyday', a flourish and then a lo-fi early generic drive done with an ear for yesteryears innocent melodica without need to snatch at the sonic scrotum and duly tug for attention. This is a well aerated piece that wraps around itself and makes sure sticks, bass wires and guitar cables are all well balanced and have an equal footing along with the slightly accented vocal style that is straight from the streets of reality. The song, when stood back from is far from intricate, when scrutinised close up is still simplistic enough but it is done with a familiarity that tweaks those well soaked sensors of early punk and so convinces this old fruit no end. I ain't one for looking over the shoulder when it comes to music but can applaud this because it is modernised output capturing a certain essence way too neglected. 'Dancing Dave' follows, a brittle piece built on tender tonality and gentle lullaby melody reinforced with careful strums, a quietly reliable bass and a tip tap skin mode. The creeping slant is a bold move so early on in a CD as all responsibility in the 'grab factor' falls onto the catch line that must surely win the interest of the listener. Somehow, due to well earned insight, the band win through and again deliver in your musical mailbox a sweet ditty to just fuckin' enjoy. Unruffled, accurate, somewhat melancholic - the crew have something going on here - I move further inwards.

'Moorlands Prison Blues' is a rotating number that shakes its booty in traditional style with attribute taken from the Man in Black and recipients of reversed bank robbery. The train track repetition and naturalised flow is tepid and in time and out of the three tracks thus far I find this one a trifle uninspiring. It keeps the cacophonic carriage trundling, it maintains the mid-paced momentum but it just doesn't have enough of that loaded flavour found inside the previous offerings. Not bad but one I can easily flick by. 'England’s Brown Fields' twinkles from the corner of a darkened room, my interest rises, a few strums grab my throat and I am thrown onto the dance floor to move to the groove of the skanky reggaefied routine that is awash with grainy and slightly grimy reality based tonality that floats from distant isles and hits our sonic homeland with quietly devastating force. Very pure in its intent, flickered and punctuated with generic precision, containing a necessary spaciousness that is voluminous and rewarding to the bands artistry - choice. 'Tough Shit' is more emotive meandering containing a soothing modulation carved through with a reality soaked pang that vibrates the sensory neurones and thus creates a positive reaction. The facing up to this shitty world and the positions we find ourselves in, the lucid frankness, that oh so magnetic pulsation which ascends on featherlight tones - it's another 'yes' from Fungal.

3 rapid rhythm run-downs next, it happens. 'Missing' carefully collides, rolls rocks in tidy avalanches, comes forth with one word stated versage and a bog basic chorus. Many bands are adding so much more to their output, wanking off their instruments with much more technical indulgence and lewd intensity and yet...miss out on those primitive necessities that make for a naturalised noise session. These are opposing tunes to those more harshly executed bomb blasts and lack the killer stomps and invigorating punches but they still work. This is not Propane 4's greatest moment but they just about pull it off which says more than you may think. 'Propane Party' has great guitar adornments, that cool laid back singing, the interlaced bassism that provides so much substance to mould around and the tympanic stanchion that keeps all in place - one to admire, one to play over and over, a song with an authentic theme escorting a valid bout of tiptoeing streetwise music. 'Bullingdon Boys' deals with the privileged, the ponses in power, the patrons of our destiny and so switches up the tempo and thermals with a convincing melody and well structured arrangement that showcases the best assets of the band. A clear-headed delivery with a sonic sweetness engrained as per. The band close the main chunk of the CD with aplomb, this is appealing noise.

Following on from the main 8 offerings are 5 more tracks gathered under the banner of 'The Mexboro Demo Sessions'. We begin with the highly magnetic 'Burglar Alarm', a heavily harmonised chorus opens, a restless verse follows due to that persistent ringing in the head one cannot escape, especially in the wee hours. Peoples paranoia is highlighted, the fear they have due to those pesky thieving bastards with no respect for property and private homes - cunts. Despite the content the band keep things upbeat, uphold the glistening edge that has profited so many previous efforts. The theme continues to the end and into 'Comrade Dog', a similar sounding song that waltzes along and has a point of space age tension with a nod no doubt given towards Laika, the first yapper to travel to the stars. Again the composite is fresh and breezy and built on foundations soaked in melody and ensnaring rhythms. Not a lot to add to be honest, why expand when the din stretches the point and hits the hotspot. 'Dumbest Blonde' has me making comparisons to those fine artistes from yesteryear, The Newtown Neurotics, worthy praise indeed. It has that earthy, unwashed, unprepared believability that spills from the gobs of real people whom cultivate a balance between the player and the purchaser cum listener. These whole acoustic examples seem borne through innocence, from the bedroom and done with no ulterior motive other than to create some attractive tunes. I like the amicable insight, the unaffected modus operandi, and the avoidance of 'fuck this, fuck that' explosions - lovely stuff all round lads.

WITS DEAD END - NOT CONCERNED WITH WHAT YOU THINK

I have listened to this silver circle of sonic produce over and over again and still, to my utter amazement, find it hard to believe that this is a one man band/solo project. What a talented bastard he must be - annoyingly so wink, wink. Hailing from Orange County, CA the artist under the spotlight rattles out a mix of many sub-generic essences that has much frustration and bewilderment with life and the crap that comes with it. Metalised with a scuff mark of punk, a scratch of blues and a dint of rock and roll basics this is an interesting moving machine to mull over whilst it whizzes by and leaves in its wake a melee of consistently decent noise.

Strings flashlight amid a low brow pulse before the releasing holler comes and the first episode blossoms. 'Famous Last Words' is a smooth shuttle of sound travelling on rails that are rhythmic, clear and trembling with much ill temper. The disgruntlement rises after the somewhat holler stated verses, and hits home with a relentless mouth of relentless incessancy. The song has plenty of swing and a good steady stream of activity poured in and so with a solid end production, the players passion and a swift solo segment I gotta give this one a kick of confidence. 'Legend' (that overused tag that grates) pours in with straitjacketed restraint before dealing up the first verse that slides against the grain of the egotistical and needy noise makers who want all the trimmings that go with the shitty corporate music industry. The sniping spite and reality based wordage rises into a clear cut rocking chorus that bounces on precise notes with a DIY edge glistening with insightful know how from a musician on the misshapen ball. The forthright appeal is already apparent in that it makes these upchucks more...convincing, more resonant within the sonic soul.

'Life On The Line (Working Class Blues)' is the best effort thus far, a gripe against the everyday slog that hammers away at your body, mind and spirit. The destroying routine that pays the bills (just) and takes its toll (completely) is dished out here via a very focussed trundle that has our artiste weaving a well textured and grafted tapestry of bare arsed, open hearted tuneage. The gristle in the meat of the matter adds to the flavoursome vocal victuals that are well chewed and spat in our faces with genuine disgruntlement about the way we are all being overcooked and over fucked. This is an irate and niggled effort and does the emotive business with the fire in the belly raging. 'Mindfuck' is knotted up tension unravelling before our eyes and whipping up to make us fuckin' wake up and think. I am loving this guys style and blatant kick back against the pricks and shits who are zombified and happy in their suspicious comfort zones. An infuriated soul poisoned by antagonistic events that frequently occur throughout this brainwashing realm. The dander is white hot, it emanates a bristling and blood pressured temperamentality liable to go off in yer face at any given moment - burn my balls brother! 'Optimistic Attempt' pisses in the wind, egged on by an embracing desire that one can truly relate too if walking against the grain. Hackles are raised, the verses contain determination, a sonic primeval scream that aches with anxiety and suffocated stress before moving into a super chorus smear that has a contrasted guitar cut thrown in to keep you on those tootsie tips. Textures and scars are running parallel with equal depth - this is my favourite thus far. Scum floats to the surface, a dirty water awaits all those who react to 'All Aboard'. Whizzing verse assaults are had with rapid wing beat string work and arse whipped skins before a more pronounced chorus clashes and contrasts and gives a clear out snip to get your heads together with. More metallic and rocked up moments appear, we slip into further punked out of bounds areas and I move on to the next track with no complaints.

A sudden surge, I plough through a bunch of 5 with digits rattling whilst lugholes absorb. Subdued guitar gets released, 'You' has a tamed approach and seems to be regular riffage from our artiste under the spotlight. The spice is added via anger, good strung work outs and of course, a solo moment to keep that cock out slant! 'This Town' is simply the best track of the lot due to its emotive edge and emitted warmth as well as the textured honesty that pours forth with every oral offering. The weight of the song, the realisation that some things have turned to shit and many things are lost for ever is pasted before us in upfront terms and this whole offering reflects a switch in approach that could so easily be stretched further. As a result of this fine offering 'Negligent Procrastination' suffers somewhat and so needs playing as a loose unaffected piece and taken as a stand alone donation. A well blown track with mellow moments and acute overspills that compliment and define. 'Thanks Again' is a low slung track travelling on tones that will not be deterred and strengthened by the players inner belief to get the job rammed home into your refusing craniums. It is a stubborn sounding piece I have no gripe with although the pursuing 'There Was A Time' primarily leaves me as cold as a dead man's dick although it does pick up towards the latter end - an odd little ditty to keep going back to.

'High And Dry' wanders in a state of weary blue, drifts with almost drunken depression whilst the twinged strings ache with a need to escape. The leaning forward and staggering around is awash with gangster town moodiness with slinky molls moving through the gathered nightclub tables where committers of crime smoke and drink the night away and saturate the arena with an untrustable vibe (I digress it seems - who cares). Our artiste is in the smoked enshrouded corner, creating his externalised pulsations, injecting the ambience with sleazy and sinister shades. It is a strange switch in style and one that has me staggering backwards on my too comfortable heels. The output becomes almost self-indulgent and tails out with an instrumental fade - I am definitely unsure here and if put on the spot for a definitive verdict I would uphold my honesty and swing towards the negative. Never fear, doubting perusers, I am soon back on the more positive side of things with 'The Follower', encouraging a good sporting response from a man easily won over by a decent ditty with a bit of pep in the melody. This one soon finds its route, gets its noisy noggin down and tramples away towards a destination known from the first struck chord. It is, at first, an inconspicuous track, due primarily to its latter end positioning and somewhat unpretentious approach but if you play your CD in an awkward fashion and select tracks from here and there then this will stick in the cerebral pubescence for sure. The same could be said for the closing number, a trundle of anti-joy as it deals with a state we will all have to face, that of 'Fading Away' - how horrible. Our man at the fore takes it on the chin, cracks on, relies on the firm underscore of vibrology so as to overlay with a fair upper rhythm that is par for the course - over and out.

I like this stuff and have much admiration for the creator - it is obviously a labour of love and I hope the enthusiasm continues. For future jaunts I would of course like to see the artist trespass into alternative tuned in modes and vary the pace with more distinction but for now, I ain't bitching just itching...for more!

OSMIUM GUILLOTINE - SELF TITLED

Well do ya want punk, yes - fuck off. This is nothing of the sort but does have the odd thread running through and infects what is a whole rocked up cacophony of noise that sticks to certain sub-genres many spiky tops may have a problem with - so what! There are no rules, don't be dictated by them - if you like it then have it, if not shit on it! Hailing from Essex these metal-heads create a din loaded with clichéd touches and high level quality and so I go in for the kill or thrill with no blinkers in sight. Without further tit arsing, in we crash...

First spillage and a slow ascension that is purely an instrumental intro named after the band under the spotlight. A creeping computerised malevolence uncomfortably pulses with sub-Exorcist/Tubular Belled eeriness and I immediately wonder where this whole compacted disk may be travelling to. It sets a futuristic scene, it fails to open the gateway to the chasing cock out guitar tweaking, very typical tuneage but smartly done with the twinged, stomping forthright grind that follows a matter of course. There is a swagger within, more flourishing energy comes, the whole shebang gets underway with in-scene gobbage warbling above the rockery and riffery. The main asset the song has is that is showcases a band that know their sonic stuff and who have the ability to back up any hype with some darn good generic musicianship - hey this spiked twat is intrigued. This initial gambit contains all the frills and trills expected but has gumption and weight that you can get your rocks off to - some excellent poundage, some optimal tonality - we are only one track in, what more do ya want? 'D-Day' instantaneously screws up and tenses itself, sinews are pulled taut, muscles flex - the song moves with rapidity in the rhythm and with drums scatter-bombing the soul of enthusiasm and keeping all components nicely flagellated and in a state of acoustic arousal. Tones alter between those that are frenzied and high flown to those that are more self-possessed and, perhaps, crunching. A granite blend, all the way to the end - rock on.

The 4th Track is an absolute fuckin' peach, one that snags the grey sonic cells and penetrates the cell membrane, froths up the cytoplasm and jumps around inside each and every nucleus with annoying glee. The mitochondrion, the power plants of these cells, are pushed to overdrive as essential energy is required to keep the whole system functioning. An opening preparation, a tremble into the main drive and the din that comes is precise, perfected and boosted by a fuckin' chorus to get off with. A fast scuffling beast this one with elements aplenty of a metallic band zoning in and dropping an A-Class bomb with exact articulation. 'Phobophobia' is a charging mare, trampling down your immunity and virally infecting other resistance offered. The only way forward is by hopping on board and indulging in some bare arsed riding with a one way focus on not returning anytime soon. Wow - whip that ass baby! 'Blight Upon Mankind' is somewhat pompous in its crawling and commanding entrance but well delivered nonetheless with a portentous affect to be wary of. It is mere ostentatious foundation laying, deliberate grandiose preparation that is soon built over with more imposing and forthright sonic brickwork. The scaffolding is sound and sturdy, the cement between each and every tone well mixed and compact, the inner structure reliable. The pace is perhaps a little to restrained for some and this is definite sub-generic shambling that leaves no room for the tastes of the outsider - make of that what you will. 'City Of Chaos' sub-scuzzes, rattle-rolls and moves in the main thread with effortless liquidity. The wordage considers the current state of play with a country up the shitter and the reverberating impact it has. The speed is sizzled, the slant archetypal of the arena which this produce is made for. This latter point should have no bearing whatsoever on your end judgement, smash the shackles - appreciate the effort, talent and tuneage and, if you still find all to your distaste, then fair enough. The 5 minute plus running time is my only gripe (my waning attention span is the curse of an aging studded swine) but in truth this band leave little room for bitching.

'Hobgoblin' is a superb track, vying for the top spot with the fear riddled gem I mentioned earlier. This one is a chopping boozed ocean, alive with vitality and thriving zeal that has a great hook which duly pierces your flesh, picks you up and has you bopping to the beat. The skip, the accuracy, the relish within the fabric of the song make it easy for me to sum up - a stunner to swill along with. 'Goomba' is back to the more predatory approach with a stalking affect that strides forth and clomps right up into your face. The pace is held, it is a carefully attended to piece with reliance on explosive riffage and the vocal clarity that has that inner comfort and sublime strength - one for the converted and at 6 minutes, 22 seconds I am sure these zealots will wallow in it. 'Into The Battle' is another trip back to Fervourville with a wired up track fizzing with activity and pulsating passion. The artistry that the band display is highly applaudable and the nut crushing desire, absorbing spirit and so very professional output is all credit to the player’s insight and talented execution. After listening to this I may grow my hair long and get some headbanging done - then again it seems I am destined to be a bald bastard forever – harrumph – I can still dream. Still, it doesn't stop me appreciating this - yeah man, rock out. 'Breathe It In Son' is a shining example of metallic cruising done in purely instrumental fashion with all components given enough air to exhibit themselves, copulate and duly give birth to many sensational vibes. This is one of those cock rock moments loaded with testosterone and throbbing to fuck your brains out. Turn that volume button up to the max, take the musical beating that comes your way and admire some artistes at home in their chosen noise and who are really producing the goods. I am no metalhead but do dabble here and there and this is very convincing stuff, so much so I want em' on a Fungal gig as soon as. This is massive man, fuckin' massive.

We fuck off with 'Subhuman', again a more than adequate track and one that has much fire in the belly and bringing forth a full showcase of knowledgeable generic mush. A pronounced entrance, an agitated flurry, an ill temper seems to blow throughout. The guitars spasm, the drums clatter with varied restlessness, the bass does more than its fair share of organising and encouraging whilst the vocals holler when necessary. This lengthy offering takes many turns, wanders down many acoustic avenues and thus throws in many purchased spices from many visited retailers of rhythm. It all makes for an absorbing end result that I recommend you all listen to and praise. 

YOU BLEW IT - YOU BLUE IT

Yes indeedy, fellow DIY dogs, my comrades in unwashed cacophony, you dear friends in the reeking ring of overlooked rock and roll - who the fuck are 'You Blew It'. Well they hail from Orlando, Florida, are of the very new breed who do it their own way, have a slightly spiky edge that will not be acute enough for lovers of really dirty low down vibrology but have many meritous aspects to please the more muso-minded out there. They do have their rougher side but is well secreted beneath a 'twinkled' upper surface and so needs a little excavating with curious and hungry paws - best get fuckin' digging then!

Bombs away and the first droplet to fall from the snotted sonic snout is coined 'In The Garage' a song, that initially sprawls itself over your lap with lazy hazy wordage that is delivered from mellowed lips surrounding by a sub-fairground melody. There is a lullaby essence within the weave, a slushy, cushy comfortableness that threatens to ascend into something more potent...which it doesn't. The cadence is tenderised, the modulation seemingly cautious, the finishing appearance clean, decently pronounced and shimmering with a slight 60's wonder. The are several developing layers here that will only be truly appreciated with numerous listens - experience informs me of this, as I play I prove the statement. 'My Name Is Jonas' tiptoes behind the opening track before proudly making its mark with a greater pronunciation of tone with the crew at the helm letting themselves go and so duly punching with controlled precision. These billowing moments fall between shimmered snippets that aid in accentuating all areas and thus creating a more expressive track that is a very rewarding listen. Add the preceding positive points to the well breezed and freshened accent of the song, the ascension to the finale and the ideal mix for a band of this ilk and you have, what is, a darn fine ditty.

'Only In Dreams' whispers in between carefully attending notes of snowflake fragility. We melt away, briefly the scene becomes insubstantial, like the flimsiest structure destined to turn to dust. The sonics slowly solidify, but we still remain on a cusp of potential shatterdown, a more than expected crumble into wispy desolation. With a faint ascension of liquid hope, with a destiny to dwell in the almost doldrums of despair we have a timid paradox to muse upon and consider further. I am split, it is not my favourite style of noise, the lethargy within holds back my gusto but it is a tightly delivered moment done with acute accuracy and marvellous production attention - it dissects the CD completely. 'Surf Wax America' begins like an appearing early morning sun gradually shaking off its covering cloak of lonely rain filled clouds. The blue sky positivity that rolls in, the innocent joy donated by the band is infectious and almost child-like in lilt and captures the joy of dousing oneself in golden festooned wavelets in the hope of capturing the 'big one'. The mid point moment to lie back, absorb the ambience is delightful, has Garfunkelised beauty and saccharined palate pleasers - quite a refreshing blessing.

We close with the strained and impassioned 'Susanne', a soppy slush heart wrench acousticised in naked flecks of touched manipulations. The vocals are self-absorbed and awash with in built melancholy, the entire approach is dreary and may I add, depressing, and for me a serious faux pas on a CD that was surely destined to end on a big celebration of all that is good about the band. A real burst of vigorous joy would have counterpunched the preceding tracks and left a high octane vibration within that I am sure so many of us were gagging for. Never mind, the band chose this option, I disagree with it and am not keen on the song in general but there ya go - it is one of the perils of reviewing.

For me, 3 good moments, one to consider and one that is misplaced and not to my desiring palate. The crew have massive potential, massive ability and if you like things somewhat squeaky clean then this is for you. Need I go on, I think on this occasion I need not!

PAUL CARTER - GET CARTER

Time to 'Get Carter'ed' again with this one mans weapon waggling exploits all done in the worst possible taste - well almost anyway. There are some good folk in the scene, some true gents with a never say die attitude - this six string wanking deviant is one of em' and as I always say 'if the scene was made up of Paul Carter's we would all be the better for it'. It may be a world with a beer shortage but the noisy scene would be thriving - think on. Here we get 15 tracks of Paul's usual honest, unpretentious output and I dip in with expectations of nothing less than a decent do throughout!

The 'Intro' is indeed an intro (the man's a genius), built on fun vibes, dusty cobble-stoned reality and familiar gleefulness you can't help but smile at. Kazoo frizzed, utterly sweet - into 'Dedicated To The Anti-Acoustic League' we go next. Paul's well rasped, well abraded vocals rattle out with sniping spite at those who have the tenacity to doubt his output, be unsure about his one man wanking. The fidgety under-rhythm is agitated, as is our lead lout, who strums away with incessant passion and only comes up for air via the electrified twang out - something that will be missing when the cables shut down and many will be unable to plug in and play - thank goodness this chap will still be wobbling these wires.

'A Visit To Dr. Grenville' indicates the perils of combining a couldn't care less attitude, an unwashed arse and a desire to air ones medical problems via a well scratched tune. The subject is haemorrhoids that hang from an unhygienic shitter liable to turn the most ardent warriors guts. The doctor was visited, goodness knows what the man of medicine thought, probably a combination of pity and deep, resentful loathing - ha, ha - nice one Paul and a nice tune to boot. The song of the lot for me (thus far) is one that is articulate, accurate and resonates within my underdog, push forward bosom. Too many people are obsessed with the past, drop everything to catch up with the same old acts instead of watching the new exciting sonic schizzle that is relevant and much more rewarding. As I have said, and Paul says here via the offering known as 'You're Living In The Past' - nostalgia is fine and dandy but not at the expense of the new school twangers. Get up, listen to this, don yer boots, kick away your walls of restriction and go and sniff the nuts of the new noise makers - its fuckin' marvellous as is this short, worthwhile ditty I play with a big proud heart happy in the knowledge there are others out there not dead from the neck up.

'Boring Alf' is chipper pronouncing before pebble-dashing the decency with a tirade against one of those waffling wankers who throw forth tale after fantastical tale and seem to have something to say about everything. A tedious titty who needs a sock to shove in the veritable whole to avoid others stress levels going through the roof. Paul indulges in his own therapy and gets the point across in grand style - I feel for ya man. 'Back On The Booze' is a celebration for the glorious pop we slurp with ardour and get duly hammered on. This reckless number is the outpouring of a man who was on a self-appointed sabbatical and the resultant ravings it has created. Anyone with a desire to drink until they drop can relate to this and the passion for the alcoholic product is marvellous. Drink on sir, play on too, just make sure you take a break in between to further your longevity - we need ya. A crackin' effort.

A clump of cacophonic blooms are grabbed, tugged, lifted upwards and examined more closely. 'I Hate School' is a quick shuffling baby triffid that has barbed leaflets and a nasty exuding resin that releases itself when anything too studious is nearby. This plucky fucker of sonic vegetation has an intention to sting back at those ruled and regimented days that trashed our childhood and bored many of us rigid. A quick release of sincere sap from a nettled old sod still scarred by the crimes of the education system. 'Wish You Were here' is a drab weed that is both dried out and withered with rootlets that reach deep into the soul of experience trying to seek out some semblance of rhythmic balance. This is one of those acoustic growths that doesn't wrap its tendrils with any certainty around my twitching todge of tuneage and lacks any positive photosynthetic life that appears so prevalent elsewhere on the CD. The straggling behaviour leaves me slightly nonplussed and the verdict falls to the negative side of things I am afraid which is also due to it failing to mention that perspiring slab of heaving orange known as Judith Chalmers (a terrible faux pas Mr Carter). The opening guitar lilt also doesn't help matters as visions of Tony Hart's gallery are had (for some reason) and it is more a case of 'Vision Off' rather than 'On'. 'My Place' is almost blue eyed grass swaying in the wind with our six-strung hero cultivating one of his best efforts to date. Emotional veins thrive within the well-spread leaves, juices rush with erudite wordage, the towering inflorescence is awash with emotive colour and I find myself wishing that Paul Carter gets pollinated, fertilised and well seen to and thus creates many seeds to grow into songs of this ilk - a very attractive piece indeed with this assessing bee happy to visit anytime of the year. The last of the green and verdant assessments is a crumpling effort done in dreary tones as it gives off a scent of defeatism and ever-changing reality. The places where we supped, chinwagged and spat out many words are dying. The wreaths thrown on to the crumbling heaps are dull, smoked by the passing advances of the world in general, in need of liquid refreshment like the kicked out and abandoned punters - everything is turning to shit and the reality is replaced by a flimsy fantasy built on false hopes generated by the media machine. You can pick up on the passion for these wonderful niches of working class culturism that defined many an era and gave life to those caught up in a sapping routine. I like this one, the inflection is exact and that is all down to the insight and beer swilling experiments of the player - and why shouldn’t it be?

The next song deals with the sober swindling industry of soccer and the way it abuses its customers and draws them in with ever increasing profits the only thing in mind. The bladder kicking cunts on the pitch don't give a toss, the systemised robbery keeps them loaded and on their pedestals and the crowds still turn out and sing their prayers. 'Football Rip Off' is exact and says it how it is - no matter what you think if you support this filth you are a victim of capitalism corruption and social imbalance, simple as. Get back to the DIY format, as far away as you can from these cash consuming twats is my message and it is nice to sing-a-long to this ditty and believe in my convictions. 'The Ballad Of Adrian Chiles' is a vicious attack on that mundane grade Z soccer commentator and all round tit we all seem to dislike. The strength of the attack is bordering on insanity which is of course part of its appeal. Our strummer holds nothing back, boy has he got the hump ha, ha.

'I Hate Work' is what it says on the rusted tin, a song about the time-consuming bitch we all have to indulge in to get by and pay for our home, clothes, loved ones and beer. It is a Paul Carter classic, one any fan will love and adore and an anthem for all those pissed off with their toilsome days. 'Cause I Had Speed' is another PC classic (PC indeed - there in the ultimate irony is found - only this dude could have such contradictory initials) and is one of those songs you will find irresistible. Mr Carter at his best, spouting off about the hazards of Billy Whizz in his cheeky chap style with great observations made of the fidget inducing drug - ooh 'Kick In The Head' closes, a very nasty piece against a dude called Fred whom seems to have got under our artistes skin and rankled him somewhat. This is a fair musical beating done with delightful flamboyance that masks the underlying brutality - like a battering done at the hands of a drunken Pam Ayres - the perverse side of me gags for more.

SPUNK VOLCANO AND THE ERUPTIONS - INJECTION

A relatively new band, borne in part from the celebrated fanny of another crew who are on something of a hot streak. This lot do something similar but cling on to more traditionalised punk methodology and keep things nice and melodic and primarily sweetly terse. To be a decent reviewer I have to kick back against the bias that spills my way and succeed in gaining some semblance of assessing equilibrium - it isn't easy, the bastards just love suckin' you in (and off given the chance so I hear). So with arse against the wall, in fear of being verbally bummed, I go in, bowels open and ready to spill my own infected stools of judgement - take note, points shall not be laboured on unnecessarily - it just would be a foolish route to take (unless I feel inspired).

A suicidal assault comes first via the hammer gun fracas known as 'I Am Gonna Kill Myself' a spillage of utter frustration that screws upwards into a fountain of restless turmoil which duly cascades back down in drowning, defeating style. Nowhere to escape, nowhere to hide - the crew deal with the situation by venting a few spleens and creating an effective opening burst that is nothing original under the golden orb but definitely wakes up ones interest. Chasing up the rear end of the initial track is a paced up, angry outburst that rattles the undercarriage and leaves quite a bit of perineum bruising and ruptured ringism. 'What You See Is What You Get' is a bold upfront cough up packed quite snugly with saturated sonica and sanguine belief. The theme deals with giving someone what they ask for whether they like it or not and in truth I can't fault that. The song is well equipped with decent power, is produced to a rewarding level and doesn't fuck about - the drums are particularly noteworthy and slap this one right into yer mug. 'Platform' derails the set theme and jumps off the ram-rodding engine and onto a more poppoid vehicle that trundles on mid-paced wheels with a rotated routine borne from those more fragile sonic stations. It is what it is - light catchy verses coupled with oh so basic chorus moments that grab your rhythmic reactors and vibrate with simplistic ease - it would easily fit onto a compilation containing such generic giants as The Methadones or The Lillingtons and that, in itself, is compliment enough.

'Another Nail In Childhoods Coffin' is a painted panorama containing perhaps the most sable colours yet and deals with the turning of the masses into un-liberated automatons who are unknowingly ensnared by this techno-twat age where the cables that provide so much take away a hell of a lot more. I can't drive, I have no mobile phone, I hardly watch TV, I am attempting to shirk the involvement of social media as best as I can and can fully see what the fuck is happening out there. The tones splashed our way from the artistes in question are applied with deliberate and unapologetic angst, the liquid assemblage is made of monochromed modes that could indeed furrow the brow with dismal consternation but, due to the in-built insistence, this one wins through. 'Agree To Disagree' reaches up onto the clichéd top shelf of tuneage and goes for a fluffed up and lightweight lope into territory well known and well ravaged. Normally this is pick up, play and chuck dinnage that is good to reach out for when the noggin is sloggin' a one way route to depressionsville. The laid back approach, freshened up ambience and strictly well breezed accent is what makes it a tale with an undercurrent of optimism despite the internal conflict - nifty.

3 galloping go getters next, I haven't got time to burn and some tersity needs injecting so as not to suffocate the peruser with an overload of ennui inducing textuality. 'I Don't To Have To Explain' is a weakened runt that needs its legs snapping and its brains blowing clean out. It comes on heels well worn, it has nothing new to say and vomits a chorus regularly with body staggering discomfort that kills any interest whatsoever. It seems an unsettled mongrel of a song that is neither this, nor that and I find myself passing by and brutality sticking the boot into the protruding sonic ribs - it happens and remember no animals have been hurt or injured during the creation of this review. 'It's Got Nothing To Do With Music' rocks in, twists a few wires and throbs along with rock and rolled fervour whilst spouting off about the demonic disease all music fans are infected by. The band travel with testes ablaze, the urgency suits them to a tee, the compacted feel and ram-rodding boost reinvigorates the attention after the aforementioned wobbling whelp and I give this one a fat 'yes' on zeal alone. 'Failure Is Not An Option' fizzes in and slashes the curtain of silence to shreds with high action mania, skull fracturing hardcore lunacy and rapid-fire hollerising. Brief, banging, bruising - in, out, knock it all about - just like Arthur Mullard's sexual techniques I hear!

Still we travel on, with the bag of hit slightly more fuller than the bag if miss and with the bag of shit containing one number that makes me want to piss (like having a niggling kidney stone in fact - and that's experience talking). Next up and 'I Can't Stop Thinking About You' layers upward the congealing cheesed formula in big fat sickening dollops and enthuses the easy listening brigade to partake and get insultingly obese. It is clean cut, presented in a sonic suit of quilted quality with many 'too sweet to be true' under garments and a distinct 'going through the motions' overcoat - I find it uninspired, untrustworthy but know full well who it will appeal too - more than most, oh the pleasures of being an honest pig oink, oink. The conveyor belt moves forth, scathed guitars ride the underwaves, bass bends its guts inside out, drums know their place, gobbage is as per, the trained lilt has the familiarity factor engrained deep within the utterances. Chorus chunks are pronounced, positioned with attention, the chorus is more of the same - are the band over-molesting a mode, are the tricks pulled too similar in style, is the utter cleanliness too contrived - am I the only one who dares question, nowt fuckin' new there then, pass me the chopping block. Both these previous tracks do little for Uncle Fungal but it is more than obvious the minority is were I'll be as fans will drool over this and those on the MFP roster will pick it up, play and party - silly bastards.

'Oh For Fuck Sake' scumfucks, careens around, bites with more zoned in zeal, has a more toxic streak. The blankets of noise are rumpled with more vigour, a greater passion in the overall screwing is had and a greater arse hump given throughout the dig - not bad and I feel no need to ramble onward. I ain't sure about the longevity factor of this one though but does it matter at this point. 'I Don't Know Why' is a passionate burst of confounded love struck leakage heavily adorned with 'Whoa hoa' drapery and panging vocal wails. It swims in on heavy legs, floats with hope and despair counterpunching each other until the release we are given the smooth gobbage of the front Spunk and the eased musical fluidity of the back yobs. Traditionally seeded with the crew’s usual dose, they do this stuff so exceedingly well and perhaps do it a little too much to be comfy but once again the ones in the groove with these popped perverts will enjoy the sonic fingering. Shut out time comes with 'Rock 'n' Roll Baby' a chuggery to buggery with all straitjackets fastened and the chance of danger avoided. A mid-paced bout of safety first sincerity that goes for a hefty slice of corn and chomps without regret. The cheese is added and it is one from Old Muvva Rub-Hard’s cupboard of transparent titivation and has an almost piss-taking sugar sprinkle to make one almost puke. It is however a precise application for the pit adopted and will be embraced as per. Be interesting to see what the overall view is from the neutralised though.

THE BOYS - PUNK ROCK MENOPAUSE

The Boys are back, like many old time bands, the itch in the sonic groin has become unbearable, the chance to get twanging again is intense or...taking the bitter and sceptical approach, is it the lure of the coin (ooh I am a bastard wink, wink)? The Boys were well respected during their first stint and were the first UK punk band to sign an album deal way back in 1977. Their approach was with emphasis on melody and knocking out a decent tune rather than stripping a few layers off the old sonic membrane. I didn't know what to expect this time around, which is perhaps a good thing and so donned my usual assessing undies of neutrality and got to grips with the upchuck proffered.

First up and a visit to the doctors is needed so as to treat that common ailment known as 'Punk Rock Menopause'. The prescription is written by the slightly bent quack, we tootle off to the sonic chemist and are given this initial song to use as a cure all. I try rubbing it in three times a day, no change. I insert the disk into my back passage and clench, still no change except an alteration in bowel habits. I slip it neatly into a CD player and let it whirl, ah now I get it. The tones radiated are mellow, restrained but yet so fluent and ensnaring. We are slipping back in time but keeping up to date with the production, the shakes and shivers are gone, a new revitalising tingle is borne as the crew tidily re-introduce themselves in easy go manner. Soft chuggage, gentle movements, an underscore of strung out restlessness is kept at bay, the chorus retains perspiration and leans on the powers of persuasion. Not bad without being anything too brash and we skip into the second cutlet hoping for more but with extra vavoom in the potion. 'I Need You' begins with homage paid to those Chinese Rocks and then dissolves into a dreamy almost Eurovision Song Contest sub-sing-along chorus that has me duly scratching my bewildered bonse. A strange mish mash of that fine punked hook, unhinged repeat beat wails and early days generic schizzle. I am at a loss with this one, find it a queer episode of indigestible wannabe commercialism - definitely a Fungal no, no which, is followed by a sure-fire Fungal yes, yes. 'I'm A Believer' is a sarcastic bout of brilliance with a catchy 60's drift adorned with blank eyed, empty headed utterances borne from the acceptant masses who need a kick up the old jacksie. Another slow swinging offering built on a lightly dusted dish tended to with a sprinkling of innocent salt that is counterbalanced by a spiteful pepper so as to make for a moment to consider further over many rotations. A minor gem I feel and a song that will embrace the 'live' onlookers and have them swaying and...believing.

To the 4th droplet of din, 'She's The Reason', begins with steady blue light flashing, this emergency vehicle refuses to rush and travels on wheels soaked in loved up new wave melody and rotating with ensnaring delectability that is almost on the outside of today's so called punked regime. For me, as I repeatedly state (in utterly passionate style), the cake of cacophony must have many layers and many flavours and so give the partaker much to consider. Alas too many fussy fuckers have gate-crashed the tables of taste and partition off themselves and others and so make for many insular gatherings with dumbed down palates. This song will be too much whipped cream, too much soft sponge for some but I think it is a sugary drift that is blended well and has an inner rock and roll binding to bring pleasure to those who are happy to nibble here and there. 'Global Warming' is a similar morsel this time with an outlook that has a distinct 'fuck it' feel without any poisonous potions poured forth. The band consider the options and decide to just enjoy themselves and switch off from the doom and gloom all around us. The chorus is the main grab, it has a liberated joy, a low slung easiness many uptight twats lose sight of - take my advice - don't! A tickling intro, a positive chug, a glammed up suggestion, an unfrilled overlay that just gets caught up in its own drift 'Keep Quiet' has no pretensions about being groundbreaking music and comes over as a Whistle Test-like offering from a band under the radar from an era adored by many. I leave this one up in the air for your own personal decisions as I do with 'How Hot You Are', an offering that smacks of someone other than the band (how strange)! A pert party underscore pulsates beneath the main rock and roll rhythm and circulates a greater amount of activity and liveliness - be interesting to see what you expected and what you now think?

'Punk Rock Girl' has greater textures and a suppressed, impassioned lilt to the opening guitar emotions that magnetises the attention of the Toby Jugs. The pursuing chugged up verses and free-floating chorus cuts are all done in The Boys own unflustered style and with heavy weight on keeping things non-too raucous. The main chunk of noise is decorated with a delightful sub-descant that keeps the flavour appealing and quite open to all palates. The movement is somewhat serene despite having enough potency to persuade a nod of appreciation - tidy work. 'Organ Grinder' is a similar offering with another placid and unruffled account being delivered via merchants of music destined to stick to their style. Immediately the vote is of ill favour, indifference almost but, with regular rotations, we find salvation in the captivating simplicity that tickles the reactors rather than roughly knocks them about - there is a place for this alternative leakage.

Track 10 (already) and 'How Can I Miss You' is more low slung pop with simplicity at the helm. Love soaked (or stricken if ye prefer), drenched in sing-a-long celebration with well cheesed lyrics design to attract the less potent purveyors of sound. The delicacies are woven throughout and the yesteryear seasonings are easily tasted but I find myself a trifle tired with this one, as I do the chasing, 'What's The Matter With Morris', another unoriginal number that is pushing a theme just a little too far. The songs have no problem sticking in the noggin but the lack of risk, the persistent restraint I find confounding and highly irritating. It is a difficult one but I feel the whole CD has overstepped the mark by being several tracks too long and if these tracks came earlier my opinions would be less stickily delivered. All I can do is pour out my honest sensations and here I feel the band should be offering more variation of which they are highly capable of. I take time out. 

Last 2, and the theme continues. The rest has done me good, I go in refreshed. My take on these last 2 offerings, namely 'Pistol Whipping Mama' and 'Baby Bye Bye' is that they are obviously more of the same, carefully paced and with tepid undulations of melodic attention. The first of the finishing double act is tempered down and again an uncomplicated affair with the second number slipping into a Sear gent Pepperised mode with drifting shades swirling and merging at the hands of chilled artistes in control of their own palates. If you have stuck with the CD thus far and have found it a pleasurable experience I ain't gonna try and change your decision now - wink, wink.