THE DUSTAPHONICS - BIG SMOKE LONDON TOWN

With a sincere rock and roll honesty and trappings of souled garage, as well as a peppering of surfy elements, the North-East-London crew known as The Dustaphonics have already pleased me via the CD spinning routine. 'Party Girl' was reviewed and glowed over and so, as a result, I am pregnant with expectation this time around. The baby I hold in my rotund tum is a bastard though, because he has that old Fungal streak in his/her ass and no matter what the whole truth and nothing but the truth will follow the main birthing process in the form of a real and no-nonsense assessing placenta - splash, there now, me waters have broken! Let us get firing out the alphabet arrangements and see what semblance of a review this way comes. Oooh me rectal fanny...

'The Message' opens the doorway to dinnage with a shuffling and scuffling live wire promise excited by delicately delivered she slivers of tonsilised temptation. The band stay within the confines of their set sonic underwear and rather than burst free with swollen vulgarity they provide an admirable bulge of acoustic solidity to admire and enjoy (if thy swing that way of course). A good preparatory track stuffed with lush restrained suggestions, watch out folks, this is looking sizzle-o-licious. 'When You Gonna Learn' is toe tapping testicular slapping titivation with oodles of sharp assed vigour proffered via a crew awash with pre fuck sub-erotica that invigorates more than just the expected erogenous zones. There is a wanton thrash of life within the blood of this second ditty and that is where the Dustaphonic primarily win you over.

'Big Smoke London Town' is a slightly cooler affair with the overall linen kept wonderfully rippled and lacking any distinct discomforting knotting. The pre-copulation suggested is controlled and the resultant chemicals mixed well brewed and notably deliberate. We lack the previous natural bite, the abandoned thrusting and untamed clawing but are still given a delightful going over nonetheless this time with emphasis on a more nibbling incessancy - nice. There remains an undercurrent of urgency, a lacquering of perspiration that is evidence of sincere effort - I like that and we find we have little to complain of. 'Grand Prix' is a well revved instrumental escapade that has sure-fire surfed shuffling twinkled with gratifying wire and skin work with all components bleeding and blending in cohesive sanguinity. It is a simplistic listening product that keeps all the set acoustic waters flowing the correct way. Hair down, heels kicked free, hem-line raised - let us reel to the encouragement of 'Ride On Louisiana Red', a spunky bout of tuneage crammed with alive and shit kicking vitality that embraces the chosen sub-genre, captivates the leaning lug and raises the soul to all new vibration pleasing levels. The band rock out, let everything swing free and easy and duly succeed big time. 'Rockin' Boogaloo' next and a real sexed up party thrill with the lead lass offering numerous trills of pleasure, smoky vocal squeals of delight, oral gasps that provoke certain pressure levels to ascend and particular private areas to pulse with a little more ardour. An encouraging gem with an overspill of joy de vivre and free flowing liquidity to just utterly wallow in. The crew indulge the crowd, create that participation factor and elevate the spirits no end - magnifique. I like the way the band stay so cooled despite the lead lasses abandonment - it makes for a very rewarding listen.

'Don't Let The Devil Drive Your Car' heightens the soulfulness and upholds the thermal zeniths attained with a pseudo-gospelised lilt and much feisty energy. We are stripped down here, baring some sincere flesh that surges with a believable hunger and muscularity. All this said we still remain in the midst of a very satisfying serving of sonica from an obviously highly talented unit on a peak of frothing foam that could take them almost anywhere. 'Back To Mono' is a fidgety well blown bloom that has vital danceability and feel-good freshness that cleanses the sonic soul and makes one get up and jig. The guitars shine as bright as ever, the drums skip and roll and the bass nuzzles its snout deep within the cacophonic joy whilst the front lass sounds all squeaky clean and yet sublimely absorbed - an uncomplicated episode of just good angst free music - just what the doctor ordered and a great contrast to all the raging rhythms out there. I am lapping this up like a dehydrated dog left out in the sapping solar rays for way too long. Dustaphonics I thank ye.

'Fire Dance' is pure sex, with visions of heavily sweating female forms dancing within a licking orgy of flaming tongues and molesting tendrils and really getting off on it. Picture the intro to Roald Dahl’s' famous TV series of unexpected tales, porn it up a little, add black silk adornments, electrify the dancing lady a little more, cause her to thrust a little more deeply and add an underscore of film noir stylism and you may just get a flavour of this - smoky, sensual, drifting, mesmerising. A slow waltz of disrobing foreplay, liable to result in a full absorption of the senses - mmm baby! 'Mojo Ya Bones' hot foots over the smouldering soundscape and takes things pretty coolly before throwing in the usual spice and well salted passion.  The song soon gets things singed before a fully adequate roasting is given. The heat is turned up with each repeat burst, the involvement factor also increases - go on then, another Fungal nod is given. 'Flesh And Blood' brings a halt to the proceedings and goes out with a lowbrow acoustic loved up ditty that plays on pillow whispers and the lead lasses steamy utterances - the result - a big fat failing full stop to a crackin' CD. I just abhor this closing snippet and after several listens am deciding to bail out before the swing of the steel capped assessing boot shatters more than just this poor finale - too much good stuff has transpired to be marred by this moment I find (emphasis on 'I' - it is only a one man opinion after all) quite awful.

MFC CHICKEN - SOLID GRAVY

A right bunch of cheeky fuckers here with an album to completely break down any critical codswallop and to bring forth a fervent fever of gushing praise from even the most hard boiled reviewer. Make no mistake about it, these squawking sonic shits are good, darn good indeed and really excite with their innuendoed sax fuelled rock that has an obsession with the thrills of fast food chomping. Hailing from London these dudes really do need to spread their wings and drop some sonic shit on the heads of the unaware, here is my small attempt at provocating some flapping motions.

'Chicken Bout' You' is a vulgar opening that is double entendre loaded via lustful men at the helm with a pang in them thar bellies. The commentating crank at the fore is well greased with his own sizzled sperm and gushing gonad gravy advice. This is nothing more than a comedic intro that has pantie prodding intent and a certain adulterous insidiousness that takes away from the cool lilt of the droolings - it does what it does though, so on we go with nipples erect.

Tweak!

King Kong tribal chants from the clan of Skull Island merge into throwback rock and roll with a well grained overlay of fruited relish well noted.  'Pocahontas' hop frogs along with saxy assistance and lo-fi persuasion that rises in passion oh so slightly and jitterbugs its bollocks to utter buggery but with the underpants of restraint kept certainly knotted.  No over exuberance is had, just a reliable bout of foot stomping goodness from a band with clout, not just comedy.  '(Get Outta The) DJ Booth' is pure ass swinging done in a hybridised 'Lee Lewis/whizzed up Hooker' style with an irresistible effervescence that is done with such sub-bluesed vivacity as to be almost physically tangible.  The guitar twangs, the bass and drums double rumble, the brass attacks are choice and the husky dusky deliveries from the fore gob are delightful.  This frothy sonic soup contains highly nutritious noise laden chunks and on it we must gorge.  Feed away fat melodic fucks.
 
Next serving and 'Voodoo Chicken' is raised from the dead, salivated over, sniffed at and eventually utterly devoured by this ever hungry diner of dinnage.  A promotional dance piece that struts its funky feet and clucks itself off with lively wrist action to a jived up jingle that is once again saxily enthused and absolutely awash with happening feelgood fervour.  This is hand clapping 'boogie on down' chuck back glory with a distinctly animated affect that is right up my underwashed street - moving, grooving and snagging - my dancing shoes are wearing thin man.  'I'm Her Pet' is more deliberate in its undulations, slanted with accents of bluesed and well used waters that are reminiscent of more muddied offerings.  Hot sweat sincerity, vocal rasps to quiver with, backing vocals straight from the dusted down jukebox of yesteryear and numerous scents of close relative sonica all make for another convincing listening experience - chunky stuff indeed.  Slinky dinky instrumentalistaion next with 'Hot Friend' jam packing the juices into one small container of lustful tightness with the waltz wank accentuated by the massaging effect of the bands roving digits and scorching attention that blisters the resistance.  A sparkling foam on de-vocalised cheekiness with much swanky sidewinding to get ensnared by.   Appropriately enough  '(Show Me The) Gravy, Baby' is more serpentine slipperiness with a chat up cheekiness and failing underhand vulgarity that doesn't hide the fact that these deviant devils have  upright hankering hotdogs that need a good old soaking in the female induced gravy bucket.  The barbecued tonsils add to the hungering desire and help pour forth a sub-sensual number to make yer gonads ache.  Next up and fidgety tomfoolery with a gooned and active melodic style that rankles the nerves somewhat and thus comes across as the most discomforting track of the lot.  Minds crack here, the band seem really overly absorbed in the whole thematics of the cluckers and 'Don't Wanna Talk About Chicken' is perhaps the weakest laid egg in this bountiful basket of shelled sonica.  It ain't bad but it doesn't encourage my pecker to join in the perky parade. 
 
Flashing on, a plucky pesterer next with sunshine glinted guitar, thirsty mouth work, well dusted skins, hop-a-long bassism and the expected spurts of sax all combining to make 'Well Now' a chipper listen with an excess of upbeat positivity.  Pondering the effort reveals a structure of undemanding orchestration and yet this intrinsically basic formula tickles the receptors and gets the head bobbing with go-ahead gratification - says something about the crew in question don't ya think?  'M. F. Sea Chicken' has a surfed underscore, primitive tympanics and a superabundance of space age optimism from yore blended with a squirt of 60's TV cream.  The overall acoustic lilt is chilled to the marrow with the procession of players on show all contributing a certain sinisterism and monochrome effect that embraces a sought after theme very much netted - swoop.  Next up and the shit-house shakery of 'Chicken Shack', a muscle quaking episode of quirkiness that is sizzled up on the thermally rising griddle where the MFC Chicken boys cook their burgers of fun.   For this cutlet I suggest you just throw yourself in and ask no questions, the zest will answer all your needs and for once I shall remain silent!

3 left, the home run is here, only time to take a dump methinks, 'Horseshit' is the result!  A manure flinging joy with the song signifying how the band blend many regular flavours, spice up with their own brand of passion and ultimately concoct a quality ear drum vibrator.  This pre-penultimate appetiser is a well dunged ditty that seeps through to your noisy nuclei and makes a more than adequate pleasure impact within.  I may be well far into this gathering of tunes but my attention levels are still high.  'White Leather Boots' sidles in from seedy acoustic alleyways where they have lurked with suspicion and are more than ready to pounce.  The main drive is robust and shady with several episodes of bin tipping invasions that suggesting something akin to a clatter attack is developing.  Suspicious merry hell is made but all held in check by the handling experience of our artistes.  At no time do the band threaten to slip up or throw a cold turkey into the cacophonous coop and once more we meet the final silence with a broad grin on our mugs.

We close down with a song that begins with a luscious professionalised opening burst that may give a peephole into many more options than the band may realise they have.  The intro to 'Dirty Little Bitch' seems to be paving the way for an ostentatious and grandiose bout of up market music with an expected angular moment threatening to cause some critical bewilderment and leave me staggering at the last.  The worry is soon washed away as the players produce a washed out upheaval of vulgarity and man's man hollering.  A scuffling song with a scathing chorus cut that kicks back against being played around with and falling victim to a much wanted woman.  The wordage goes a little way down the slope of Benny Hill (nowt wrong with that) and the entire effect is a little rinsed out I feel so for the second time on this CD I leave my decision on the wrong side of the negative/positive boundary (only just mind).

Overall this is an attractive CD with a well curried spiciness to keep your tastebuds tickled for a long time to come.  The peppery outflow is loaded with tongue in cheek (or should that be pecker in buns) activity and is played with such charm as to persuade the most stubborn sonic senses to flicker.  It's another fine release from Dirty Water and another example of a band who need a good plucking and an encouragement to swing further afield - ooomph.

JAYA THE CAT - MORE LATE NIGHT TRANSMISSIONS WITH...

Sexy smoothness from an acoustically erudite band who are the cool cats that share the cream in pure unselfish style. Formed in Boston, Massachusetts and now based in Amsterdam these laid back reggaefied skankoid rockers know how to 'do their thang ma'an' and do it with any apparent sensitivity to the artform. The music is tactile, well grounded, fuelled with an absorbed insight that engrosses the listener, soaks up the peep-hole/lug-hole observations and pays back with pleasure untold. I am expecting much here and after prior listens to other shizzle and a 'live' viewing anything less than magical will be not enough. I didn't set the heady standard, Jaya the Cat did - who shall pounce the greatest.

The first open paws to pad out a beat are slaved with the appellation of ''Hold My Beer And Watch This', an instrumental that rises above the crowded bar and chills the atmosphere with a low-brow vibe that hazes the lights, de-glares the flashlight feeling and massages the tension zones. The relaxed wrist flicks, the sensitive keys and the general pulse of the vibe paves the way for...'Blur', the first expulsion proper with the distinct barbecued vocals creeping over the mattress of low slinked cute twanged strings and slow brewing skins and thus creating a tale of party hard regret we can all relate to and get emotively involved with. The gob assisted segments are scarred and carry post booze injuries to create a certain depth whilst the music chips away at the walls of indifference and so win over particular favour. The well soaked artistes are already on a classy cruise and this opening quality gambit promises much from an highly anticipated album. Tiptoeing forth and 'Good Morning' rises on very sanguine heels filled with a comforting glow of fiery fuel that adds a thermal comfort we can easily snuggle on down with. The lyrics are borne from reality, stay away from over-complication but maintain an insight into verbal manipulation that serves the style just right. The loyalty poured forth amid this still well-ticked tuneage is warming, the overall laid back sensations complimentary and it goes without saying that this ditty is a gentle delight.

'Thank You Reggae' pays compliments to the generic escapism very much under the spotlight here. The insistent relish that first greets us via the opening verse is delicious, the simplistic join in chorus and the utterly exact homage paid to the most tranquillised tuneage out there is incredibly sincere and precise. The list of bands given, the love for the throb, the belief in the whole heavy duty vibrology is heartfelt and unaffected and how anyone can slip by this number and not 'believe' is beyond me. The next momentous cut to come is the marvellous effort known as 'Hello Hangover'. This perfect sample of sweet sonic reggae-skank is composed, as smooth as silk and played with such stress free attention that one finds it irresistible. The crispy wire flicks and caresses, the firming sublime beat of the skins, the treacle toffee bassism and the seared tonsil applications all follow on from a surfy drum beat that immediately captures the lugs. The fact remains that this song, when having layers stripped, is no miraculous construct and is void of any thoughtful technicalities but the band have that insight, luscious zing in the swing and a thoroughly complimentary production which makes this a creation many similar outfits can't match. 'Mistake' power pumps with a two-fist hurl before flashlighting forth and chugging through the first pace injection verse. Temperament flares, the skyline begins to become incandescent, the chorus that comes alters the rhythmic road and is a fuckin' gargantuan bout of musical upbeat, super star shining focus that once more signifies a band in command, a choice unit on the crest of a fully foaming wave. Supremely attractive with each section solid and gratifying to the soul - classic stuff.

This CD is certainly turning into a dynamite delivery and the sub-psychedelic pulsations that begin 'Chemical Salvation' offer more promise and niggle untold spasms of anticipation. Pounding, electro rousing boom, an unprepared for change - switch down to drifting observational mode, a fuck it all stance is taken, an enclosed world sought - join in, take the hand of liberty, drug it up and relax. JTC find a modus operandi in a timescape of zoned out indistinctness, pass forth these 'out of head' experiences and do it with reliable expertise. An excellent change of route, well timed, well cooked. 'Pass the Ammunition' cocks the hammer, fires a blank! Reloads, re-cruises - we get a 'Wailing' politico delicacy that calls for unity, a revenge it seems is pondered, the crew in the lead refuse to rush matters - think about it first. We are getting reggae ass skanko shitter quality of the highest order here and I just love the bass line, the soft guitar touches, the manipulated skins and the hot roast mouth labour - I am melting man, sheer dripping into the mattress of molten emotion and not giving a toss - easy people!

All aboard the 'Night Bus', a well heeled number with acute guitar that freshly skanks whilst the rest of the crew know their position and do their accurate stuff. A straight ahead number with a regular chorus heightened by the full-bloodied and savoury tonsil work that is superabundant on this momentous CD. This is more than likely the simplest song of the lot and yet it does the business without breaking sonic sweat. 'The Carnival' is a fuck feisty number with a big hitting prowess that manifests into a jaw loosening bombardment of high magnitude that sees the band nailing thrown melodic punch after punch and to hit the midriff with big haymaking kidney crushers. Play this at volume, shake yerself loose and be prepared to let it all hang out especially when that strength drenched chorus bursts your nose of complacency and blinds those eyes with rockin' vibrology. The hotbed of noise is glowing white, get too close and get burnt!

Sub-rap, gangster gobbing off next with the harsh and erudite wordage spilt via the grind out labelled as 'Voice Of The Poor'. Another classy element thrown in to this choice conglomerate of rock and ready gems. Spitting venom, fighting off defeatism, snarling with ire and ardour this is a strong stamping chunk of forthright spouting that shimmers in the shadows and then steps out and entirely blinds you. The blackened streets are wandered, the observations are made, the resultant rhythmic roll out is perhaps a matter of course - this is reality, documentary delivery without any wanked off editing and unnecessary affection - swallow it whole, taste the authenticity. 'Government Center' eases up a little on the merciless sub-savagery and works up a sweeter sweat with a swift kick to the privates. Smudged guitars, a traditional opening, typical fodder thrown up, Jaya The Cat are just tossing off with easy pleasure now and this chipper ejaculation impregnates with yet more prized pips of casual jauntiness flicked from the wrist with aplomb. A cripplingly good dance-along verse and a harder chorus that is still gonna keep those feet and arms moving in fluttery roboticism and that smile on your soaked up boat race. Played with tight exactness, mixed with precisional insight, layered over with worn and war torn reality - quite wonderful.

'Closing Time' signs off, is a drinkers farewell and is the perfect end of time escort to lead us towards the final silence. Thoughtful, reminiscing, reeking of another rough night on the wayward lash. Bleary eyed, born and bred a bar fly, this is experience talking and walking albeit on unsteady pegs (not so sonically). A waltz away, a disappearing figure accepting the night is over, until the next time we leave on a sedated high note - I would expect nothing less.

STARS BURN STRIPES - SONGS ABOUT ESCAPISM

Pushed my way via a twanger with a passion these Copenhagen cacophoneers strike me as a very talented bunch and in it for the serious crack and with an ear on keeping this technical (to a certain degree), melodic and well paced. One of their favourite artists are The Mighty Midgets (veritable masters of the artform) and one, which in some ways, reflects what is going on here (come on, get clued in). Anyway, that is all you get as way of intro, the musical assessment will hopefully fill in any gaps.

First reflux reaction from the gut of disagreeable discordance is the acutely acidic furball known as 'Go And Read A Book', a youthful new school spittle soaked angst burst that  rages against the 'wired up' but 'clued out' who waste time and know little. The scathing guitars, the energy filled bone rattle and the tight fuck fanny of delivery all convince this cantankerous eavesdropper and the added bonus is that the band don't labour the melodic point, over-elaborate the concoction and duly spit the product in  your face with fiery necessity. It is a blistering start with all throat muscles retching hard - belch, splutter, blaaah! 'Losing Blood' sketches a fleeting grainy guitar sequence before fist flying into a slightly nervous and uncertain first verse that eventually unfolds into a smoother patch of passionate sonica that I presume is something akin to a chorus. A releasing and relieving moment that assists a very busy and sugar rushed song to maintain a foothold in the realms of listenability (especially for those encrusted old farts on the wrong side of the sonic fence). Like a greased eel in a bowl of oiled innards this one takes some grasping and at first can give a slightly nauseous feeling due to its overwhelming appearance - take time, bear with it - this is a valid expulsion. 'Asphalt' shuffles with initial speed, blurs its own outline and initially confounds the assessing senses. I dig in, grasp a tighter rein and rock along to a modernised holler out that sees the band reaching out and attaining a certain control. The most melodic upchuck thus far and may it be said, the most routine (is that a good thing). The band do well to maintain the reins as one can almost hear the strain within to stop themselves from running rhythmic riot and throwing in a vast array of exhibitionism and tweak and twang affects - feisty fuckers they be. This is a generally clean cut number designed, I feel, for the baggy arsed brigade and baseball cap topped tunemongers who like a good old techno tear up. Many golden oldies will hate this but, equally so, many new noise boys (and gals) will love it. Spicy shit kicking without wild vulgarity - take that as you will.

Going forth (or fourth as seems apt) we are given 'Headphones' as an offering to be sacrificed on the altar of the critic. The blade is plunged in and after the initial flurry a very fluttering, edge of seat chunk of agitated swiftness is given, a morsel that is no sooner chucked into the assessing gob then it is duly swallowed and considered. Too brief to fully assess but showcasing the expertise of the band and keeping the CD spinning. 'Set Fire' is a little bit longer and begins with a sub-Green Day groove (blah) and displays itself as an almost vulgar commercialised whore that opens its legs for the passer by who just may have an opportunity going dependant on whether or not the band want to fuck their ethos hard enough as well as the proffered 'sell your soul' fanny. Having stated my crude sceptical thoughts I still find this a very pleasing song and the main chorus, however predictable, is done with gumption and youthful sweat arse zing. The overall song is tight, melodic and highlights another facet to the bands armoury - bang on. We follow with the equally smart and effective 'Challenge Accepted', a talent exhibiting masterclass to all those wanting to holler hard, riff up the landscape, toss off the tuneage with tingling digit tips and to create a hard perspired track that glistens with able application and boundary stretching gusto. The climax comes via the wide open chorus where the band achieve new freshened heights - classy work all round I'd say.

A minor dash with 3 songs dealt with in terser time. 'Genuine', is a real free floater sung at the bar with a slight open handed improv style that has coffee smoked sub-jazzism overlain with scored vocal singes that merge into a liberated chorus of punked modernistic tones - it has to be said that this one is a delightful ditty played with supreme articulation. 'I Want The Truth' plays a shadowy shuffle, pounds and then punches and runs with the bands vigorous signature style. Hepped up by agitated and whip arse skin work, soiled by the 6 and 4 string rhythm keepers, made urgent by the desirous gobbage - to the point, anti-unnecessary - cool. The last of the triple X speedsters is scored (or scarred) with the title 'What About Me Now' a ditty that offers an acoustic titbit before snatching away and delivering a jump and jerk verse that leads into a superbly questioning and sing-a-long chorus that simply repeats the title with testes exposed and emotions ejaculating. We get a sub-skank segment (think about this route some more chaps) that is over too quickly, a finalising rushing surge and I am still in the zone with this bunch and jigging around with thumbs raised like a man who should know better (but proudly doesn't).

'Moments' tympanises inward, adds stringy thingy fiddling, offers up a song similar to all that has transpired. A case of the latter stage fall out with this song lacking in impact due to its positioning and despite its cleaned out and well constructed orchestration I find myself a little out of sync with this one. It seems a trifle uncertain, at times just appears to rethink where the hell it wants to go but...you can still applaud the skill displayed and the attention to detail - just one of those that doesn't fit in the Fungal jigsaw of appreciation for no reason at all - you know the crack. Last up and 'Kill The Mood' adopts a streetlight seriousness where under the glare the damp pathways are trod by a player on a mission. Knocked off his feet, the band take over and whip away with rhythm razors that cut to the bone and burn the tendons of ignorance. This last track is all over the place, dragging us through a bramble bush of spiteful thorns with no sign of escape. The resultant raping given is loaded with garish uncertainty but this time the lack of focus leads us into the final silence with a feeling of 'what the fuck' and a serious need to hit 'replay' to see if what transpired actually happened - perversity is a strange thing.

PRAWN - KINGFISHER

Starting in 2007 and hailing from Ridgewood, NJ the band under the Fungalised spotlight here are well-versed in their noise, have their feet firmly planted and know their true course. They have a fragile sound, rising up on melodic softly, softly pop tones that are kept well groomed and without ruffles. The crew have toured, and even reached these septic shores, but are off my myco radar and are distinctly not of my usual listening gunk. On their facebook page they are described as an indie/emo type band - fuckin' hell, this may be a struggle or an unexpected surprise - here we go...again.

'Scud Running' twinkles in with slight ascension before complimenting via placid guitar work and headpecking skin work. The big city panorama effect risen to is worth the wait with a comfortable scenic style dwelt upon and a wide angled vista envisaged. Very safe music without any barbed effect and without any far flung spittle, distinctly coffee table rock that will have the middle of the road lovers from, primarily, the more fashionable and clean cut end of the spectrum tapping their well heeled toes - cunts. Being from the wrong side of the razored fence doesn't mean though that I still can't appreciate this stuff and despite my finding it somewhat arid acoustica it does have some fine musicianship going on within the crumbly machinations. 'First As Tragedy, Second As Farce' opens with twisting intent and moves into a stuttering verse that sees the players clambering over one another a little too much and making for a fairly confused listen. It is bad shit but just rather crumpled in a sub-untidy kind of way and one can't help feeling that with a little more elbow grease with the acoustic iron all would be a trifle better - just a though (and that coming from an knackered old fruit doused in DIY well worn noise). The impact levels, for me personally, lack any zest and so confine this to the background boardroom (which is a shame but my own honesty must prevail). I skip on, one jump ahead I hope but suspect I'll be 2 jumps behind - I care not and will do the best I thoroughly can.

Track 3, 'Prolonged Exposure' (haven't I been arrested for that in the past), emerges from the sonic subway with texture aplenty - my hopes ascend. As soon as seeming daylight is struck I feel as though the band crawl beneath a pillow and don't live up to the promise created. The initial post snooze utterances still intrigue and I am expecting a full on sun splash and awaiting some significant bronzing via the bands rhythmic rays. We get brief glimpses of uplifting warmth, we get a chance to bask in a multitude of relaxed vibes, we even have moments that threaten to rain hard and inject contrast but, despite all this, I can't help feeling that all is a little subdued, restrained and kept a little too safe. Music for idle heads who like to skip in a field with other detached dreamers in sub-section of a very indiefied scene - no, I don't like this one neither do I find the chasing 'Dialect Of' to my favour although the slightly roughened edge, the more honest and earthy vibrations do resonate my scummed sonic soul and find some bastions of praise. This effort is more driven and has finds extra direction as a result which the listener can truly get to grips with. As per, anger is lacking, passion barely makes an appearance and the musicians desire for the job at hand remains pretty elusive - nothing fabulous but not a nauseating number like the previous piece.

'Old Souls' prolongs the barely touched intro, eventually finds an approach and rises from the low lying mists with theatrical languidness that aims to create a vision and in some ways succeeds. From the morose miasma comes a hopeful ascent of rejuvenating comfort that puts an arm around your shoulder and eases any initial glumness. Eventually we are welcomed into a metamorphed environment that has pupated from the dreary creature we were greeted with into a slightly more colourful flitterer that has more life, slightly more desire for the job at hand. I have heard a lot worse songs than this and the gentle reliability does convince. 'Glass, Irony' ominously comes forth on a brew of feedback and bass before chugging with direction and throwing down some solid foundations on which to build. The first verse is whipped cream indiefied comfort with the pursuing chorus liquid oscillations and planed down variations of inflection finalising a somewhat non-threatening piece that doesn't inspire that rock and roll soul. I am not keen on this one, it curdles its own sound a trifle too much and has no definite tones of distinction to rave about - I pass on untouched by the wafting output. 'Absurd Walls' is now an arrangement too easily expected and predicted - it dawdles around, relies on a restrained cascade of string twinkles, a whispered emotion from vaults of tired souls and greyed acoustic hairlines that have aged before their time. Real morphine music offering no chance of a dance, no risk of something brisk - if your head is in the gas oven, it will certainly stay there with this gloomy number.

A trio of tunes left, a quick dash for the finishing line methinks. 'Thalassa' begins with frosted strings, harkens for a brighter sensation with polished brass and gives much promise. My saliva glands begin to drip, bastard - the buggers go back to the usual flow - a considerable faux pas I feel. More pillow whispers, more meandering hesitancy with the some vocal parts only having the merest sonic assistance. Eventually we rise higher but that initial brassage in the sonic back passage sees me in a state of yearning from which I get no respite - think on chaps, that blown horn offers much room for manoeuvre on future excursions. 'Runner's Body' glistens with twilight pecked nervousness, once more floats on a skyline of clouded uncertainty, relies on things being mellow rather than manic and for me, personally, I feel the song needs a good arse kicking so as to throw in an angular moment and reawaken the senses. The nebulous focus and way too laid back essence that emits from the whole shebang leaves me a trifle cold although I can see it being met with applause from the more Indiefied connoisseurs. To the last and 'Halcyon Days', and 'Ditto' is the best one word review I can give. Same old, same old, with an even more indistinct edges that provoke images of a shambling zombies lost in a miasma of humdrum mists - can you see I have lost patience. I sign off, disappointed.

THE WEBB - LITTLE PIECES

The year was 2012, a brace of fidgety sonic spiders were looking to catch new flies of tuneage and so decided to join their cephalothoracic appendages and spin out a product known as The Webb. This creation shimmers with new intent and attracts acoustically airborne fliers with a nose for something different. They operate from a home studio, both players add their own emotive slants, the result is that the band have been signed to the Italian label Gothic World Records and have this 4 track CD for me to dabble with. I am wary of spiders, they are crafty devils and hold no favours but, they have their place and need due consideration - let us hope I don't get too entangled with criticism and fly free leaving a scent of positivity - all I can do is what I do.

Electro punctures invade, a keyed up, wired in sweetness cruises whilst the femme fatale essences slide forth and thus add to the initial suggestions of 'Falling Down' being something sub-Epoxiefied. The underscore of bubbling positivity clashes with the upper sobered vocal tones of sombre grey which, of course, creates further interest for the dabbler in varied dinnage. The wrap-around feel is a risky business and sees many bands come unstuck but here the repeat beat works and we get more and more involved with a futurised thrill that is scarred with an almost enslaving rhythmic regime and automaton effect that hints at the Fritz Lang movie masterpiece with clockwork regularity adding ominous threat. The winning factors here are many with the palpitating style, freshness and ensnaring vibe all shining through - I am keen on this one, a multicoloured monochrome oxymoron that lives and breathes with enchanting melody. The title track, namely 'Little Pieces' is a much more sinister saturated number with grained nightmare flicker films reeling across the optical sensors and leaving bleak visions of ruined internal acoustic entrails and raped and ravaged female cattle. There is a bitterness within the nap of the noise, a cruelty that comes from both the inside and the outside with only the floating Banshee wails easing the harmful intent. The razored edge slices into the attentive flesh, the opposing sensations to what the first track created are more than appealing and we thus have an opening brace to toss around the palate with much gratitude and resulting pleasure.

'Nocturnal Abyss' swirls in azure and jade waters where behemoths sleep and pure natural escapism exists. The opening rhythmic swish is sublimely strong, the sunlight kissed depths emotively exact and completely absorbing. The regulated machine-like grind that intrudes is at first unwelcome, vulgarly invasive but soon the colliding cacophony is taken to and the incessant throb jumped in line with. It is a harsh grind, a seemingly unstoppable robotic creation, striding forth with mechanised computerism that shudders the neurones, a vibe unwilling to alter its track. Do not fret if you find this sequence too abrasive, we are soon submerged as way of respite and taken back to the pastel, sun-kissed colours that reside in unpolluted, uncomputed waters - the mismatch has charm, the two-toned clash works - best song thus far and easily exhibiting the greatest potential. We close this 4 track escapade with the maniacal marionette dance labelled as 'Took My Soul', a creepy number, a twisted string-puppet jig along that hollers at its master and accuses him of devilish soul theft. The lead mouth, although alarmed and cursed, seems to have an unsettling sub-score of delight and this almost sado-masochistic streak is where the greatest chill is found in what is an unsettling and decidedly baleful track. The duo delivering the dark side have their bloodshot eyes and life spilling ears in the zone and this final slice of free-flowing, slightly disturbed gothika is prepared and posted with insightful sanguinity. I wonder where all this will end up.

THE 4130's - ONE FOR THE ROAD

The 4130's are a relatively new band on the block and their first CD blew me a new acoustic arsehole with its joyous relish, unbridled passion and attentive artistry that oozed youthful hunger and new breed desire. They have a US style tattooed throughout the upper sonic skin of the songs but provide their own chomp by being remarkably insightful in the ways of making a darn good tune. With baited breath I have awaited this second offering but know only too well it is always a difficult thing to follow a solid opening blast and to keep those initial applauders clapping. The style is still being searched for, the growth is not yet complete (nor should it ever be) so I go forward into this review holding no favours, no promises and no expectations. You should all know the way I operate by now!

The boozing rabble natter, in walks the gunman, rat-a tat, you all fall down. If that onslaught isn't enough then 'Curtains Up' goes for your jugular with a harsh relish and highly passionate sonic salivation. Immediately, it seems the band want to up the ante from the first CD and abandon some of the early innocence and tuneful melodica for a more abrasive slant that fights hard to blend the previous and the present into one high impacting noise. The quick tumble affect takes a little adjusting to after the first prized CD's blendings but have patience and the full weight of this opening attack will hit you right up the shitter. Accurate, paced with spicy spirit and raucously rolling up hill, it is a granite start that whets my willy and tingles my testes - noise is sex, sex is noise - ooh, oww, yeah, ahhh!

'Outsider' next, a highly appealing title, will the racket back up the expectation. Robust drums, pronounced strings, a careen to the side and into another tumultuous affair. The tale relates to those feeling on the outside, the ones looking in and seemingly pissing in the wind - ooh I can relate to that and what a wonderful feeling it is. The thought of slotting in to comfy confines to please the pricks ain't the way, remember all you angular bastards, keep it flowing. The words convince me, the chopping and charging electro dynamite thrusts invoke the same sensations and this is a definite underdog anthem for all those up against the odds. Unify, cry out loud, do your bit and fling back their stinking shit with belief in your hearts - great track and one to inspire yer arse into action, if not, then you may just need an undertaker. 'Thank God Its Not 1977' screws up is cacophonic countenance, grimaces with fist fuck pain, quivers with nervous agitation before galloping along in the face of the nostalgia nut and tedious tuned out twat with many irrelevant tale to tell. Move on, suck on the sonic shaft of the new generation, mix and match the vibes, dip back but stop dwelling on it - the message is clear, are you listening. The band bare their guts, give no room for ifs and buts and say what they are thinking with a drilled number compacted with sonic spirit and big hearted desire to move things forward - it will do for me.

'Regaining Pride' grits its gnashers, cools down the steam rising from the hard pushed engine, pushes along with irrefusable persuasion and creates that earthy UK/US hybridisation so often enjoyed on the first CD. The harmonies, overall sub-terraced chant, the scowled vocal slant and the overall efficiency of the four digit machine is all impressive shit. We keep on at these heady levels with 'Treading Water' creating a decent splash with the more bristled and boiled discharge that creates the most elementary and undeveloped song of the lot, thank goodness for the inner sub-skank squelch that adds a glistening moment and saves this from being a routine blast out. 'The Fight Or Flight Response' is the kissing (or pissing) cousin of its predecessor with a similar urgency and unshaven element thriving throughout. What we have here is an almost identikit sampling constructed from many elements already found in the previous tracks. The bare bass moments excite the most and have a good electro feel and frothing zest that aids all around it and upholds the tempo. I am a bit wary here as the songs are seeming to be all borne from the same vaginal vault and for me it is always better to drop rhythmic runts from varied fannies of noise rather than rely on the same old labial producer - squeeze them thighs we are on the cusp here.

I take a break, re-assess, dabble elsewhere then delve back in refreshed.

'But It's Home' clobbers like the Banner borne green monster who lets nothing stand in his way. Relentless tumble fists baboom their way against walls of resistance, catapulting acoustic athleticism maintains a frothy pace and the final destruction of your indifference is had - the inner sub-military knock about gives us time to focus. Hulk fuckin' smash. '1 Second 2 Break' splashes and screws with zeal, shortens the output, travels without any distinct chorus, adopts a pose often found on this collection and leaves me split down the middle with my convictions. The band are nailing it, the band though are re-hashing one formula, I desire more from a unit held in high esteem and will push like a fucker to keep em' thrashing. This one does get better with each spin and of course, if assessed as a lone track, contains an abundance of the impact factor. The expectation levels go through the roof as I anticipate the title track next. 'One For The Road' and get more enthused as the initial hybridised old/new school riffage washes over me. Cymbals add extra tidiness, the mouth work is fully released and given big lung assisted gushes to keep a fine impetus flowing. The band find a pathway, strip it clear and run with elegance down the entire distance. Accomplished and executed with well-rehearsed application the song is given a flourishing belt out closure that will pleasure the jigging masses. 'What Do We Need' follows in a more cagey way with the initial high menace soon scratched out by a scatterbomb rib rattler and much ado about something. This is the best song thus far because of this high impact intensity and the exciting way in which the harmonised holler outs are backed by a tonsil expulsion that is left to fly in clearer airspace than found previously - a fuckin' excellent track. I do wonder about that opening bout of ominous noise and wonder how the CD would have fared if they would have included a midway crawler of such style with emphasis on unnerving the listener and fracturing the overall set mode - just a thought!

Last 2, and 'The Escape' - a stripped out intro offers a peep into new areas but work is needed as the backing vocals mar the spillage in my soiled opinion. The flow that follows is more restrained and more deliberate than what has been previously uncovered with knife-edge swifter sections counterbalancing the perceived affect. A grower this one, one that lacks immediate impact but with time reveals itself to be a better looking runt that first designated. There are moments that excel, especially when the band seem to go for a more commercialised and clichéd style - mmmm - I still reckon this band, if given the right prods and pokes, have something outrageously excellent up their sleeves. We close with 'The Villains Of The Piece', a nice robust rough up with sagacious wordage intertwined with a regular tuned blow-out. The feisty spirit of the band rises, a stubborn attitude and belief exposed (as well as a kick in the ribs at the keyboard cunts - sweet) - I'll sign off and let the band say the rest.

BITE THE SHARK - FIRST BLOOD

A self released triple track product from 3 chaps in Manc land who have plunged into the vast melodic waters with mouth agape, intent to make an impression and teeth to tear your nadgers off with. Of Bite The Shark I knew nothing, now I am a little wiser and hopefully after this review your virginal opinion maybe a little more aroused (or dried up) depending on where I swing from. The crew seem to be hungry, they have desires on chomping on a few meaty arses out there, let us just hope they don’t choke on the apathetic gristle so prevalent in many idle scenesters rear ends. Right, let’s crack on...

The first song I shall pick to review is a nifty number with much jawbone strength entitled ‘Burn’, a very professionalistic piece with hefty riggage, big loping skin damage, snagging hook-lines, a flourishing gusto and an all round stomping and considered ‘blow out’ effect that convinces in many ways, especially with the clear cut end finish and highly impressive unified gob offs that assist in elevating this number to being a sure-fire triumph. Vocally lucid and powerful, musically wealthy and in no way lacking impact this is a bold effort that will undoubtedly rock the rafters in the ‘live’ pit - I look forward to an up close and personal encounter soon.

‘Gas And Air’ next methinks, a song that stokes its own fire with a twisting initial groove that is ‘ooomphed’ with well-slapped drums and a firm bass wobble that adds convincing weight. The scurfy strings make way for the cruise, the verse and chorus chunks torn off and thrown our way are cohesive, complimentary and oozing quality with the band pronouncing each note and acoustic detail with having rugged authority. Very rocked up in parts, quite flamboyant in the most controlled manner and with a swagger in the step this is another fulfilling number you would do well to criticise. The winding out ‘nah, nah’ assault shows the band are definitely unsettled which always bodes well for future upchucks.

The last of the trio that Fungal needs to assess is an acousticised strip out known as ‘Ms Ratshit’, a skipping construct with swift brushstroke stringwork and yet more lucid throat emissions that contain much tonal variation and inflective undulations which pinpoint a confident crooner happy to run solo or as part of the pack. Thrumming and humming with accuracy, entirely liquid in its approach and not fannying about with unnecessary tossology - it is a fine acoustic affair and throws a spanner in your works if you was expecting something predictable - ya twats.

MURDABALL - TWISTED

Scant and stark inhospitality here done via a skin/punk hybrid that growls along on ill temper and high incendiary agitation. Sprouting from the sweated armpit of Newcastle Upon Tyne this forthright 4-piece was first witnessed by my Fungalised self at a local gig where they received a good kicking at the hands of the PA system. Still, a good holler our shone through and beneath the hindering trousers of toneage a pair of big vibrating bollocks were there to behold. I duly came about a CD after the event, after passing on my supportive sincerities, and so now set about capturing the essence of the dinnage puked. I shall deal with all songs in clutches of 4, a slightly different approach, it keeps me on my toes and hopefully, you the peruser, captivated.

Batch one and we pound in first with a signature called, 'Murdaball' (oh these creative bastards). The first abrasive cobble-stoned cough up is hob-nailed, rusted and very traditional. It is immediately apparent that Murdaball are setting out a stall that threatens to be nothing original and intent on sticking to good old, Oi-esque structures that could hinder in the long term. This is an opening gobby assault that prepares the path and introduces our no-nonsense ball kicking bovver boys who move into oily and sleazed 'Johnny X' with bass rumbling DIY affect and hungry hollering that intrigues. The character under the spotlight sounds as though his nuts need removing with rusted shears as his irresponsible ways screw around with many a life as he carries on regardless. The band get to grips with the theme and add a sweet vicious streak and extra flamboyance amid the grinding factory chuggage and grimaced tuneage. Again salted and well-grounded noise that is what it is - rough, ready and in yer mug. Like it or loathe it - there is an honesty there and a complete lack of affectation - don't try to read anything more into it. 'In Violent Times' rumples the bed linen of decency and after a rippling verse the chorus stands up and bounces on the mattress of melody with utter maniacal, crash-bang,-wallop spring and string shattering fervour. The pillows of ease are tossed away, the framework bent with belly jigging weight - whooomph. I shall not be fannying about here, these songs need a terse application of textual acknowledgement - it seems the most apt way to operate. 'Dead Swans' pulsates with class war resistance and kick back resolution, twinges with rotted guitar licks before getting its head down and pummelling away with bloodied fists of at the abdomen of indifference. Nowt frilled, nowt overly skilled - just foaming gobbing from an Urbanised pit destined to struggle. 4 down. all very much of the same sub-generic mould, all kickin' away in the most booted style.

Batch 2. 'Bag Of Bones', grumbles and gripes, uses the same old dirty overalls to do the job at hand and tenderises the meat of silence with another bout of crummy sub-Oi. A fair song but already a problem arises, the problem that many a reviewer may face - the fact that all the songs are decent enough, have clout but are so similar and so routine that they leave very little to say. Now as an assessor of sound and seeker of tangents what really turns me on are noises with spikes, uncomfortable edges and overloads of variation but, here what we get is one of those episodes where the music is inspired but the tapping digit is uninspired - aagghh! Anyway, I digress but the point is worth making so, as a result, speed and tersity will be the modus operandi for the remainder of the overview - I hope it suits and gets the job done. 'Over The Top' is a gruffer number, a forthright grind out with countenance gurning intention and hard whipped political wordage that bites the apathy and gets one moving. My preference however is won by the absolutely blistering 'You Have The Right', a really basic kick arse belt out with the band exhibiting a granite venom and uplifting spirit that will not be doused by slack jawed ignorance. Irritation aplenty pours through the encrusted speakers as this one gets gorged upon by my ravenous lugholes. 'Bullingdon Boys' chases, is way too traditional to create a pondering moment and ticks all boxes of routine but never leaves a certain safety net that thus contributes to a song that loses all threat. A shame because once more we have a song that as a stand alone is far better than when it is in a pack of identical uproars - I move on with pace. 

Next and 'The New Generation' raises the bar and that certain 'oomph' factor level very much needed within this mire of merging music. The snatch at the attention is bolder, much more aggressive and the players respond in unison to a harsh pace set as soon as the militarised tub thump intro is over. The riffage is once more raw but increasingly cutting and has a few careening moments to maintain a certain peril that aids our appreciation - a good old effort indeed! 'Twisted' does indeed twist in, before hob-nailing with old school predictability and bog brush wordage, par for the course produce as is 'One Is Legion', a subterranean sounding number gruff rumbling and rough tumbling with all frills detached and abandoned and focus on a no-nonsense dust up - average indeed and even more so when part of the pack, come on lads, push it harder. 'My Grandad Didn't Vote For Fascists' is a better number all round with a crisper effect, a greater menace in-built and a message we should take heed of. The approach is bullish, outspoken, somewhat overpowering and makes sure it makes the set impression and draws in your lugholes. The political stance is made, a few will find this not to their liking - darn nutcases everywhere. Full marks here for a putting the arse on the line and not being afraid to say their piece.

Last bunch, 'Class War' is a rapido roll out that hammers along with tongue lolling and nadgers tucked in tight. It is a quick episode of hard nailed warfare with tempering 'whoa hoa's' and a sharp heeled scuffling - it gets the job done. 'Mice & Men' bass wobbles, surges and finds its zenith coming in the form of a fluid chorus section that throws its punches in hefty bunches but does so with a swinging liquidity that helps the end power have weight and a sting - nice work I'd say. 'Fascist State' corrodes things a little more, brandishes a dirtier blade with a lowbrow infection ready to invade your bloodstream. Sub-Exploited in musical drive, Oi'ed over and boiled adequately to make this a solid listen with inescapable essences of a raw-boned Special Duties coming to the fore and other antique flavours many will love tasting - get chewing! We finalise proceedings with 'Utopia' a mucky pup of flea scratching urbanity that wags its tail in uniformity with all that has transpired and with a demo-like accent to thrill the rhythm hunters beneath the more obvious rock and roll radar. I wanted a big explosion to cap off those lengthy CD, it just doesn’t happen, I piss off and consider my closing lines.

EMPIRE, EMPIRE - YOU WILL EVENTUALLY BE FORGOTTEN

Empire! Empire! (I Was A Lonely Estate) is the full name of the band and is one helluva weird band name with this lot from Fenton, Michigan comprising of a self-appointed dynamic husband and wife duo back up this feeling of oddness with a monochrome mix of gentle tiredness that holds no threat, breaks no sweat but forces itself along on frosted emotions and thoughtful wrenches. I get requested to review many styles which keeps me on my toes and aids me in swimming in many mucky pools of noise but sometimes I find myself totally out of the expected waters and working hard to stay afloat - there is no better way but it doesn't mean I always find it pleasing. Anyway, here I am again, flapping away and trying to make something of a CD that I wouldn't usually give the time of day (busy bugger I be).

The first trickling trinket of tonality to cascade down the listening flesh is a dreary offering that is polished throughout but barely catches the light of attraction. It is a sparse void that is hardly touched by acoustic intention and lurches forward with suffocating strain and heavily leaden feet. A feeble and somewhat muted moment that targets emotions not normally encountered in my spiked wanderings. I don't mind this aspect and the song (known as 'Ribbon' by the way) is played with recognisable care and attentive delicacy that needs a certain frame of mind to fully appreciate. 'I Was Somewhere Cold, Dark...And Lonely' almost speaks for itself and is another suffering song filled with murked melancholia and draining desolation that once more dictates when and where you will listen to this sonic sludgery. The vocal lilt seems borne of constipated agonies, straining shit house efforts where the wind from the sails is blown out and all that is left is an exhaustive pusher who lacks any real zest to carry on. The players do rise higher and with volume further heightened we achieve something close to a rhythmic reward but alas, this isn't to my palates desires.

4 browse overs, a quartet of quicker low-down’s. 'We Are People Here. We Are Not Numbers' bass beats with strawberry tart inklings before forcing the main body of the composite to move its lazed arse a little harder. The pulses are accompanied with almost squashed guitar twitches whilst skins are seen to in a most opposing fashion. The lyrical content lacks uniformity, is poured forth with a flowing spontaneity and is the final ingredient in a discordant dish that needs much time and much patience. If, at the end of the numerous rotations, you feel you have any grip on proceedings then please let me know. 'A Keepsake' is over the shoulder look back panging with another crawling pace had and more grim grey vocal tones smeared over the entire sonic landscape. A tale is told, I lose interest almost immediately and find this a nagging whelp whinging away in a self-made mire we may just get sucked in by and duly receive no pleasure from. The brassed drift massages the niggled noise slightly but I am happy to flip by this mood mincing piece and seek solace in something more upbeat. Alas I don’t find anything to raise my spirits and the chasing episode known as You Have To be So Much Better Than You Ever Thought', is a song that initially adopts the previous humdrum intent and monotonous pattern that at this early stage, is all a little too commonplace. The song rises in part and gives fresh air breath but these acoustically oxygenated moments are too few and far between and the sonic suffocation that comes (again) is a matter of course. 'Stay Divided' closes this swift quadro-assessment and is a strain in itself with a floating cloud flickering with sun-kissed droplets just awaiting the signal to go and create a mesmerising downpour. Predictably the sign is not given and we are destined to float with the weight of threat on our downbeat brow and the unexciting musical methodology nudging our heels. Again I remain transfixed for all the wrong reasons and am highly turned off by this dismal dinnage that is woeful wandering done in monochrome shades of the most haunting and accursed style. Suicidal music for the emotive cripple who finds escapism in sadness. I am now on a very tired back foot.

5 to go and no further fuckin' about I am afraid as praise is short, the appreciation levels low. Despite the precise and thoughtful nature each and every song that follows is diseased with the same dreamy draining and glutinous tempo that will really separate the eavesdroppers into the mass that switches off never to return and the tuned in who will lap up the mush delivered on this aching wavelength. 'Foxfire', 'Things Not Worth Fixing' and 'If Its Bad News, It Can Wait' are all grinding going with the first of the trio a whinging episode that if left on 'repeat' just merges into one long uneven and uncomfortable listening experience with the artiste getting too absorbed in the set sonic shizzle. The second offering is absolutely tedious tripe that at a stage such of this just leaves one feeling blank and at a loss as to what to say. The tones and choked mode would be more welcome in the midst of some riotous rock and roll but here is dreadfully uninspiring and a million miles away from my favoured discordance. The latter song is almost a non-event as my patience has run dry and I am afraid the comments have to be cut short too - it would be vulgar to insult this CD anymore as clearly I am repulsed.