THE BERLIN LIGHTS/THE DUGZ - SPLIT CD

An opening gambit in a set of 7" vinyl releases on the Time and Matter label featuring bands that include the assistance of one Charlie Harper (UK Subs lead lout as if you didn't know). Every release will be multi-coloured, hand numbered with an appropriate insert and of a limited edition - here we have Mr Harper playing harmonica on The Berlin Lights offering and singing lead vocals on The Dugz track. Once more Fungal will do his bit and hopefully get things somewhere in the realms of 'spot on' or, cough, cough...thereabouts!

Being a double A side it really doesn't matter where I start so, after a toss of a coin, The Dugz get the initial treatment. The Dugz (ex Prairie Dugz), a crew who hail from Scotland, have a keen 'erbert within their mix (hey up Ram) and who have got some fine fuckin' tunes in their repertoire. Here they spill up 'Caught In A War', a tune with direction, and of course many Subsy fragrances - with the introductory speed induced riff reeking of an amphetamine Girl of Tomorrow and the overall style of the song shadow imaging another style of conflict that had many 'Spoils'. This modus operandi suits the front chaps hollers and the instant it hits the turntable it invades a fans lugholes and causes that head nodding, foot stomping seal of approval very much expected. The latter segment where the guitar is chugged with more punctuating homage slowly brings proceedings to a close - you will do well to find any serious fault. Simple, streaked with tribute titillation and one for the long-term spikers.

Onto The Berlin Lights, a crew from the capital city with a rock and roll edge that is very much of the more alternative angle than routine punkage. This is a bonus, as it already highlights that the series set is not going to be anywhere near predictable - I am foaming at the mouth with glee. The song, 'Hit The Floor', begins with style that suggests you don't belong but soon drags you into the fold with an hypnotic whirl of sub-automated repetition that brings visions of futuristic venues where zombified listeners are given a new thread of life, life borne of noise! I like the grind, the inner spiral off kilter that is followed by harmonica intrusions and the regulated beat. A very opposing piece to the flip side track which is, for an avid and eclectic glutton of sound, all bloody good stuff. Again a simple formula but well delivered.

COLOMBIA - SELF TITLED

The postman comes, drops off his delivery and fucks off again. I go to the door and open the package and find enclosed a CD (yes another one) and so look for some bumph to explain - there isn't any (again). I try to find details of the band on-line and fail miserably and despite many avenues of exploration no answers come - ah fuck it. The band are called Colombia and this is their CD, what more can I do?

We commence with 'It'll Be Alright', a very confident tune laid down with tidy skin pulses and a regulated wire scrape that may be accused of doing very little but when examined both aurally near and far does far more than realised. A texturised corrugation of scurfy abrasion that nestles just behind the vocal frontispiece and gives a substrate from which to grow, enchant and bloom. Within is something composed and somewhat etched with insouciant transparency that somehow has a firm grip of the songs destination and delivers it in a semi-easy/sleazy way with coolness forever blown through. For me, the offering is appealing and with its under-processed edge and alternative indie-fied properties this foundation layer is a definite repeat hit drug. 'Hogblaster' escalates the tempo with a somewhat wild stop/start epileptic seizure reliant on power pumps, a splash and surge arrangement and a dog off the leash gob wildness that foams and froths with anxiety driven desire. This 2 minute onslaught is just what the crooked Doctor of Din ordered and perfectly compliments the opening aural prescription and stops any gripes from arising - nice work me old quacks.

A military repeat beat comes next, I know now what to expect, the lunatic chant of 'Monkey' would have been the least of my ideas. This odd curio enlivens the ears with its tangential veering that further throws the reviewer into the land of discombobulation. It is a very tribal, almost forced snippet of mentally ill spillage that tosses forth an element of unpredictability into Colombia’s repertoire - something I always applaud just like this slightly unconventional effort. 'The Gooch' chases, doubles stabs, slightly slashes before plunging in the sonic blade with a slow twist. The first verse comes, is a smooth operation with a back flurry of skins keeping things primarily alive and kicking. The guitars invade when necessary and gradually enhance their inclusion as we commute toward the quick chorus snippet that is nerved, unswerved and quite reliable in this realm of ragged rhythm - sweet. Machine-like pumping next with the sobering 'Human Condition' making no bones and stating the position of play in this testing life. The groovy backdrop of drive twists its acoustic arse whilst the front gob remains elevated and self assured with all areas knowing the end result. Things get slightly sizzled a little more before a time out is taken to musically browse the skill set and do some dabbling before the final push is given - again not a bad track at all and still stained with a streak of slaggish ease.

'Harder' suspiciously rumbles in with a ticker beat keep rhythm. The lead sexualises his output and when things become more acoustically erected the band are there to supply the goods with a mean humping investment of indulged spirit. An almost primordial upchuck of the most basic desires with the band thoroughly in the zone and seemingly just going with a very unpolluted flow. The mix is still DIY, the edge slightly unwashed and this, along with the elementary singleness of the song are what fascinate the most. It is a very gratifying song that takes no time to get to grips with as is 'Fallujah', a slower foray into the senses with a careful marauding effect taken on gliding heels floated on stable tones. The music seems liberated, easily thrown forth from players at ease and I hope so much that the band, when in the
'live' arena, back up this belief with an intensity and naturalness the produce deserves. In fact whilst composing this review I had another go at seeking out something about the band and saw a few videos of them plying their trade - my advice - relax, get in with your delightful groove, move around, adopt the shades, back up the emotive noise with a visual belief - it is your sound and you have to sell it - the choice is yours. If you look unaroused then why should the crowd make the effort - go on chaps - the battle is there to be battered away at. This latter song has some crucial undercurrents and yet again shows immeasurable potential - do not waste it.

'You Ain't Nothin' alters route, whips itself into a mouthy frenzy, a song that overspills a cluttered chest and gets the air cleared and blown clean with spirit. The brisk burst sub-tantrum accelerates the tempo of the CD and is a justifiable excuse to shake some ass and reignite the passion. It is one of those terse moments that give reviewers little room for manoeuvre and distinct critique - no harm done. 'Donhairmangoodcut' is a similar speedburst, this time infected with a viral insanity that seems borne from the warped title and has spilled over into the resultant melody making. A dirty duck this one that shits out careless irresponsibility that has a lust to thrust and get its own way. The composite is somewhat hectic, split down the centre with a shatterhand flurry of strings and sticks before regaining some semblance of normality and foot pumping to the predestined full stop. Again a brief and billowing effort with an end taste of a something more progressive - there is something going on here and it needs encouraging.

The last fly by under the banners of 'Velvet Helmet' and 'You're Pure', 2 very uninhibited songs that encapsulate the admirable flavour of this indified unit. The first of this closing brace is a proper decent uplifter with a wraparound repeat streak burrowing away and getting beneath your well worn epidermal layers. The gusto and general vim consume the resistance and with the fluttering cymbals, scrawling gob style and firmly struck stringwork I find this a real let loose and bounce number that again has magnetising properties I just can't nail. The latter number is a more unobtrusive number and falls back on a fair overall riff that has perspired persuasion and a more encompassing soundscape that envelopes all tones and delivers in a controlled session of semi-hankering relish. A twist of the volume button increases the impact as well as the impression of the vigour that is thrown in and catapulted in our direction - it is another firm tit of tuneage to squeeze hard with dedicated encouragement and to nibble at with eager beaver noise addiction. Good stuff and a fair old finish. 

INHUMAN ACT - WHY HUMANS WHY

I have reviewed quite a few bands from Aalborg in Denmark, a place were they have many blister blitzing bands who don't give a damn about accommodating your regulated expectations and who just throw forth their creations with exciting zeal and irrepressible DIY-ism. Here we have new crew to deal with, a short stressed up upchuck of sludged shit borne from bowels of bleak unrest - you bastards just ask for it!

Only 4 tracks here, the first of which is a voiceless noisescape of torture, a bleak urban avalanche of soiled locomotive pressure that travels on red-hot tracks through the caverns of Hades. Within the sable labyrinthine confusion flaming tongues appear and lick at your exposed senses and cause a sheer overwhelming terror and disgust - suffering is the aim, suffer we do - the finale of 'Track 1' (as it is called), is a crucial release from a void liable to bring about a pure mental seizure.

'Our Teenage Years Have Gone By' slopes in next on bended knees through a treacle swamp of clogging and cloying nature that really causes consternation. As a reviewer, at certain times, I need to reach for the old Marigold Gloves, put a peg on my conk and delve deep within the shitty mire of the music offered and seek out the thinking behind it, the way it has been constructed and the intent - here is such an instance. The glutinous flow is cancerous, the intent is nothing more than a chance to appease the appetites of those niched noise merchants who are happily stuck in their own darkened corner with the shit steaming. The construct is unwavering and of a relished style that many won't have the patience with due to its dense and heavily pregnant soundscape that threatens to abort at any time - very nasty. Within, the band burrow deep and invest their entirety into the sound with no room to breathe and no area to escape to - this is of one ilk, be sick or get involved - your choice.

The accurately entitled 'Defeat The Nazis' is more stomping deliberateness which I feel is a dire error. A song named as such deserves to be backed up by surging motivational rage rather than another snot liquid scrawl across the walls of passion. In truth, the band do stoke the flames a little harder and the belief and dedication to the task does shine through but that twisting pile drive delivery isn't easy fodder to jump in line with and many, who want encouraging, will certainly switch off. Those that stick with it will be numbed by the debilitating overflow that, with volume raised, can rupture the aural senses and bring about a crippling blindness of sound - be warned.

We are escorted away from the terror via the strung out question of 'Why Humans, Why'. A crippled boar of noisy nastiness scraping its soiled ass from the decadent and well rotted undergrowth with no consideration for decency. The main sensation this horror offal brings about is one of 'disgust', disgust at the state of things and disgust at those who let things end up in this way. Politically raging, awash with utter bewilderment and disillusionment the fiery drag of diseased din is purity dressed in sable excrement - a reeking product that sends chills up the entire bodily framework and then simply puts its point across - nasty and brutal - what else need one say?

NO SIR I WON'T - SHIT

Boston anarcho-political punk with revolution at the helm and spittle soaked angst thriving throughout. Made up of ex and current members of Surrender Libyans, Witches With Dicks, Shithead, Brain Killer and Foreign Objects this is for certain clientele it seems but my reaction to that is to wake up and fuckin' sniff hard and forget your self-imposed restriction. Music gets chucked my way with many labels, I try to ignore the banners and take what I hear as it comes. The title of the crew give hint at what we could be getting but, just like most of you, I am a virgin here and go in unprepared - wish me all the best. One thing though, it said in the bumph that if you don't like a message in your music then this may not be for you - get over it, come taste this Drunken Sailor Records release with me and give it a fair crack of the whip.

Splashing in first is 'Another Hour Of Shame', a break through the fuzz, a military role and chanted hunger with he gob gravelled and irate and nicely shadowed by the she mouth that adds a vital all sexes concerned angle that is most necessarily prevalent (or bloody well should be) in the marvellous underground sub-genre where protest is thrown forth for the masses to fuckin' chew on or, disappointingly, ignore. This music tries to redress the balance, to fight back against the corporate all consuming propaganda that dictates the days of each and every one of us. The song ascends in stature due to its kick back power, political unease and overall fury. The invasion on the Fritzed soundwaves lasts until a final whining fade out - what we get is purely effective rage built on Crassite tones with added power. 'The Third Step' and 'Radio Shit' seem borne of one well-groomed cunt and are best dealt with in a single direct chunk. Rantings come amid a garble of seething tones, patchworks itself with a refusal of media idiocy where the final statement of 'Bullshit' seems to sum things up quite nicely. A quick deconstruction and build up before soundbites are thrown in as well as trudging provocation, cross-wire stringwork and unstoppable oral ravings that refuse to tow the line and then, the uni-sex chanting is at us again. The overall impact of the song is heightened by the zest in the delivery, the bouncing spirit and belief in the defiance and many spicy moments that are musically stylish. The instrumental snips see the bass soar to magnetic zeniths, the strings cruise to easy conviction and the tympanics retain regulation with professional (oh darn that shitty word) ease. If the band are reflective in real life of the spillage here then they must be a fine bunch of awkward twats that would surely get this cantankerous bastards vote. I am loving this CD thus far and although thoroughly engrained with yesteryears anarcho rock this is like a new breath of fresh air that has been reinvigorated with a new passion-filled endorphin. The shockwaves created and resurged through your receptors are ideal to the task at hand and although some have no time for these hotwired orations that are filled with many 'anti' slogans I find them quite provocative.

Moving forth and 'Bring The Boys Back Home' fuckin' judders inward before fine she-spittle is splashed forth with underlying venom aimed at a social let down. Superbly written and composed with the right mix of niggling essence, stripped to the waist edginess and invading emotion that is poured from hearts on fire. Moments are had when sparsity dictates, minimalistic punctuations drive the pressure, gobbage ascends in the melange of musical mania and throughout we are kept alive, awake and alert. The song (and its brethren) is an acquired taste in today’s' multi-fractured scene but it is an essential composite that highlights that gutterpunk has a voice and will not be lying down anytime soon. The influences are obvious, the execution outstripping many of them - compliment enough I feel. 'Broadcast Tower' next, a pronounced start, several galloping thrusts, excitement rises. Raw furnaced throat repetitions bloom before a plod something akin to a Pink Indian release comes and rallies against the media waves that corrupt the mind. A fiery tempestuous bout and one that turns me on baby, basically because this shit is in the blood and I just can't help myself.

Last up, 'The Third World' another pasticcio of consistent patchwork passion with plods, power surges, high flying defiance and more superb bitch and bastard (in the most respectful and descriptive sense) resentments against the systematic misdirection and all consuming propaganda and takes away peoples wills and undoubtedly...kills. Bellowing, blistering - when this lot go for it success levels and convincing crashes are soon had and if, like me, you have a taste for many things as long as passion is involved, then you will be reeling away with ragged reality overcome and your head lifting with kick back desire.

RELICS - BEAST MARKET

These Huddersfield wreckers who blend hardcore and metal and toss on top a slight salting of punkiness have been on the block since 2013 and despite being old enough to know better are still banging out the tunes with glee because it seems they simply have a passion for...riffs. Here we get 3 tunes only, a wee taster to test the taste buds and give you a glimpse into the inner private areas of the band at the helm - oooh man, best get me gynaecological head on - where's me sprocket!

Leading the pack is a ditty slapped down as 'Death By Lead', an igneous construct starting in a somewhat stated and passive manner before grumbling out the title, steadily opening the clouds of riffage and beginning a regular downpour. The needles of noise that fall from the gathering greys are direct and unwavering with a unity within. Thunder rumbles are frequent, lightning twinges occasional, the overall threat adorned with flashed tonal trinkets - the storm we find ourselves within is incessant. The tempestuous edge opens up further and cuts to the core with a greater fervour borne from metallic H/C nutters on a crash course to oblivion. The song, as a total digestible chunk, is of a certain flavour, are you ready to get saturated by the sound ma'an? The storm continues as we move indoors, in the company of struggling alcoholic actor of yesterday, Colin Clive and his magnificent portrayal of the misdirected genius Baron Frankenstein. We enter as the first flickers of life are noted, given here via a soundbite and then followed by a crisp onslaught and then minced malevolence from blazing lungs pushed to the brink of sweaty exhaustion. 'Frankenkill' steams through the delicious verse bursts and exudes a vicious temper not to be trifled with. The chorus is more staggered and stated and doesn't do the verses justice, I feel as though a real wild swinging outburst was needed - I am a greedy twat. Manoeuvres are made to go off the well-beaten track with crashed and walloped episodes of unified gob offs and new school twangs thrown into the liquidising pot - it makes for an awkward yet absorbing number that needs the right frame of mind to fully assess. Pure, hardcore aggression without regret - fuck it!

Last of the terrible trio is scrawled as 'The Circus', a 3 minute 17 second blow off of pounding white hot liquid metal that pronounces itself on big strums and controlled tympanic whacks before thundering along with heavy impetus. Far from rigid in construct this bass driven roar is prone to switching tack, albeit in the most careful way. Throughout, the madness seems to be on the cusp of an overspill, the mental leakage comes in a double-quick vocal attack that really is the business. The following stride through boggy blast outs contrasts and full stops the song with dominance.

SCARED - DEMO

East Lancs new wave noise here with a fine bunch of dudes in it for the crack and happy to go out at a budget price and strut their appreciable rhythm that is without sub-text and very refreshing in this pit of much serious political ranting. The band are willing to throw in a couple of covers in their set to keep things going longer 'live', an aspect I would normally abhor but when they did a X-Ray Spex cover during the first time I watched them I thought it was a fuckin' A-Class effort - don't get carried away though, one cover is enough, the bands own material is what we want to hear though, talking of which...

'Jenny's Social Suicide' is the first sexual toothsome turnip to slip from the torn vegetable bag of sonic goodness (oh hell what am I saying) and rolls around with mesmerising rhythm and leaves a darn good stench up these aging nostrils. From the crisp strung opening and into the fluid first verse this immediate snatch at the rockin' receptors is a gem and gets ones feet tapping, head nodding, walnuts bouncing and the old strawberry beating in line with the fine tune exhibited. Full of innocent music making, with a trill to adore and just one of those moments you can skip to the beat of and not really give a flying fuckeroono. The production is tasty, the whole package a choice nibble of good vibe earthiness and if turnips be the food of life, then I be a carrot ready to join in and make it a double act of noshy, noisy celebration (help me...please). 'Whirlwind' is a well flapped rag of rhythm with pace plentiful and a smooth end production most gratefully lapped up. The mix of emotions dealt with via the toned wordage is ideal and posted forth with tight musicianship making for a tidily executed number that really gets the muscles moving. If the opening beast was a sexual turnip then this is undoubtedly a wind blown lettuce that goes from pillar to post with much internal and external vigour for us all to get inspired by. Get up and flutter yer leafage baby!

'Just A Minute' next, a superb carrot of cacophony that penetrates your jacksie of indifference and tingles the prostate of rhythm with superb effectiveness. This one is a crackin' follow up to the opening brace and far from what I expected after watching their 'live' shows. The bouncy delight of the bass, the effervescence of sticks and skins and the perfectly lucid and emotionally tender vocals pour forth through the verses before a spot of sing-a-long chorus arrives and exhibits slush-pup poppage of the most tasty style. I love this so much that I chose it as Song of the Month without a second thought - straight out of the speakers, into me lugs and the choice was obvious - an excellent track the band should use to advertise their ability.

'Illuminator' closes with a somewhat Eureka moment when love hits us and things are fully realised. It gets beneath the skin like all other tracks and shines as bright with its fully washed and ready appearance and oh so fluffed candy coated sheen that is far from cloying but just delicately ensnaring. Simple music without affect, sticking to bare DIY fundamentals and making sure the melody is attractive to all without being too processed. I am more than a little pleased with what transpires here and wonder where Scared will take this poppy sloppy shizzle.

THE COULDN'T CARE LESS - 3RD HAND

Hard, gruelling leakage here from an acoustic oil drum of disgruntlement that is liable to explode in your face at any unexpected time. The band are based in Leeds (well someone has to be) and strike out with a hard lashing tongue that has influences from the early 80's Boston scene which ground out a niche for those dedicated moochers who wanted a little more than what the UK82 scene had to offer. Here we have 6 tracks to digest or cough back up and poor old Fungal's ears are in for another hammering (I love it really).

Track one and the gruesomely suicidal entitled 'Light At The End Of A Rope', a grim sounding battering puked from an angry arsehole of acoustic resonance with the shit spill reeking of hungry, devouring desires. This dysfunctional din is an acquired taste and only fits in with the needs of the sonically perverse with its demonic undercurrent and bulldozing intensity - hefty indeed. The opening is made of highly wave-ridden waters that are splattered and splashed with heave ho power and leave no room for compromise. All areas are bass slanted, adding to the thick sludged pollutant that we uneasily get tossed about on - a nauseating experience to say the least. The rowers in charge provide sinew, the bleak skies above add to the unease - this is unapologetic peregrination from one island of filth to another - have it or suck it - it does what you would expect. 'Fucked/Fucker' tortures the tonality levels with more grinding focus and an impressive articulation of all things mushed, minced and malevolent. The efficiency in the animalistic rattle is stirring, especially for those with a fondness for all things grimy and imposing. The black thread of the song has paradoxical fulgent properties that attract the attention and duly hypnotise. The growling vocals, the complete package of hardcore incandescence radiates the player’s absorption in their creative process and as a result both the artistes and listeners juices are running on level maximum - a cracking number.

'Axegrinder' is a more crooked, deviating number and adopts a style that is prone to wandering off the main route and having a session of sonic contortion. As a result the song takes more time to adjust to and doesn't smash many nails of noise right into your face - darn it! Hang on in there though, patience, as is usually the case, provides one with rewards and the overall hard blown effect of the song comes to the fore even though that spontaneous swing that goes off-line occasionally does throw one off kilter. From the dense bass grumble to the final surge this one just wins you over. 'Gorgons' is more power rattling with a spirit sought for and hopefully found. The vipers of vibration writhe and thrash whilst acidic venom is sprayed and the toxins permeate the cerebral gunk. No let up here, a questioning piece with a little more scuttled spite in the tank and with that signature 'head down' accent we should all be well versed in - meaty stuff, no more to add.

On to the last brace, dealt with terse accuracy I hope. 'Resist The Mind Invaders' is a pertinent title (pity so many in the scene have already been had), with the social network delivering a multitude of messages to disarm even the most ever ready refuser. This song winds itself up into a real tantrumised toss off that has many sharp facets and bruising overtones to do some real damage. The whisk within is turned with rapidity, the flashlight red alert blurs, the chanted 'resist' is primitive and needed - a real therapeutic session to get the thinking back on track - well bowled lads. We head towards the final full stop with the tune 'Rabid Dog', which is hepped up on skins and cymbals before racing forth on cruddy paws with shit stained tail wagging. Foaming, not roaming, chomping as hard as expected but with emphasis on controlled cur throbbage rather than whippet whizzing mania. The inner riff up is progressive and restrained (maybe a fault) and leads us into the final lashing whilst never fully off the leash.

ELECTRO PUNX - FREE YOUR MIND

Date: 18th November 2014. Status: Expectant. Challenge: To alert all aural zones of imminent 18 track attack. Artist: Electro Punx. Artists Aims: To deluge the listener with a futurised cacophony blasted under the banner of 'Free Your Mind. Predicted Outcome: To cripple the hard of sonic heart and to divide and conquer the eclectic masses. Win/Lose Forecast: Unknown.

Instalment 1: 'War For Peace'. War bites, a warning of perhaps misshapen things to come - how these self-destructing devils are viewed. Immediate grind is oppressive, tonsil delivery automated, iced to the core, seemingly lacking emotive aspects - totally opposing the subject matter. Demonised advancements begin, a chant of 'No more murder' drills into the psyche - warning to the weak, get down on bended knees and swallow the effluence poured - the taste is foul, the reasoning fair, the decision on this first highly disagreeable sack of toxified tension is indistinct - a need to move on and make comparison is necessary. Auto-feed resumes, the digital circle proceeds.

Instalment 2. 'Last Orders'. Analyse - a fact facing donation highlighting the idiocy of man and the vandalising buffoon he is. Oral offerings are Dalekified, they hold no emotion, they step back and leave the filth to flounder in their collapsing pit of failure. Indications of dance-o-troid essences arise from the sleek machine that steps forward with stoic resolution. Compute - eyes seem dead, heart detached, but truth rises higher and the stark reality hits home - degree of success is dependant on you - make your effort!

Instalment 3: 'Resist'. Impression made before rotation - a song of defiance perhaps? It seems fair. After a plea, the machinations of the song are slowly revealed with pronounced notes melting into the main thread. A pre-programmed assault holds fort, an angry bite that nips – I need not ponder.

Instalment 4: 'In Your Hands'. Leakage, crystal waters cascade with shimmering naturalness and unpolluted hope. A slow electro-heartbeat is slightly palpitated by tympanic touches before we melt into a bout of purist passion and dreamy belief that touches the soul. No sooner uttered and the song dissolves into slightly harsher tones that contrast nicely and add that more corroding impulse so often delivered. Unity is the key, awareness, survival - and most importantly love - choice work.

Instalment 5: 'Hell On Earth'. Poisoned tones, marching threateningly onwards, whilst the vocal cords are trembled with crushed almost Satanic pressure - a hard slog seems imminent. The creation pulverises all in its path by nothing more than dogged stubbornness and repeat beat pushing. A very 'heavy ma'an' moment that isn't easily digested and with a somewhat scarred and unhealthy overlay this one is the expected trial. I am unconvinced. Under aroused, left somewhat flaccid rather than standing proud, I make note - a low point is the verdict although the final skip warps the overall opinion.

Instalment 6: 'Follow'. A crucial tempo assault, a pertinent point made, a rhythm etched with defiance, refusal, opposing necessity. Typically punked, forcefully questioning with a tight wire thread of genuine frustration and disillusionment towards the empty head/force fed victims of the incessant media/politico barrage we almost believe to be not there (the ultimate trick). With the application of extra tempo, the clashy guitars that work against the chant and the general spikiness of the song this one gets my primitive punk vote.

Instalment 7: 'Sick And Twisted'. A hammering tirade against the omnipresent evil out there with a fundamentally basic sludgery working with hard lathered labour. This is more cacophonic fodder to rummage through and seek where we hope to pull out certain elements of musical pabulum to feed the ever-gaping maw of the mind. The initial orchestration is routine and effective but all is enhanced by the texturised instrumental moment that kicks from your carcass nothing more than thought and abstract visions - a solid touch and allowing the last flourishes to hit even harder.

'Instalment 8: 'Burst Johnny'. A disco cum savagery splat of kick against the prick noise that jumps on the misdirected reverential behaviour towards a man who wanted idols killed and then set about trying to become one himself. John Lydon is the brunt of the blaze, a man who has many angles, who holds some good threat but who has turned from hero to zero due to allowing himself to get consumed by his own ego and his obvious adoration of the coin - is this your idea of punk? The tuned tale has a real smooth flow that, for me anyway, is etched with a certain sadness as we see another spiky top sell out and leave us standing in the pit of bewilderment. The mix of Summer-ised dance and a multitude of defaming soundbites make this one a highpoint of the CD that shows the way is forward and heroes are best left locked in the closet where all the other losers are found.

Instalment 9: 'Tel Lie Vision'. A floating TV screen of visuals, passing by with intermittent repetition and made consumable by light key touches and a commentary style guide. A very delicate piece that has a charm all of its own and yet more thought inducing content - no need to over elaborate the review here or dissect too deeply - a sweet addition.

Instalment 10: 'Technol Freak'. Creeping in bassism before unwinding into a jig-inspiring jaunt frosted over with shards of corrosive tones. The opposing factors collide, sit side by side on a melodic mattress of discomfort, a mattress marred by critical piss stains and vulgar cigarette burns from ones not fully tuned in. More wear and tear will come no doubt but from these fetid fingers only a positive review is tapped out. A somewhat releasing number that has good spring in the inner coils - yeah. The melting slip beneath the sonic sheets towards the end leaves us calm and comforted.

Instalment 11: 'Feel Good Factor'. A slower, more drawn out effort with a winding gait that appears almost clockwork in style. A carefully ridden horse of noise that trots with dirt-kicking determination and glides in part across sonic land that is cleared out and inoffensive. The melodic essence is, in the main, grinding but those chilled out moments, however disarming, do have merit and help the whole creation to construct room for further thought. Get up and have it is the message - do not wait on the motivators because they just can't be arsed.

Instalment 12: 'Numbers Up'. Drags a weary arse in before pumping to the set beat. More bleak alleyway hollerings, smothered in an overlay of heavy shadow that minimalises the general opacity of the song and thus leaves us with a greying number with no real glints of positivity. At this stage I feel a full on explosion of angular and contradictory toneage would have been most welcome and I feel this is a little too sludgy for its own good. Can't complain really as the CD has kept me involved until this point - hey ho.

Instalment 13: 'What's Eating You'. Pigs gorge, wallow and glut some more - what's new? The streets are bare, the swine have fled, now we fall prey to the walking dead. Thermally shut down, running on a barely perceptible tick rate this terror tone walks on staggered limbs and gently nibbles on the bones of defiance. Mid-paced, without force, mauling with one mode - a chance missed for a real messy mush of spine-tingling proportions.

Instalment 14: 'Magdeline Sisters'. Shadowed soundbites, a wailing misery ensnared in the webs of religious weaving repeats, repeats, repeats and then...ceases to be, without trace, without imprint made - how apt!

Instalment 15: 'Disease Or the Breeze'. Tonal softness, utterances from the pit. A breakdown, impetus is found. More post-nuclear dust blown sounds rolled around the mote-ridden bowl of cacophony with an overwhelming strain of dominance had. Intervals are short and unexpected, this patchwork oddity is angular, ill fitting and just out of sync with my needs - again a very bleak episode.

Instalment 16: 'Wasted'. An ascension on a solid fountainhead of filth laboured with perspired tension. The sub-thrash chainsaw attack does more than chafe the sensitive epidermal layer of the eavesdropper, it, as you may guess, cuts through to the bone and brings forth a reaction. Given a volume burst, a repeat blast and certain consideration this agitation piece has a subtle rabidity to the bite and leaves numerous poisons to do their work within the flesh of the curious. The wind down to the final shimmer is prolonged - is this justifiable at such a late juncture?

Instalment 17: 'Pain'. Proudly stamps in, builds a resonant scene, bleaches out any colour from the panorama and once more walks forth into two-toned territory. A slow hardcore plod against unexpected forces with the funereal keys and agonised oral leakages a real test for the upbeat noodle. For me this is an atmospheric slab of surgery that takes out your glutinous innards and deliberately molests with antagonising intent - perverts prepare.

Instalment 18: 'In My Dreams'. Brings down the curtain on this heavy duty CD with a resolute determination to continue the beating. A real dour piece that doesn't hold back and bares its entire ass for your displeasure and lets out a reeking stench for you to get annoyed by. Completely crushing and cursed, charred to the framework with intensity borne of sable flaming tongues that lick with a vengeance. Hope is offered, hope is almost lost - an overly sobered piece not for the faint-hearted.

NITRO INJEKSA - D. F. M. B

Based in Berlin we have here a Russian/Canadian three-piece here who play fast melodic punk with an eye on the modernistic approach and DIY edge.  Since forming in early 2011 this is the bands 2nd release and they have appeared on numerous DIY compilations. That, at this present moment is all I know, I hope that during this review I can clarify things a little more. 

The beginning comes via a jerk and shuffle schizoid piece of unsettled dinnage known as 'No Borders', a totally unpredictable bout of agitation that never fully settles and flaps its wings in many directions. A perfect pogo-ping riff up commences the song and builds hope of a dynamic opener. Heads get down, plough away with incessancy and wear away resistance with a flurry of instruments that come together and make a quite hectic mix. The song quickly metamorphs from the initial spin uncertainty to a well played bout of believable noise that has a tight edge and well executed overlay - it gets the CD off on a firm footing. 'Kto Kuda' is a pronounced number at first before trembling into a breezy burst of peppy animation with the acoustic areas all kept choppy and somewhat lusty. The industrious techniques used create fizz from which we get enthused whilst an inner plod breaks the activity levels and gives one time to contemplate - easy ain't it?

Title track, the lively 'D. F. M. B.' a spontaneity filled fizzbomb of stretching passion to burst the bubble and break free from the structured confines of the generic shizzle. The band once more radiate a restless, a fidget-arsed emotion that just can't keep still, similar in fact to a 10 year old Smartie addict given a good old dose of tablet toots and an extra boost of Billy Whizz. A sure-fire ADHD episode that could fall apart at the seams but doesn't because the NI dudes play it tight man. 'Rifles' is a more suppressed track but still has the unsettled streak within and will undoubtedly throw some old school farts right off their rank and non-too rhythmic feet. The songs starts without too much flavour (after the initial machine gun attack that is) but eventually metamorphs into a trembling slice of well scuttled noise which many skater dudes will fly around the basin to. A firm and steady number continuing a theme ready to be whipped ragged but thankfully the crew take a trip off track and toss to the fore the skankaloid sensation slapped with the appellation of 'Conspiracy'. Two-fisted punctuations are thrown before a double flurry is aimed, hits home and leaves to make way for some dancing moves based on snaking monochrome manoeuvres awash with yesteryear emotions where many a jigging joint was alight with shuffling tootsies. The light upstroked moments have a distinct classiness, the tonsil donations more consideration and so the resultant rock out is thoroughly rewarding. This, perhaps more processed fodder, is a subtle change from that which has gone before and although my tastes are usually drawn to the scummed end of the spectrum I am, for some reason, finding this the most appealing track thus far - a genuine cracker.

At this point I feel it essential to nail these tunes as acutely as the band are doing the business and so will rattle off a couple of 4 batches in hopefully accurate time. 'Bez Tormozov' is the first to get a quick grill and yet again is a frisky, well-oiled number with all hands pumping the shaft of sonica hard and doing it with the incessant agility shown thus far. This one has a get up and go seasoning with arses firmly drilled (ooh mother) and the end mix-up is as tight as an ants anus. 'Lobotomiya' has a similar tuned tang and begins with a fiery rumble in the guts before ploughing headlong into another episode of unyielding sonica that has high precision and a firmly whipped rhythm. The odd stray from the routed path comes, it adds to the longevity factor and the short, sharp careen crash and burn moment reawakens any fading attention and keeps the listener captivated. 'Down In Denver' is one of my least favoured moments as it proceeds down an avenue of commercialised new-schoolism that drifts away from the more relaxed and self-assured offerings that have that spikier edge. I can appreciate the move from the same old, same old and perhaps this is an effort that will grow with time but it just lacks that urgent killer edge and unadulterated chomp the other efforts so blatantly exhibit. It is a bold enough track and has much to its merit but I just find myself one step behind the beat. Last of the first flashed four and 'Novya Mir' is a collection of polished moves and tetchy leanings, vacillating precipices and some acidic splashes of volatile string spurts. The modernistic approach offers some almost incongruous instances that flicker with discomforting danger but which also add to the involvement one attains within the sonic stratagem set. Mmm - I remain split with this one.

Bunch 'o' 4 number 2 and 'God Dammit' chugs in, somewhat falters whilst finding its feet before tumble tugging the skin of the tuned John Thomas. The uncomfortable wank off continues via the first verse and beyond with the overall accent of the song sub-stuttered and fighting to gain a foothold. From within comes a thread of direction and perhaps the bands invested conviction is what saves the day - whom am I to answer all these darn puzzlers? 'No Place' is a crackin' effort with an effervescing overflow of upbeat glistenings and some stubborn additions that offer up spikiness within the attitude. There are commercialised overtones, the odd super double time palpitation that causes brief cause for concern but in general the song zips along and has a good feel about it along with an 'in control' sensation. Sugary sweet baby! 'Bez Menya' has more grim tenacity and a steadfast sonic slant that indicates a desire to get the job in hand done with decisiveness. Belts are buckled more tightly, the clatter intended is more impassioned and we, as listeners, will be consumed by the spirit. Another wholesome ditty to hold in high regard albeit not stretching the band as individuals or as a unit. Next and the flashing semi-hardcore rip up entitled 'Kolbasa', a broken bottle song that imposes a delicious danger that may scar your countenance of indifference and leave you bleeding with gushing regret at having placed a judgement on the band way too early. This clouting sausage of sound is rammed up your arse with meaty relish and stuffed back and forth with rogering spite - oooh man! Acoustic intestines are stretched all ways - we should know better than to dabble further with this oblique moment so why do I keep reaching for the replay button? Perverse or what?

The final two - 'Suffer' is traditional spillage, has heartstrings slightly tugged and froths and foams in with drilling high action vim. Some Epitaphian lilts are adopted, some US strains injected within the strain, surely a ditty for the lovers of late 80's importations as well as a few skater dudes. 'V Stenu' multi cymbalises before driving along briefly and then hitting a stripped out verse that somersaults along with eager fluttering and acoustic authority. A well-beaten track, pummelled efficiently and having a strong appetite to hit the finish line with an enthused impact. The bass drives a mean tempo, the drums skip with desire and the guitar flourishes and fills in an exact manner. The gobbage is fired from the hip with plenty of emotion - a bold way to finish.

SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES - PEEPSHOW

Whilst many glutted on easily swallowed dross back in 1988 this album struggled to climb the charts and only made a pinnacle of 68 on the useless Billboard 200. Punk, from where this lot sprang, was always (and still is) about progression but many spiky tops abandoned the band (what more would you expect) as they moved into fresher feeling waters and kept on stretching their water wings to dive more deeply into their own musical souls. For me the band progressed quite naturally and although some tunes on this album miss my radar some make me nod along with appreciation for a band forever fidgeting and searching. This is done as part of a Prescription Press request who are releasing a box set of the bands last 4 albums - feel free to have a gander.

Appropriately enough a song entitled 'Peek-a-Boo' opens proceeding, a gypsy-esque bout of grotesque angularity that alters its countenance many times through this jaunty journey. Sharp knives are thrown, semi-sampled brass vulgarises whilst our lead lass goes for a cute girlie approach and launches vocal attacks from behind varied veils of emotion. The whole song should fail miserably, it is a nonsensical grouping of assorted sonic facets and miscalculated melodic moments but, and a very unsettling but at that, the Banshees make something out of the mush and offer up a quite intriguing and highly magnetising tune. Each application of sound is precise, sub-haunted and awkward but all combine to become a minor delight - I continue, all sensors on the back foot. 'The Killing Jar' pursues, is a gentler sound, a more mellowed out moment filled with languid vibes and buoyant episodes of crisp vitality. Sub-orchestral touches add to the sensation of mastery with a panging desire once more always there in the shaded background. Despite the songs blurred lines between verse and chorus and the overall wafting breeze of tonality one, with a little patience, does get involved and the whole delivery slowly wraps its tendrils around and nibbles at the attention. 'Scarecrow' stealthily moves forth next on uncertain legs tattooed with haunted images and frosted with whispered malevolence. The tension from the opening tones is gradually released, we bound across patchwork fields with a certain powerful grace with all areas chopped up and slightly grandiose thus satisfying the bands ever searching souls for sonic pastures new. The whole package is once more ostentatious, the impact far from instant but again I say - bear with it, sit back and let the structure be digested slowly, you may find some satisfaction, I know I do!

'Carousel' tentatively rotates with nebulous ghostliness and somewhat eerie clockwork hypnotica. Shimmers with atmospheric enhancements, delicacies barely nibbled, this sub-childhood fantasy grows but takes way too long and labours a point that produces an ennui that will not be shaken despite the closing escalation. The accent for the theme is apt but I find myself locked out of the tonal toy box and duly sulk as a result - bah.

Time for a reviewing surge, with 'Burn-Up' having a countrified underscore, tidily simmering with barnyard jiggology that copulates with the usual Banshees experimentation and thus leaving a somewhat end state of confusion. This one does very little for my acoustic appetite and leaves me somewhat out of sync with the unsettled flow. 'Ornaments Of Gold' is a pompous title and is elaborately adorned with mystic melodies and thoughtful tattoos of meandering shades, each one intertwining and at first appearing to make a disfigured montage but eventually, when the ear is tuned in, appears as an intricate working with many facets to dwell upon. Far from a rigorous rock out but it doesn't have to be, sometimes we need subtly grooming. 'Turn To Stone' is a romanticised number that is a trifle bland in all fairness with the undulation between verse and chorus far from dramatic and just over reliant on tepid tonality and a feet dragging momentum that does little to inspire at this midway stage - I move on, unmoved. 'Rawhead And BloodyBone' is fractured dabbling, a self indulgent moment where the band switch off and experiment with an accursed style filled with disarming horror and petrified tones that do nothing more than discomfort - perhaps that is the idea! I sweep on and into 'The Last Beat Of My Heart', a holy moment blessed with soft murmurs and sacred acoustic touches that float in silky surrounding of comforting timbre. The only fault is the overcooked running time which sees the number somewhat fumble for the finale rather than get things done with and make its point earlier in proceedings. A slowly swayed number that sees emphasis on a caress rather than a kick - a wise choice but at this juncture the latter is now much needed. I plod on with hope.

4 to go, let us chase em' down. 'Rhapsody', a song that deserves to be a full on blue pool lagoon splash with diamond droplets crashing in a kaleidoscopic shatter spectacle we are fully overwhelmed by. Alas what we get is a tired out drift with an almost off centre focus that becomes wrapped in self created blankets of safety and paradoxically, suffocation - a real turn off lacking any provocation of cerebral visuals and any suggestion of erotica - tragic. The finale ascends spiritually higher but it all comes a little too late and the sub-operatic orgasm just doesn't impact on the neurones enough to make a second serving a viable prospect. El Dia De Los Muertos Espiritu Mix' overstretches, overcomplicates and over indulges - a fast review I think - over and out. This last track and the closing two are bonus efforts with 'The Killing Jar (Lepidopteristic Mix)' and 'The Last Beat Of My Heart (live Seattle Lollapalooza 1991)' both what they say they are and not really part of the original album which, I personally feel, allows me to leave them for you to discover and dissect - how's that!