A band here, who have played a Fungalpunk gig and ruddy well impressed me.  They are a hardcore band, smash and grab with great effect and were primarily based in Púchov (Slovakia) but are now plying their trade in Stoke on Trent (UK).  They are a trio of terror, their first album was good but I suspected there was more in reserve, here I reckon they have topped their first effort and added extra sharp-edged nobs just for good measure.

A twinge, a splatter-clatter and a pounding riff.  'Spreading Plague' is impacting and forthright with a real power snag that attracts my attention from the off.  A change in the onslaught comes with the impetus whipping and the roars unified in parts and gravel-gritted in others.  The driving force is breathless and as I look at the running time I see the band are really trying to make one hell of an impact here.  More subtle twists, the quality and application is supreme and here we have an opening machine-gun attack that will mow down the doubters and create real aural bloodshed amongst those on the periphery.  A blazing beauty this that seems to be over in double quick time - scorch man, scorch.

'Wild Cry' pounds in, hollers and surges with high pressured passion.  The strings are searing and the drums oh so reactive and clobbered with vim, vigour and great accuracy.  Power chords, moments to pose, twists and taut twanging with an ongoing incessance that is neatly kept on the straight and narrow.  A massive montage of forcible thriving with the pace and overall quality drenched musicianship all making for a mesmeric listen.  The fact that this is hardcore doesn't mean melody is lost and things are hellbent on ear-destruction.  The band are cultured and thinking, the driving core of the song is watertight, this bastard has a fine longevity factor for sure.  'Flush The World' is a fine title, by fuckin' heck, it needs flushing - right round the fuckin' u-bend methinks although if this cleansing operation just gets rid of the human filth and leaves the wild side with a purer realm then that would be some triumph.  This hammer and tong rattler bounces in, takes stock, vomits forth a nasty bass and agitated guitar whilst the tympanics slap around. What comes shows a deep-rooted frustration and anxiety as well as another heavily-beefed up boomer that attacks from various angles whilst remaining one cohesive crackerjack.  Fury and frenzy, a full focus and a relish for the rhythm make this another convincing clout around the lugs. The opening hat-trick is now a certified joy.

The next trio of twat-rattlers with 'Against The Wall' a place I know so well, in this DIY dogfight.  A superb opening lick has me enchanted and the simple over-statements are perfect for accentuating the entire intro impact.  The rush and gush, the change in tack and the machine-gun assisted defiance all help the ascending ill-temper to shine bright, pour forth and blister those who get too close.  This is more evidence of a band who have grown in stature and who are upping their game.  A marbleised number with a glossy finish and many sharp edges - we move on, absorbed.  'No Way To Survive' begins with enveloping waves before screwing down and rolling deep.  Sharp pulsation before gruff growls are tipped over into your earholes.  A routine verse flexes and stays rather orthodox before a musical pronouncement and a push forth.  The main key here is the liquidity, the general smooth running and general unflustered application that makes a regularised song hold attention.  The band are hardly breaking sweat here and I relate this just above middling but decent enough to keep this Fungalised Fucker absorbed whilst applauding the delivery.  'Konflikt Zivota A Smrti' is rattled out in the bands own language so this life and death conflict based boomer is beyond me.  I love the opening preparations, the muscularity and the invaded wire coruscations - very nasty man.  The song pummels with a tasty zoned in blistering, the full on harmonised hollerings work a treat and the switches and tonal twitches all help give this song depth whilst keeping the listener on the edge and having much to ponder.  A fine piece of noise and again, highlighting the pure quality of this active unit.

'Čierna duša' comes next, no fucking about here as a black soul is delved into and is blatantly ravaged.  A dark edged song with a somewhat malevolent feel.  Hauntings comes via emotive guitars, cymbal whisperings and gothic bassism whilst we have the usual heavy slam-dunks and all out aggression.  Metallic grooves invade, certain poundings and some top notch riffage in another montage of high calibre racket-making.  Play this as a lone wolf and the impact it makes is all the greater - a quite magnificent sounding insert all adds to the weight.  'There's No God' is a shuffling sniper that releases the catch, squeezes the trigger and mows down all those who dare get in its path.  There is a seething viciousness here that works and the fact that the song doesn’t overstay its welcome helps no end.  There is little to add only it is one of my faves.

'Bludná cesta' thunders along with great energy and has a certain 'in the groove' zoning in that will not be derailed. The path will not be strayed from as the heads get down and we see the band execute another journey with good speed, adept ringcraft and a determination to only add intricacies now and then and when necessary.  Overall this is a specimen of hardened granite with little in the way to make it a rhythmic runt.  It sits in the pack and more than holds its own without being anything too flamboyant.  A pure disgust with misbelief and faith not trusted almost spills over into a spasmodic seizure of fractured lunacy.  The band somehow keep a grip on matters and make this one hell of an exciting racketeering with a lush punctuation at the end.

Into the last brace we go with the aggressive pummel of 'Deny The Policemen Of The World'.  This is a violent and punishing song built on a gripping, tight as fuck verse and a very simple but ramrodding chorus that will get the rebels foaming at the mouth and jumping around with unified kick-back zeal.  With a grimace and a snarl the main glut of the song is spat forth with a midway pounding and then a mad dash to the finale.  The last blast comes via the stubborn soaked 'Never'.  A long intro with sweet flamboyance and a time to take stock.  This is another articulate and happening moment that displays the wealth of talent the band have at their disposal.  A scatter spray and then a gruelling verse unfolds.  The focus is high, the pace middling, the alteration of attack complimentary of a band in charge.  Defiance, primeval explosions and some regular playing all combine to finalise matters in a solid and effective way - nice!

Yes, Picasso Blot have upped the ante and produced a really sound piece of work and yet still, I feel they have more to come.  The direction in which the band are moving is the right one, I would like to see them throw in a few 90 second tumults on the next release though with all hands blazing and the pressure hitting level 'insanity'.  This is a fuckin' good CD though, and they have another Fungalised gig lined up - once again, the expectations are rising - Oh the joys of DIY music!

From the Dutch realms comes a throwback unit of gratifying rock and roll goodness armed with a debut album on Wap Shoo Wap Records.  I was more than intrigued by the bumph that came with the CD and after listening to the opening track and being requested to review, I gave it a go and came up with the following considerations.

'Heartbreaker Soulbreaker' is a deliciously titled piece, right out of the annals of old-school vibrology and the song certainly matches the hints given by the tag.  From the off the band embrace the lo-fi essences with fine throwback melody making whilst the verbals deal with an uncomplicated premise of emotive simplicity.  Bubble-gum pop is intertwined into the sub-sleaze and low-slung ease and this is nothing more than good old throw-away music that must be played in the midst of assorted tuneage.  Play, toss in the trash can, play again, boogie away and repeat the process - it all makes sense.  There is a good joy de vivre here and something so obvious and yet exciting - nifty.

'Evacuation' begins with a filthy guitar lick before stuttering along via a jerk verse that just takes a little adjusting to.  The chorus comes and is a simple serenade to join in with.  From here we get alive and shit-kicking guitars, rock steady skin and cymbal molestations and a distinct 'off the leash' feel that contrasts well with the bands tight musicianship.  There ain't nowt new under the sun here, in fact you could hire a Tardis and visit many previous decades and find spillage of a similar ilk but, this does not make this shizzle any less exciting and impressive - we need this stuff baby.

Title track, great tub thumps and a lovely lick, this groovy mover starts on a winning note and keeps us immersed into the grubby glam realm we are now easily accustomed to. 'Sick Shooters' is raw but well-rehearsed, grubby but approachable and has an earthiness not to be underestimated.  There is a good solidity to this song, a real wallop dollop of old school noise executed with an exactitude and a feel for the generic realm complimented.  The verse is snaggy, the chorus easily joined in with and all the while a loose unity dictates.

The next 2 with 'Daisy' tumbling in, twisting with tight wire wankery and radiating a feelgood promise.  Clear and neatly scuzzed essences come and we segue without fuss into the magnetising moment when more sing-a-long simplicity is delivered.  There are no hidden depths here, no great profundities or political intrigues - it is a case of bare-arsed Rock and Roll played with a short, sharp and sound intent.  'Sweet Telephone' has a gruffer feel, is more purposeful in its orchestration and strides forth with a darn decent prowess.  Not an immediate sac-snatcher but one that slowly embraces and squeezes out good recognition due to its slight alteration of flow and overall consistency.  The more I play the more weight and promise I feel and the more in line with the general swing I become.  This is a midway settler with many crucial facets.  The guitars are allowed to strut stutter and the main motif keeps all areas as one.  A nifty mover not to overlook.

A chopping, a machine-clank and hard wank and then the cogs find their adjoining teeth and 'Supersonic Lovin' begins.  Grimy, rusted and almost falling apart but held together by good wires of riffery and some real low dog rhythm.  Again we pick up on a motif, lay it down and embroider matters with things unflustered but still with a mighty good attraction for those lovers of the vulgar.  There is energy aplenty here and that scurfy upper surface and slightly submerged gobbage helps it succeed.  'Never Coming Home' as a sub-country, pseudo tin can cable manipulation before finding the chosen course and ploughing away with a very direct and unperturbed focus.  This is a primitive sounding piece with explosions of flex posing, a good cavernous chorus croon and the usual straight ahead unified acoustics.  Straight out of a cave, tub-thumping, noise humping and staying away from any realms too processed and hygienic.  The CD moves on without distraction, the whole shebang progresses with tidy action.

4 left and I swing in and swing low and sniff the underbelly of the CD proper. 'In Between' rolls in, chomps away and takes up a rather expected route.  I am already in-line with the spillings and this is easy fodder to digest.  The usual twinklings and twankings, the steady structure and the vocal style all make for an unflustered listen that is perhaps the tamest song in the pack.  Nothing outrageous, nothing overtly snagging and grabbing and also nothing that offends - an average number for this lot which, as it transpires, does just fine.  'Holdin On' pronounces, crumples up the tin can wires, works inwards and has a groovy kind of verse that rolls forth in a very satisfactory manner.  Again, the band are playing within themselves, producing regular noise with just a little extra found here, a likeability that gently worms its way under the eavesdropping epidermal layer and creates an increasing tingle of pleasure.  I think this is an wholesome track with a tidy balance without being anything too extrovert and up front.  Another steady snippet methinks.

'Gambling Girl' stamps down, goes straight at it with a relished zip.  A sweet urgency, the lo-fi appeal and an avoidance of overdosing on things sugary sweet.  There is a resounding impetus here, a flavoursome approach and an all-round feelgood factor that is not intrusive or eccentric in any way.  I pick up, play and find a resonating appeal that is indicative of all that has transpired thus far.  We move into the last snippet still smiling and jumping around.  We close with 'The Great Escape (On The Run)' which expectedly bounds along. The tracks are screeched and the wheels turn with a hot-damn pace that gives off a good spark reaction and attraction.  After the swift headway through the intro things calm down via the verse before a simple chorus comes and gets one joining in.  A good spunky number this, in keeping with the album, with the fires well stoked and of a running time that is more than adequate.  I think the band are most effective over 2 to 2 and half minutes - and here is a reason why!

Yeah man, this kind of shizzle comes my way now and again and is always a welcome change.  It is perhaps of a very defined sub-niche that will have the sleaze and glam brigade salivating. This stuff needs to be out three amidst other vibes as a tonal tonic to keep matters varied and vibrant.  All jolly good stuff don't ya know and Fungal is sporulating with joy.

On Postcards of Metal I scrawl a review that sees the Trials of Salem go under the spotlight yet again and bamboozle my senses with all manner of mystic and eccentric vibrations.  My 7th venture into the void of deconstruct/rebuild dabbling with the lugs scaffolded, wide open and ready to take the 5 way hit.  

The initial tinkerings sludge-drip from the speakers under the slag tag of 'Best Trip'.  A post-punk psychedelic advancement into strange and colourful continents where clashing tones merge, fuzz-fuck and rearrange.  The mental shape-shift is a waltzing wankpot that swings, states and slowly defrosts.  A post-punk chemical crossover disappearing into a swirl-pool of creamy, dreamy shadow-shades and endless voids.  The rhythm is slightly echoed and wraparound and the overall head haze adds to the character - my advice get bombed or get bummed and feel your soul cored out.  We move into the initial structure of 'Stick's 'n' Stones' before  a complete dissolve decadence comes and we are clatter-battered with a jigsaw jumble of jangles and misfires whilst the poetical verbals drip feed onto the fractured canvas with unpredictable abandon.  If anything that this lot do could be described as 'abstract' and 'experimental' then this would be one fine example to use.  I find it all rather jarring and lacking in any cohesion which is a shame, as the palette is there for a masterstroke of many hues to be daubed across the canvas of your cognisant gunk realm.  The strange finale does intrigue though, it is almost like the suggestion of a song birth - I do wonder.

'Impressed' is brief, this running time allows us to focus more and not get waylaid by too many distracting forces. The song defies the fritz, trundles in with vocals submerged beneath a crud-haze of psychedelic swirling that is awash with self-sanguinity and a certain cock-of-the-walk, fuck you assuredness.  I reckon if folk hated this it wouldn't matter one jot.  I reckon it works, the dirty danger, the terse delivery and the downright contrast with decency all add a smattering of spice to the turntable dish.  'Spit And Soldier' has roots deep set and questions arise as regards the transience of many things and the value of treasures  overlooked.  We are passing along and the question is - are we positively productive?  The vibes I am picking up on may be completely off the mark but they are my vibes and that is the soul point of art such as this me thinks.  Let it flow, feel the vibes to the core, listen, like or loathe but let the impression be made.  A bit too sludgy for me but something snotty, DIY and decadent reaches out and touches a nerve long neglected - I don't mind that at all.

The finale, another slow gruel boil, a gloop soup that is poured forth and duly drips in dollops and leaves one hesitantly taking a taste.  'Nothing Left Inside' is a wanked off waster that is a thick conman who approaches on idling tones but whose words offer up encouragement.  I find this a confusing end statement and one that I may be misreading.  Having said this, the slow boa-constricting embrace and the overall suffocation factor do offer up some meritorious points - strange I know, but there ya go.

An aural invasion, a Fungal evacuation, I came, I saw, I even listened in and I was left - wankered.  Believe or not - this is no bad way to be.

Another toe-dip into the dayglo experimentation of feline confoundedness where fires burn with twisted flames and are poked by hands that cannot keep still.  The pictures seen within the conflagration are sometimes harsh, sometimes enthralling but always liable to singe the senses and leave one smouldering and reeking of critical acoustic ash.  I have invested many moments in the sonic cinders here, this is my 9th scorching at the hands of discordant devils, I am keen to crack on and discover what transpires.

The first blister inducing tongue of thermal tonality to test the flesh is entitled 'Living In A TM World' - a question is posed, are we a commodity in a world full of commodities - it fuckin' seems so.  The inner rebel must rise higher and avoid the shit-slots and niche drains.  This clank and crank wank is a chugger of choice capricious tuneage that sends forth its message and does so with a warped and rather shapeless arrangement that somehow works.  A reflective introspective image appears, are we thinking enough?  Are we varying up the angle dangles?  I like the machinations that combine with the pseudo-oriental utterings in a montage to help the creative juices flow.  

'Litigation Mitigation' unravels a case that becomes a complexity, a scenario that should have been unravelled but instead became all convoluted.  The creators play it slow and steady here and shuffle and slide beneath a slime-whisper shadow vocalisation that all contributes to one shimmer and shake freaklet.  A short and almost unfinished and semi-clad tune but maintaining the crews stance in the doorways of decadent discordance.  'Cocaine Lawyer' is a bleaker track, a drugged up automaton of plodding rhythm with a consistent back motif that will not be denied. The words come in terse droplets, the ambiguity is the greatest intrigue and again, without real thought and effort one will wonder what the fuck has just transpired.  Weirdo wanderlust into pastures warped.

The closure comes with 'AI Case Hallucination' - a construct that begins with an engrossing sound ripple that radiates with Who-vian mystery and sci-fi nebulousness. We are gently lain in an intergalactic pasture of swaying crystal blooms and chiming underworms were the fabric of reality is uncertain to say the least.  Brief words in a brief tune and yes indeed, the tape may have run out and I am heading for the exit.

This is my last jaunt with the Neon Kittens, I have run my course and can only review so much.  As expected we are gifted something way out of sync with the norm and with a gravitas and dedication to not playing ball.  I applaud and yet am at a distance, I dabble with all realms and we need these experimenters and outsiders for sure.

Wildman raucousness from a realm where things are white hot, offensive to those of a delicate nature and ultimately very fuckin' exciting for those turned on by people happy to tear themselves a new sonic shitter.  Two of Norway's crazed cacophonic units combine forces here and it must be said, as a mere occasional dabbler with things hardcorian, this is some fuckin' effort.  In the great galaxy of racket-making we have several generic asteroids coming together, crashing headlong into a blister-inducing sonic star and making for one all consuming 'fuck-you' supernova.

Forcefed Horsehead come first with a sonic ascension that blossoms into the snarling magnificence of 'Promise Breaker' - a real heaving gargantuan of overwhelming stature that breathes fire, stomps with spite and claws with ramrodding zeal.  I fall under the sable shadow, tune in and become a beaten down carcass with no critical resistance to offer.  Watertight, heavy handed, armed to the teeth with in-scene nuances and poundings and… to the point.  No over-elaborations, just enough showmanship to make this a pregnant animal ready to splat its litter on yer loins - what a mess to savour.  'The Will Of The Many' clatter batters in, roars with fury and sees all crippling components blend as one and make the beating for the listener both critical and unapologetic.  Large and looming stuff this with a malevolent streak for those daring to doubt.  The raven-pitch tonal shadings, the steaming hard drive and the piston-pumping/heart jumping full blown ejaculation should not be taken lightly or regarded as just a racket - this is quality stuff baby and I love it.

'Keelhaul' fires hard from the off with a fine lick to savour.  The opening vocal additions are fuckin' delightful and those tonsil chords are stretched to fuck and complement the heavier and less taut vocal tones to a tee.  This is the best offering so far, a double-dicked decimator of vandalising beauty that will leave you reeling.  Sincere, sparking and spitting fireballs of potent power whilst the players hammer away with great speed and cohesion.  The tympanic blur, the whizzed wires and the saturation factor all make this a veritable high to lose your mind to - fuck man!  The final fling from the opening unit is 'Cryptids' - a dazzling psychopath fuck burst with a more traditional and orthodox arrangement.  Volcanic vocals borne from depths of Lovecraftian mystery and malevolence, string work executed with a wide-eyed, head down intent and drum work carried out by a slap and slam dunk merchant who must be burning calories by the bucketload.  Glorious powerhouse gratuity without giving a second thought for apology.

And onto Shaving The Werewolf we go, a band who kick off their 4-track account with 'Smoking The Crack Of Dawn' - a double entendre if ever I heard one.  Grim and grinding tones open, a nasty sonic syrup gloops from the speakers before raw energy is induced and matters progress with alternating pace.  A scorched soiling comes, a semen splash of angst and unprocessed frustration.  Anyone wanking off to this deserves a pat on the back and needs to be reminded to wear thick gloves.  This is blizzard-bashing, bell trashing of the most awkward order with anti-rhythms and judders played in great time but liable to do your bobbing conkers serious harm.  A great concentrated slam of driving H/C lunacy - toss on folks.

'Affordable Victims' rises on quick taps and fuzz feeds before unleashing its own violence and beating up the silence.  A screwed up frightmare with a hectic pace and a look at the consumer madness that eats away at the gullible and those needing a 'spend' hit. Vulgar semi-immersed scuttling, straight forward ram-raiding, a pillaging of the senses and an acute invasion that cores out the carcass and leaves one far from hollow.  Machine-gun skin ravagings, searing cable work and the expected oral passage shafting - a veritable violent-core overflow that questions - tha' can't fault it baby!

'Complaining In Body Language' is nutjob noise liable to fracture a few levels of decency and have the hardcore wank warriors out there duly ejaculating blood (are they still at it).  A tantrumised, ill-tempered twat paddy of varying moves that twists, turns, tickles and tortures whilst all the while, showcasing band members of one damning desire and delivering the goods with a fantastic accuracy.  Horror threats come, gratuitous visions are dragged to the front of the noggin and we are left bulldozed.  I like this one, it has a sable edge and some genuine terror sequences.  We fuck off to oblivion with 'Man Song' - a bizarre song that seems stretched to the max whilst hanging on to cohesion and sanity by the very fingertips.  I have mixed feelings here, some areas roll and rock my inner rafters, a few seem to hinder the flow and don't appeal. Beasts rise and vomit black vocal bilge water, near collapses come and things get a little too treacly at times - definitely one for the death metal bleak-heads methinks.  In the midst of some lighter pop punk tunes this arrangement may be enhanced, here I give it a 50/50 rating.

Overall this is red hot shizzle from two units complementing each other, working as one and showcasing some real talent.  As I always say, this shit is an acquired taste but, when played this well, new converts from all genres can be had and even if folks don't like it you can't knock the adept ability and the end production that is bang on the mark.  Impressive stuff I reckon.

Filthy sexed up cool cat cruisings from a trio of trouble that traipse around the realm of Blackpool and (shudder, shudder...beyond).  The songs are borne from numerous influences, remain half-naked affairs with plenty of wallop and sinisterism whilst always tickling the testes of attention (or indeed the nethers of notice, nay the pussies of perception).  This menacing trinity of tonal tinkering have graced 2 Fungal affairs thus far, I am mighty pleased with what I have witnessed and more will be offered, ooh I may be having a breakdown.

So here we have 4 tracks to assess and roll around the aural palette - here are some open and honest Fungal thoughts and first up is the sinister sounding tickle known as 'Soul Digger'.  A waffle, a question, a neat tap and some solid semi-glammed strutting.  The unsettling dulcet tones of the lead lass are restrained before sexing up and adding that lustful life.  The chorus is simple but deliciously snagging and this throwback sound is something I am very much in tune with, perhaps due to my fondness for 60's garage and things raw and real.  A real groomer this that deals with the energy vampires who are primarily all show and little substance - gimme this lot any day, the real deal I reckon with a seasoned sex-salt sprinkled quite subtlety and with insightful artistry.

'Typical One' kicks back against constraints and the sub-text demands that want you to know your place and stay in your bubble.  Fuck the censors, the boundaries and in-scene dictates - be you, be awkward, question everything and do not fall into any rank and file.  What we encounter here is a slow hypnotic serpent that slowly uncoils, sidewinds closer and offers up an embrace.  We are smitten and take the plunge only to be slowly strangled by a real asp of intrigue tattooed throughout with untrustworthy intent.  A sleazy rebel that is awash with sanguinity and micro-niche fascinations.  The tribal underscore only enhances all - oh yes.

'Cock Bat' regards a true yarn.  I have heard the story, cripes baby, cripes.  There is a snotty cockery mockery here, a rising intolerance that blossoms bright via an acidic and sugary chorus that blows gently in from vicious verses that cut to the core in their own unassuming way.  There is plenty of weight to be had, a fine relaxed feel whilst a tetchiness bubbles below.  The guitar break is darn-tootin' countrified and throws forth a new angle and adds variety to a rewarding EP.  The most flowing song thus far, one that you can immerse yerself in and just get carried away with the current.  

'Mary's Estate' - a jangling, a claim of prizes untold and then a regulation riff.  A tale inspired by Viv Nicholson, a lass famed for winning the pools and blowing it all within a 5 year period.  I remember the documentary 'Spend, Spend, Spend' and thinking 'ooh the silly cow'.  Money is a bewitching thing, it leads the weak astray and dazzles the eyes of the dimwits - the key is to go with the flow, never chase the coin, look at the real pleasures in life and, of course, piss on the leeches.  I love this one, it is another cool, deliberate mover, it sums up a situation and has a 'matter-of-fact' feel that somehow works against the opening sub-celebratory statement.  Cracking stuff I reckon and mixed to a level that gets the best out of the cohesive cacophoneers.

Pop-pickers, shit kickers and nipple flickers - stop what ya doing and get some of this.  This is far from 'bog standard' and captures a very groovy essence of yore and throws it into the future and your gaping mush.  The DIY scene needs many shades and many characters, with Cock Batteth in the realms we are all the better for it - juicy baby, juicy.

I immerse myself in this strange sonic world (again) and deal with the odd and off-kilter experimentation from Matt Nauseous.  Here were are fed via the DIY label known as Half Edge Records, a not-for-profit affair based in not for profit Salford/Manchester.  You know the Fungal script - I am too busy for my own good but waggle the swords of honesty and good intent and go in with abandon.  Kaboom.

'Down At The Boomerjacks' is the place where we are greeted, a semi-space age waltz done in roboticised metronomic style with a regular pulse not to be broken.  The initial groove falls in line with my arse crack and gets the buttocks trembling whilst shooting stars bounce off the quivering cheekage.  A pseudo-verse, a tale of a carcass falling apart and some deep and dark tonality before a skip along and a hint of a schizo-scenario on the brink of unravelling.  Matters level out, sanity is saved, I am unsurprised as I am getting to know what goes on here and would expect nothing less.  Strange, disturbing and may I add, entertaining in a perverted kind of way. 'Silver Fork Stories' scuttles in like a pesky insect beneath the resting rear.  A troublesome little snippet that fails to raise any tingles of pleasure.  I find it all rather disturbing and the lo-fi recording does hinder matters rather than add mystery.  The demonic voices, the rising head-wank tension and the overall dis-arrangement do nothing for me - I remain out of kilter here and dash on with haste.

'Inadequate' is a tapping nag fuck that delivers a stark and naked statement in a running time that is less than one minute.  Automated vibes fall from a waffling maw that is disgruntled beyond belief and really spits back in the face of the charitable and perhaps, the condescending.  A mere short rage put down with minimalism being the key component - I am not keen but it is all a matter of taste, especially for these capricious and unconventional offerings.

'Arthur' is wound up and angsty with the religious vibes adding to the general twitchiness.  Interstellar pulses come and sci-fi rear arrangements are done in a style that is on the cusp of a blackhole collapse.  A twisted song that follows a set theme from the off, rises slightly in thermal pressure and travels to the end without a thought of being flamboyant, overly processed or indeed, routine.  A method in madness portrayed by a player who knows what he wants to do.

The finale and 'Your Interiors' comes and goes and leaves a shit stain over your sapient swill basin.  Glass-running hums, semi-metallic skips, icy words and damning notes made.  Misfires, malfunctions, the end is nigh, can we hear those doomed cry?  A tumble-toss of sinister narrative invades and has one reaching for the bookshelves and seeking out a cypher that may just unravel the complexities of this ambiguous creation.  I play several times and rise up dumbfounded and none the wiser - is this the aim of the creator?

This one, as a collection, I am not keen on.  I find things too lo-fi, lacking in anything new and just of one nebulous strain.  There is plenty to build on here and tricks are being missed with this release.  I refuse to try and claim to like everything and I stand firm in that ethos but, if the player/s is/are happy with what transpires I am not one to correct them.  This is a realm of multifarious creativity and dabbling and so it bloody well should be.

Portuguese pressure-pot post hardcore with a fiery intent and a watertight application making for a very resounding and worthwhile visit to realms heavy, bleak and ultimately... absorbed.  These niches of vicious and intense noise are for connoisseurs, all-round perverts or the tonal toe dippers who like a bit of this, that and 't'other.  I am a small dose hardcore fan and with only 4 tracks before me, and all of an appealing running time, I am more than happy to take a punt and put in some assessing time.  Apparently the songs here were developed from some unfinished material brought to the table by several of the players - waste not, want not I reckon.

We begin with the hefty meat fling of 'No'.  Stutter, scream stutter and sear is the opening modus operandi before a raving, an escalation and some direct mosh pit inducing mania comes.  From here things go crazy with seizures aplenty, hot-shit madness and a smattering of technical stops and starts all evolving/dissolving and ultimately revolving to utter fuckery.  This is purist hardcore thrashing and one that will perk up the pimples of many a headbanging pervert.  So it should, it is played with gusto, to a high standard and is fuckin' bamboozling in a quite fascinating way - ouch.

'Slow Death' has certainty, borne from doubts, but which now is ready to rampage with great assuredness.  A frenzied and greatly brutalised piece of H/C molestation comes, releasing many pent-up demons and inner struggles.  The guitars are aligned, the drums allowed to smash and splay whilst the larynx is shredded via a cathartic molten fountain of enthusiasm.  In many areas we have a tonal arrangement that is generically traditional, with all players absorbed and ticking a few in-scene boxes - it is dense and articulate musicianship many will get off to.

'Today' has suspicions, soon throws off any doubts and pounds away in typical fashion with the cogs turning, the coils pulled taut, the chains whipping.  A chaotic sounding piece that one has to adjust to to totally understand the accuracy of the artists and the frenzied intent.  A very molten dish that bubbles and foams with thermal angst of ill-proportions.  The odd twists and a suggestion of respite, glasslight tinklings and moments to prepare before the final charge of the fright brigade.  Matters wind down, I am left unsure with this one.

'Martyr' tumble-bumbles in, psycho splatters with radioactive rampaging fury, takes a short recovery period and then twat trounces to the closing silence.  This is the briefest piece, I like hardcore played like this way, it gives a 'wtf' impact and leaves one wanting just a tad more.  This is a sub-1 minute mauling with great focus and zeal, it comes, goes and leaves you with time to check the bruising - spot on.

4 songs and the band do what they do.  This is enough for me, in I go, wham, bang, bollocks and outta here.  The crew are on it, if hardcore is your thing then you should be on it too - I am now seeking respite in more melodic and throwaway sounds.

You know, I am so fuckin' glad that this band continues. They are long-term servants of the DIY punk scene, dig deep and just keep bouncing back from blow after blow. Dave Moran (aka Asterix) is the driving force and frontman, a good soul bewildered by the scene, the world and the lack of bummable midgets in his local area.  Rather than masturbate his frustrations away and risk getting 'sex rickets' he keeps recruiting pluckers and tub-thumping fuckers and allowing things to run on. This album is rammed to the rhythmic rafters and I took my time with matters as per. I hope I have summed things up and I get invited to the next 'Nugget Nobbing' Party in Mansfield.

The legs of the Virgin Melody open, splashed forth is the first sonic runt known as 'Red, White And Blue' - a patriotic song for those who love their country and their flag.  Personally I would be happy to wipe my arse on all flags and I do think this country is a farce in loads of regrettable ways. This in no way puts me off enjoying a fuckin' good booze and glory song that has a fantastic gumption, a street-based snag and a very good stomping effervescence. From the open shout out regarding shoving oriental crackers up yer jacksie and enjoying the rectal explosions to the final hoorah, great relish is shown, a pride to smile with and an all round ruddy good song is donated.  I still ain't using arse paper though.

'It's Sykes' is a rip up about a dubious character who is no hero of mine. A violent goon from Yorkshire whom you wouldn't want to waste good time on. This is homage to the thug, to the straight-talking fella, to the guy who had some winning facets but marred them all by being a silly twat. A rich piece this with old-school flavours and a certain gutterised caveman idiocy. Look, the AB crew do what they do, agree, disagree but tis good wholesome music of the rawest and most real punk order and every time I deal with em' I come away pleased. Not a fave of mine as regards content but by heck it is played well and the closure is an emotive insightful twist.  I am glad though they didn't do a song about Eric Sykes - now that would have been crud.  Ooh Corky!

'Cos That's What Mates Are For' is a gem, a real nostalgic and honest piece that deals with a certain purity of comradeship that seems a trifle lost in these media sozzled times. Heartfelt and considered with Dave at the fore warbling in fine recognisable style. The words are well scripted, the arrangement of the song choice and heartwarming and this is bang-on AB fodder that the band have produced over many a year and which has served them well.  Why the fuck have they struggled for gigs in some areas then? By crikey there are some tone deaf cunts out there!

The next batch of 3, 'Gasoline' burns bright and has a good zeal and bite with the song rolling along with fumes of pleasing noxiousness blown right into yer mush. A swift slutty verse, a segue into the bog brush basic chorus, a quick bonus flourish and back into the set slipstream. Orthodox music with typical manoeuvres, this is a no-nonsense rock and roll journey built on safe and secure sonic stabilisers - no fuss, no frills, a minor thrill that does what it does. 'Can't Get Served' is an age old tale of gagging for a beer and not making progress at the overcrowded bar. A superb AB soiling that slips from the creative jacksie, lands in your lap and pleases due to its rhythmic emanations and wholesome goodness.  The racket flows with delicious ease, has many hallmarks of a band I know and love so well and the fluidity, the token flavours and the extra nobs all add to an easy-as-you-go number that deals with an everyday occurrence rather than get embroiled in some political piffle that really does get too much at times.  A fine dance inducing ditty - and into 'Letterbomb' we go - hey ya gotta keep it on the edge. This is a very Ramonesy number with a chilled hook, a sublime simplicity and a cute angle that is delivered in a crafty style.  Pop punk, honest and effective, this is the kind of cacophony the band throw out with ease and no matter how many line-ups come and go, this is the pure Baby's booming that makes one a lifelong fan.  Tis' fuckin' smashing stuff without over-poncing matters and adding bullshit baubles of codology.

The opening sequence of 'We Are...Bastards' makes me smile, it is a ludicrous state of affairs and in truth, not one I can relate to. I might be a cunt, an awkward twat and one who can easily cut out the crapheads but I don't treat folk like rubbish, especially the women in my life.  This is one of the goons driven by gonads perhaps, those who like fanny over faithfulness, cripes a million miles from how I operate. Having said this, it is a great song, totally irresponsible and idiotic but it works. My advice - watch yer bippies lasses, there be many a purple headed ferret looking to find a burrow - ooh thank goodness I shave my arsehole.

'Fake News' is pertinent, so many experts who now best and all calling upon their own well-founded resources they claim to be pure and true. Cobblers indeed and all we get is a divided, unthinking mush of bewildered haters looking to increase their own standing whilst putting someone else down. They are transparent twats with inner failings - don't be fooled and work things out for yourself. A walloping number this that thunders on with disgruntlement and disillusionment and throws us into the no-nonsense 'Gun-Dog'. Pay up or be pummelled, the poacher is out, so are the mutts - watch yer arse folks, there be  gnashing of canine teeth.  Usual fare here played with an almost sweat-free ease that keeps the CD rolling, my foot tapping and the variety fair. Look, sometimes there is little to add and we reviewers are allowed to crack on - I rate this a nifty midway mover.

Tight bassism, a snarl and then a thrust looking at the life and death of a lunatic dictator who had blood on his mucky hands and who certainly earned his fate. 'Last Gasp Of The Great Dictator' poses a question, has a controversial edge and may have some thinking 'what the fuck'. The song is sharp with a tidy break, drums cascade alongside some cutting guitar work - for me it is regular AB goodness that they throw forth with aplomb. Sometimes I think this lot are shitting these numbers for fun. 'Rooting For Australia' is comedic idiocy with the chance to play it crude not shied away from. The band are well-versed in this goonish tomfoolery. We are totally focused on the sexual prowess of a cunt from darn under who really does need his surfboard rammed up his jacskie and to piss off back home. The verses and chorus flow like the amber nectar down a kangaroos open pouch where the pissed up young party.  Take this for what it is, they do it well and I am sure Benny Hill, if he were still with us, would be lapping this up and pinching it for his show - I can see Jackie Wright with a big dong and a hat full of swinging corks for sure.

'Life Hurts' slightly slows matters, croons and looks at folks who are beyond hope. We all know people who can't leave the pop, who need to get sozzled to cope but who can't function and duly drag others down whilst killing themselves.  An awful situation that many in the punk arena help us to get to, beer is good but it ain't clever.  This is a well-blended and sweetly delivered song with a bittersweet thread for sure. The mix is ideal, the gentleness nicely swirled with decent power - and on we go with all intact and Fungal still mightily impressed.

Soppy squiffle serenading about the 'happy place' next! 'Pink Bubble Gum' is a love soaked lilt that semi-squelches along and relates a tale of a ticker smitten. If you find true love you are blessed, if you are believing getting your leg over is something akin to love then you are cursed or a fool. Be you, go forth and hope that you find someone special - and never take it for granted. The beautiful inner pangs and emotions are played out and remind me of the fortune I have and how something so pure should be kept that way and nurtured.  Look after your loved ones folks and keep it real and simplistic. A honeyed stroke of something in opposition to the crude, but quite pertinent nonetheless. 'Masturbation Superhighway' next and we deal with the easy access to porn online and the place where genitals are rubbed to fuck, blisters are in abundance and many a bloke is akin to a bottle of Saxa salt and only capable of spraying granules rather than splashing liquid.  A wonderful relish is found here via a cracking tune that is borne from folks whom I am sure have cracked  a few off in their time.  The whole wanking process is rather ludicrous in the cold light of day but I am certain those that are indulging are saving society from warped sprogs, crimes of ill intent and perhaps, some rather soggy highways.  A cracking piece this to pull your pork to or indeed, bounce the bean to. Stay stress free folks and do what ya gotta do - tis far better than using and abusing tha' knows.  The question is - will the AB crew be releasing vibrating buttplugs anytime soon - I have my Wankety Wank cheque book and pen ready.

A Lemmy song (I don't like Motorhead - shock horror) but this is a punky jump around effort that serves the CD and my lugs well. 'Black Leather Jacket' is a rock and roll throwback with many accoutrements from many eras and with a good gumption shown. This is better than the original, the vocals are more suited to the swinging style methinks. Perhaps my least favourite song of the lot, the band are too good to cover this stuff.

'No Reply' is a huge, snarling dig at the promoters and peddlars who have snubbed the band or indeed given them a wide berth. The fact is, if ya face don't fit then it is tough shit and if the social circles don't want ya or you are a little too much for the nostalgia heads then you are fucked.  The band cracks on regardless hence the reason I am on their side, plus the great music of course.  This is a nipping song, played with a compact and melodic edge and a good rapidity. An easy one to join in with and maybe hammering another nail in the bands hopes of playing one of those same old, same old fests. Who cares – you gotta just do what ya do!

One for the doggers and the al fresco meddlers that heighten their sexual needs by risking their reputation, catching a dose of crabs or choking on the effluence spilling from Slack Sandra's well used rear passage.  'Caught With Ya Pants Down' considers a strange breed of folk whom, if just nobbing each other and tidying up after themselves, are only doing harm to their own levels of decency and ethics.  A bizarre act, meat banging meat like the lowest animal, is that all we are? I titter at this, ponder the prodders and receivers who are wriggling around in a spunk-splashed car park whilst a nearby owl hoots, looks down and no doubt thinks, 'what the fuck is this human race about?' A neat number but my kecks are staying hitched up.

Dealing with the DIY scene, putting gigs on here and there and visiting an array public houses, it goes without saying you are going to encounter some real sub-standard WC's.  I have images of sewer smelling shit holes with no doors on the bogs, filth on the walls and a yellow-water way in which to wade.  Puke splatters, shitty adornments and by heck I shudder to the core. This is a spot on snip that is played well, has a sound blend of all areas and has a crisp and upbeat feel despite the content.  I move onto the last both anally retentive and with a cotton-bud down the oriental eye. ‘Worst Bog In The World’ – we have all been there… surely!

The closure is a masterstroke of controversial creativity.  'Fred The Builder' deals with a certain Mr West, the crimes carried out and the overall madness of a man unhinged.  The band play it in comedy fashion and make a quite brilliant song that has quality riddled throughout and many snagging and sing-a-long moments that really does round of a top notch CD. The final throes are brilliant and totally of a throwback humour we really are losing - such is our loss as the PC pricks take up their holier than thou stance and tell us what we can say and what we can't.  Hey ho. All together now – ‘Fred west, he just cuts, em’ up, Fred West….!

Nah then, I have watched the AB chaps roll along for many a year, I have reviewed 10 of their CD's to date, given them a few gigs and always love the approach. Many a line up has been and gone, Dave (Asterix) still keeps matters rolling and the band still plough away in the doldrums. We know the scene is warped, has a superfluity of social niches and is guilty of letting many a band come, go and be duly neglected along the way. I am a fan, I do my bit and by heck, I may rate this as the best offering to date. Go forth, buy, watch and book - this is DIY - it is not a fuckin' game.

Who are Specky Cult?  Where are they from?  What do they sound like?  Well, I have limited time to surf the wanking web waves to find out so, when a review request came I had a listen and did my thing.  A One Song Single - ooh I always like a flip side but there ya go, 21st Century it is, a fast-paced mush that leaves me standing.  The band are also booked to play a Fungal Show - therein are my initial thoughts, and I reckon they will bring another shade of sonic colour to the ongoing Fungalised Fiascos.  Anyway, here are my musings on the song under the spotlight! 

'Dad Dance' begins with soft and gentle tones that have me worrying that I may be dealing with some polished pissery from a realm where selling out and over processing your produce is all the rage. Thankfully matters unfold and I get something that is akin to many quirky punk spillages that I come across in my sonic travels.  I am reminded by creations from The Ghoulies and Aborted Tortoise for some reason although this is cleaner cut and of a more prolonged state of play.  I like this kind of eccentric creativity and the space age popsicle that is cute, free and easy and with a fluency that magnetises.  The subject matter is simple, there is no deep subtext and this is fun, uncomplicated and very chilled.  As a small critique I reckon the band would get more reward by keeping tracks around the 2 minute mark, adding a bit more zip here and there and really keeping the fruity juices flowing at all times.  I like this though, and by heck I am keen to see the 'live' sploshings - tis DIY all the way.

A toe dipped, a new tonal route to investigate - my mind may be addled but I am still as enthusiastic as ever.  Bring on the Cult of Speckiness - there may be new converts sometime soon.