FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 1
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AMONGST STRANGERS - STRENGTH OF A FEW Hey, what do I know about this lot - fuck all? What are the chances of me summing up the sonica in all its glory - well, here's hoping? This is a 4-piece from Norfolk who do their own thing - if this thing avoids labelling and slotting into a social niche then that would be just swell with me. I dip in untainted by a press-release, any propaganda or sway and come up with a few ponderings. It is mere DIY doofing on all sides.
'Electric Loneliness' paves the way - a fast paced, unity-sodden skater sounding slipstream of sound that is well-mixed, perfectly balanced and delivered with a convincing adeptness. A gentle opening sequence and then the leash is released and the tempo increased. The content of the song deals with an eternal gripe of mine - the techno-onscreen addiction where people fail to operate without their plugged in fix and guidance. I am 60, never had a phone and am doing OK, I despair at the ones goggle-eyed and being mentally drained by the sparking fangs of the digital vampire. The crew relay their own frustrations with subtle anger in a song that breezes along with lofted energy values, admirable liquidity and a blend of components that really does work. Old school in some ways, modernised in others, overall a good spurt of sound with a good spittle soaked edge. Bang! 'Propaganda' is of a tonal stance and rhythm that I have heard many times before and deals with the ongoing shit-shovelling that really does need ignoring. After a bass intro and the brief guitar skin it is all systems go with a song unfolding that is breathless, all-action and a real choice grower. The overall unity, rapido animation and general aroused excitement make for a fuckin' good whipper that has US nuances and, may I add, a certain youthful freshness. Fine fodder for the whizzed up and jerked off rebels out there methinks. I am more than a little taken here. Onto 'The Strength Of The Few' - a tympanic tornado of energy that drives this uplifting tune along and hopefully reminds those with views against the crap flow that they had better hang in there and not dilute their thinking whilst facing the uphill climb. This is an all action piece (again) with seemingly more going on than first anticipated. The layers need peeling, the individual components scrutinising and when one does, the result is of a unit dishing out watertight noise with a solid snarl factor, invigorating pace and a tunefulness that duly grows. Yeah, this kind of stuff has been done a million times over and is usually of a lofted standard but, this band nail it and don't fuck about in the process. The last two, 'This World' tells you the state of play and asks what will we do. Judging by the fuckery and the continued downward spiral I expect the answer to the question will be 'fuck all' in many cases - aagghhh. This is a delicious piece of noise - the free-flowing liberation of sound and the perfect balance of vibrating liveliness make this a fast-paced treat that I consider a gem. The opening proclamations are solid and set the stage, the ensuing battering of wholesome and sing-a-long noise utterly effective and the clarity and overall orchestration is ruddy gratifying beyond belief - I have my latest choice for 'Song of the Month' - ka-fuckin'-boom! Closure comes via 'We Are The Difference'. A few hungry tub thumps, a relished rhythm takes hold with some ensnaring gobbage and then the band are at it. Tight and compact noise that cuts to the core, a sharp-dressed sonic assassin comes and leaves this old and cantankerous reviewer with little to criticise - ooh the rotten bastards. This is an enthusiastic noise burst with a content that speaks for itself. You are never too old to rebel - dressing up, being a scenester and getting pissed is not the way - each and every step needs consideration in a world going to pot. I am using this, and the other tracks, to keep my arse kicked and as a reminder that some are still disgruntled. This is fuckin' good music with essences of yore and now. For the youthful and the arthritic this is music to enjoy and use as a weapon of rejuvenation. A well-timed piece of noise making this. I like EP's I think they have a perfect balance of the teasing and pleasing and help bands to keep things fresh with plenty in reserve. I suggest this lot just keep on rolling out 5 trackers and if they are as good as this I will be over the fuckin' moon. A seriously good effort and one that has been a pleasure - go get yer fix fuckers. |
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AWKLAND - EPITHREAT Cultured cacophony from a band who were formed in January 2023, having last played together as Just Like June in ’87. Fuckin' hell man, how time flies, and how the sense of perspective doth crash. Here we have noise of many flavours, played with no rush and with thought. I have showcased the band, I have seen them since and have reviewed 2 EP's to date. So far so good and I am very much taken by the fact they are not falling into any idiotic sonic safety nets and wasting time striving to fit in. We have 10 tracks here which I always find is an ideal amount for an album, I go in anticipating.
'Dead Air' has many cool tones and is a reflection of a musically adept band who certainly play things tight, without strain and with a style that has that all important 'growing' quality. The middling pace is of several flavours and may one add, a muso's attention. The hook comes and maintains its hold, the questions arise, no answers are given as the political players roll out the same old bilge and the populace squabbles and clutches at straws. There is a gentle care intertwined with some good wholesome activity and a rising prowess that the band play out so ruddy well. In this day and age of ludicrous sonic overspill and so many easily categorised cacophonies it is nice to listen to something not so slapdash and obvious. I think this a song awash with vital equilibrium and steadiness. 'The Insurgent' slots into second place with comforting ease and with similar tremulations and vibes that we were blessed with during the first track. The sacrificing government get analysed in an irate song that has a definite bite and bouncing beat. The bass dictates, the skins hold matters together, the guitar work is allowed time to twist and turn without being anything other than grooved with a modicum of good awareness. Sometimes the bastards at the top need to be dealt with via thinking artistry - here is a good example of such a state of play.
A low belly grumble, light and honest vocals and a really catchy scenario holds our attention via the best song of the lot. '52%' deals with a vote cast and one we all have to live with. Personally I feel as though you can eternally rely on people to fuck things up and create angst, turmoil and hardship so that the observant creators of music will always have material to draw upon. This song is a cute creation that does well to keep the frustration and resulting ill temper in check. Within the weft and weave is a good uplifting accent that defies the doldrum content. I play this one over and over, tis a veritable fave for sure and a song that will stand the test of time - unlike the decision of the vote and the fuckin' populace.
'Internecine' deals with the search for balance in a mush of madness. This is a dark edged song with a groove hollowed out and somewhat jazzed up. From the opening tumult matters become more collected before the first verse flows with a certain angularity that makes the listener work a little harder to gain a grip. This may be a problem for some of the idle-headed sonic socialites out there who just want the same old throw-away stuff to douse their lugs with whilst they nod along and chat. This is a metamorphing song that one has to take time with. There are nutritious noise ingredients, many subtle switches and an all-round crafty-snag to hold attention and keep one guessing. Not the most instantaneous hit but a necessary inclusion. From bleak recesses and shadow-shimmer realms comes the contemplative and considered 'Plato's Cave'. With its cool threat, metronomic beat, old -school post punk wire waterfalls and gloom bassism this is a peach of a piece that grows like a cavern dwelling shroom of poisonous potential. Within many gothic overtones, a gentle fluency pervades with a progression that is sanguine and forceful. This is a very good track and at 5 minutes plus surprises me in many ways. As a lover of short sharp blasts I am still taken by this one - I think that says something!
'Terez Krout' was escorted by the following textual explanation 'A very brief history of the House of Terror in Budapest where fascists, then later communists, danced in the sumptuous ballroom while their beasts practiced unimaginable torture in the basement cells' - by crikey, heavy stuff man, heavy stuff indeed. The song, although dealing with vile material, has a somewhat colourful approach and although warped and unorthodox in many ways, the kaleidoscope of hues on offer are not all sombre. Banshee-esque tattooing’s, Killing Joke suggestions, and something intrinsically the bands own, I consider this a cacophonic cripple creating a melody that is aurally magnetic. The perversion runs deep.
'Squid Lips' warps the wires, wanks sideways and observes a fall into complicit complacency. Time flies, all the while your soul may be diluted. This is a very experimentalised piece with a jaunty and somewhat idiosyncratic unconventionality that in many ways sums up where the band are coming from. There is depth, there is cohesion, there are angle-jangles and there is a precipice danger but I find this a most fascinating strutter. I walk on a tightrope, in my brief ramblings have I captured the gist?
'The Call' marches in, it operates with hope, I think it is all in vain. A militarised regimentation to the opening structure is joined by an almost dictated vocal style that is sub-enraged and semi-authoritative. From a quirked and singular initialisation we tumble, trudge, sidewind and bounce around the sonic sonic-scape with unpredictable adventure. A strange piece this, enchanted with vibes from beyond and an untrustworthiness - I remain somewhat unconvinced here, there are better tracks but this has several points of potential.
The last two, 'Stent' is an accomplished montage of many shades and tonal enhancements with an obscure underwash of artistry that must not be overlooked. Escapism may be the key, a trip into a realm away from this mush of war, hate and general ego idiocy. The more one listens hear the more one becomes absorbed in a number with multi-tendrils of ensnaring goodness. This is beyond a grower - it is a veritable strangler - enjoy your throttling. The finale comes via a session called 'Sinuate' - a long drawn out number that towards the latter end becomes a little too self-absorbed and masturbates itself silly whilst leaving us waiting without any sexual tingle at all. Prior to the prolonged closing rub-off that would work on a 'live' basis but somewhat fails here, the song ploughs along in a slow and glutinous fashion that should be offensive to my caveman punk instincts but which is in fact a quite pleasurable cerebral massage. I replay several times and get dragged into the gist of matters and the sonic drift, I am not rating this a classic but I am not slagging it down as a duffer - it is a moment piece, a song that must be played with critical timing and care. Throw in the mix of some pop punk and ska with a side order of Northern Soul and 60's garage and the song will thrive. I hope you get the drift.
Awkland are a breath of fruity air - a blast that may repulse some, may soothe others, may in fact give a few a veritable shiver in the private timbers. I am glad I have had these on a Fungal gig and hopefully helped them along and on this evidence I will continue to do so. Very well thought out noise, not of any genre and with a subtle wallop and longevity factor - please listen with care and book the band.
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TIGER MACHINE - BITCH ON THE BEACH Hip-grinding sub-sleaze rock and roll offerings via a 2 man unit from Bologna, Italy. The crew previously manifested themselves under the tag of Daddy Was A Driver - a unit self-described as alt.country and instrumental surf. Now, after a break and a change of name, the music continues and I go in and do what I do. As per, I am rotating the essences and keeping myself intrigued, tha' gotta be fair, fruity and of many flavours don't ya know.
The awaiting silence melts away and we fall into the quite pleasing cacophonic cruddery known as 'Bitch On The Beach'. Filthy guitar, big slaps and splashes and snotted drawl-scrawls are all thrown against the walls of resonance and leave a glorious muck to become entranced by. Pure arrogant sleaze swinging with a sexist suggestion that one shouldn't take too seriously. This is cock-rock spandex sweating stuff with the emphasis on the unwashed, dog dirty and grinding. Backstreet club throwback noise straight outta Losers-ville baby, and all the better for it - nice.
'Painkiller' slightly ups the tempo, has a bad attitude' feel with a somewhat pestering motif that pecks away at the resistance and soon has one absorbed and rocking. I like the glammed touches, the slinky slovenly leanings and the perpetual movement of the song that seems to thrive on its own immersion into noise-making of the most suspicious style. This is, in general, an uncomplicated song, with the vibe and direction found and the orchestration unified. There are no accoutrements of pointless piffle and no moments of idiot showmanship - a steady inclusion that keeps matters... mucky and moving ma'an.
'I'm A Lonely Boy' is the best song thus far, it has a fine old time NY feel, born it seems, from smoke-riddled vaults of subterranean grime where only the disgruntled, disgusted and disillusioned get their fix. Mid-paced, with a certain acoustic austerity and an unostentatious feel that gives the whole mix a very sober approachability. There is an immersion in the art and an undistracted end result that works mighty well and into the bright, breezy and awfully naughty offering known as 'I Feel Loved' we go. The content is sex-soaked, a bit tacky in some ways, a bit horned-up in others but the whole shebang of sound is a true delight with the keyed inclusions really giving matters a pure lift and a feeling of completion. The opening swing in the hefty beat is excellent and the initial verse sets the stage for an absorbing encounter of stained sonica. The sheets of the cerebrum are left rumpled and splashed, it is a firm fucking given with pleasure and pain neatly intertwined - crank up the volume folks.
A set of two go under the Fungal spotlight next with the mid-paced 'Norwegian Disko Music' a reliable amble that keeps things mighty steady, underwashed and quite robust without going beyond the realms of expectation. A steady riff and some simple vocals make for a song that is delightfully easy to fall in line with. This and the chasing 'Barbie BBQ' are two uncomplicated numbers that work as one fine composite whilst retaining their own unassuming charm. The latter song has a certain barbed edge but both contributions have a likeable honesty and good old rock and roll aroma that avoids any serious critique. I play the duo again, they work a treat and favour just falls towards the second track with its nastier edge. Darn good stuff folks, awash with the aforementioned NY feel.
'By Now' is the next cutlet, a familiar sounding drift comes, I am finding myself immediately snagged. The key winning aspects of this song are the sanguinity, the reclined laid back delivery and the easy manner of the whole shebang. One play you are curious, two plays you are won over, more plays and you will soon be swaying along and joining in. The lack of intricacy but the wealth of unperturbed power and unrushed progression are also winning elements and when the organ of the mouth enters we move up another notch. The drums splash and crash and complete a fine musical moment.
We crack on, I grab a hat-trick and am pleased by the initial resonances of 'Summer Of 54'. This is a real idling traveller down the smoothly worked dope-slope to Oblivion City. There is a carefree cadence floating within the textured fabric and a fondness of times passed that seems to warm the attentive cockles. The languid loafing of the lilt, the now familiar tones of the instruments and the delivery of the oral offerer all make this an easy song to sum up - nice. 'He's Coming Alone' is a hot damn number with a sinister subtext methinks. A lusting nob of noise wanked with a rhythmic abandon that just holds a full on ejaculation in check. The winning facet of this blustery number is the full on boom/blast that consistently blows a hoolie from start to finish and leaves one absolutely blasted. A fuckin' hefty number with an all-encompassing energy factor and general gustiness - at first I was unsure, add juice in the volume and it works a treat - my underduds are fuckin' shredded man.
'Kraft Werk' is a plodder and a grinder. The cogs of this one just need a little extra grease and the whole motif just needs something a little different. I would have liked to see the harmonica make another appearance and the contrast between verse and chorus to be a little greater. In fact the verses are a little too juddery and obvious whereas the chorus cuts are better and give the song much needed life. Overall this is fair stuff but I just feel something is lacking (maybe that is just me but I gotta be honest tha' knows).
After a short break and an indulgence into other vibes I come back and rattle through the final three. 'Miner' gets the noggin down, keeps up the sweetly saturated sound and drives forth with a direct and unstoppable forcefulness. This is a moment that does enough without straining at the bit or trying to throw in a curveball. A song that is watertight and as safe as houses. There is the usual persuasiveness and in-built confidence with the task at hand - I am won over. 'Girlfriend' starts in a crumpled fashion before developing into a very attractive waltz of innocent love. There is a veritable good vibe feel here with the unflustered style and delicate coruscations all helping to make this a very relatable song. This is a good old fashioned DIY pop song done without pretentions - it is a joy to swing along with.
We end the CD with 'Killer In You, Killer In Me' - a ruddy fine song that rolls down my avenue of acoustica with gratifying effect. As a lover of things unwashed, rocked and rolled and raw-assed this one ticks all the boxes and once again, the whole shebang is enhanced by some Mississippi Sax spicing’s that certainly gives the song greater character, further depth and an extra enjoyment factor. I love this number and reckon it is a choice moment on which to sign off - magic.
Hey, a darn decent switch in style here with some earthy underdog grooviness slapped before you and left for you to just enjoy. A fine surprise for sure and here's hoping I can hear more mighty soon. A few quick zippers in the next offering would be nice and more of the gob iron in the mix and I reckon all will be grand. Go seek out what transpires - we must shake up the cacophonic choice of condiments.
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JUNKBREED - SICK OF THE SCENE A post-hardcore unit, one that hails from Portugal and born from that idiot period known as 'Lockdown'. This is a boldly entitled album, I am a little expectant of what is coming but may be pondering away in a realm far from that which will be. 9 tracks I have before me, I am just hoping the band keeps things neatly mixed up and not of one-bomb-blasting flatline - ooh what a fuckin' pessimist! 'Faulty Stereo' is a very stable, strong and controlled initial outburst and after some aqua-light daydreaming the song really takes hold of the attention mainly due to its general prowess, power and holistically saturated style. The players are immediately in the groove, all focused and playing in sync and hammering it. As I invest some lug time into the wholesome escapade I feel as though the band are nailing this one with supreme aplomb. I am rather taken by the sable layers, the headbanging intent and the very muscular and lithe manipulations of the wires. The tympanic backbone is rigid and ravaging and this is a more than adequate start to a CD that now has growing promise. We are catapulted headlong into the second number, this one known as '51 Gone'. The opening throes con one into thinking we may have a cool, calculated and somewhat less frenzied number on our hands. In part, this is the case but there are many assaults on the senses via a gloriously thrashing tumult that fully blooms and blesses one with a real jackhammer leash-free explosion. These snippets of TNT give the song an extra addictive life force that I am severely satisfied and, aroused by. I think the timing of the song and the clash-bash balance is spot on - grand work. We travel deeper into the discordance and now hit a number known as 'Viewer's Indiscretion'. Sharp cuttings welcome, typical hardcore accents escort and an arrangement that is generically orthodox is the end result. This terse labelling though should in no way detract from the mastery of the music and the adept application committed to the disc, the band certainly are kicking up a blaze here and as the creative juices grow in thermal urgency the heat radiated increases and duly sears. This is a song with many tendrils reaching out to ensnare you - be warned. Howling at the moon, twisted turns of the screw, a scene is set before violence ensues. 'Trash Beneath The Leather' is soon opening up its maw and devouring all of our attention. A swaying bough of impending doom is seen. All artillery of damning firepower is ready to cut down any resistance. The crew load, reload and rattle away with some absolute scatter gun attacks of impressive vindictiveness. Again, all areas are condensed and tight, there is no room to breathe or offer critique - good stuff and very energetic. 'Dead Weight' grumbles, threatens, finds its own life force and goes for it. A rumble jungle scything that prolongs the opening throes before the yellings come. This is not a winning number for me, it is just one of those that ploughs away and keeps the CD moving without doing anything extra special or anything to make me ping about. It is one of those 'connoisseur' moments that those beyond hope will love and appreciate the merits found therein. It is well-played and exact in its intent but, there are better songs here and I move on still eager. From a graveyard of nefarious mistings rises a machine of malevolence that fuck-functions with quite superb guitar glory and slap happy skin work. The throat rises to the challenge set by the fiery foundations of noise and the opening outburst is utterly magnificent. From here the song goes a trifle AWOL and I feel loses a golden chance at a repeater beater of lofted brilliance. This track still packs a wallop but man, that opening was set to create an in escapable maelstrom of madness, what have the band missed? I replay, I rate 'Misanthrope' as a powerhouse pummeller that lets one off the hook! 'Dinner In Hell' takes us into the final stretch and is a steaming brew of middling thermality with plenty to keep those absorbed consistently intrigued. Some moments seem to hinder matters a little, some snippets flow with the progressive and impressive prowess the band have already displayed. From a tentative tiptoe across fractured glass heavier steps are taken and the tumult begins. Searing sanguinity, a forceful flow and a fair blend of rhythms, to be fair I am not utterly bowled over but this is just a personal emotion and should not detract from another well-played boomer. The penultimate track, 'Stressed And Bucolic' enters from mysterious shimmers and tribal warfare with an intensity rising that is purely damned. The machines are whipped into shape, the 'animation' button pressed and we get dragged forth along with a hellish march of crushing intent and fully saturated sound making. From the cacophonic conflict moments of ease rise, plumes of irritation billow and all the while, the players remain focused and deliver the quite exceptional goods. Mammoth moments to consider further and come up with perhaps more gushings. Fuck off and finalise is the command, 'Over What I Know' obeys via an opening of discordant jarring that scrambles the internal motherboard. From the fuck-feedback spills a tumble and then a complexity of manoeuvres with the direction of the song seemingly in two minds until the final push comes. This is one of those episodes of sound to mull over many rotations and hopefully come up with a final verdict. There is a lot going on, perhaps a little too much and so I find myself left in a land of uncertainty - I would be a liar to say that I liked this one, I would be an utter fool to say it was rubbish - I am in a state of flux. One or two moments here don't do it for me but there are many zeniths that really blow my rotten socks off. The band are an acoustically adroit outfit creating some barnstorming snippets of sound and I reckon they have a whole lot more on offer than displayed here. Well worth my time this, it keeps things rolling for the band I hope and certainly keeps me sonically intrigued. |
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ELECTRIC JAGUAR BABY - CLAIR OBSCUR Two Parisian dabblers, an output that is described as a blend of things 'garage, stoner, punk, psych rock and anything else they can crank through their fuzz pedals into a wild, electrifying ride'. Having been around for approximately 10 years and touring across Europe this release on Majestic Mountain Records has me wondering what kind of spillage I will be drowned by (despite the aforementioned description). I am happy to take my time and ponder before tapping out a few thoughts. I play, repeat, roll around the palate some more and have the following feedback.
'Heroine' military rolls in before a fine grind groove takes hold. Doped drawls duly slag-scrawl and crawl across the grimy fuzz-fuck underlay and leave a slug-trail that glistens with an untrustworthy virulence. The flow is middling, the accents absorbed and slightly twisted, the inescapable feeling of rockers wallowing is pervasive. The song has a discomforting weight, a semi-breakdown seems to bring a well-timed ending but the song labours on and for me at least, just overcooks matters. Shave off the last 1 minute 50 seconds and I think matters would be enhanced (I am sure these are my punky instincts kicking in).
Track the second and 'Bring Me Down' once again relies on a magnetic lick and a mid-paced tempo that has moments of semi-zipping zest amidst quagmire wallows of cloying disease. In some ways the robotic-style of vocal delivery is slightly tattooed with a gothic element and tints tortured. The whole mix has a contrast and compliment factor that just falls onto the right side of 'listenable. Haunting hints come to the fore, metalised leanings barely kiss the end orchestration and the general twist drive just holds matters together. It is a song with a sable blade ready to cut down those brandishing weapons of negativity - I think this is a fully justified state of play.
The third track is a really floating fuzz flow that just oh so slightly suggests things Sugar-ised. 'Stray From The Path' operates over a really grubby substrate and rolls forth at a lazy rate with all components happy to laze and loaf in the swirling motes of melody. This is one of those moments where I ask myself 'why am I liking this number' and coming up with no definitive answers. A smouldering mover akin to a steaming dung heap that radiates a stench both perversely appealing but polluting. The tonal quality has grungey elements, as well as things very 'stoned' out. It is a rich tapestry of grime.
To assist the flow of the analysing text I pick out a fistful of three and hammer out Fungalised feedback in a swifter style. 'My Way' has a bouncing opening that continues throughout and gives the song a real vibro-vitality. From the electro-active shockings of the rather stable verses comes a fascination release of musical glory that is really a CD zenith not to be questioned. The whole construct is given extra life and a greater depth and exposes a band very much adept at producing many a trick. 2 aspects of cacophonic delivery, both combining to make a really convincing treat. 'Going Thru The Blue Part 2' is a dirty shit-wallower, laden with unclean tones, musty malevolence and a motif that is nagging and holistically heavy duty. A real sludge-core shambler with a hazy dope feel that does well to last the course. As a follow-on from the previous beauty this one is a decent contrast and so gets by with all aspects intact and without an assessing dig. The last of the grasped hat-trick is the title track, namely 'Clair Obscur', a neatly posted reckless track of a certain abandon that is just about held in check and passed off as something listenable. The more I delve into the mucky melodic mire the more I am fascinated and charmed. I like grubby grinds played with a relaxed manner. With the cymbals splashing, the skins hammered and the general wire work all scuzzed up this allows for a foundation on which the vocalist can holler - it all works mighty well.
'The Fastest Ride' scuzz-shuffles in a most awkward way before the lo-fi gob lilts come and the tympanics nervously flutter away and add to an arrangement that at first unsettles but then eventually wins a little trifling of favour. An unconventional and confounding number that duly addlepates and sends the attentive senses in many ways. There is a lot going on here with some moments a comforting pleasure and others a piquing pain - this though is not a gripe. It is good to keep any lug-lender on the cusp, the job done here is more than adequate and the theme of the CD so far is highly consistent - oh yeah.
4 to go, my sonic socks are hitched up. 'Anything' is pure quagmire cacophony that gets hold of the limbs and drags one down into a glutinous and cloying morass of fetid vibrating vegetation. The end result is a long drawn out death knoll that stinks to utter fuckery. The players are slayers of the senses and seem oblivious to the suffering they cause. I am taken and repulsed, the mood must be right to offer myself as a sacrifice to the sonic slutchery - I walk on tiptoes and am not a total convert here but we all need some sinking swamp music at times.
'Winter Holiday v Fuzzroutine' swings straight in and is a right frayed character with the locks of rhythm uncombed and flowing and the acoustic attire well worn and ragged. Relaxed to the extreme and something has me pondering old school hippie-fest dabblings where the bearded and bombed artistes took to the stage and became as one with their racket. There is a charm within this state of play although I am no hippie and found the whole 'Make Love, Not War' fiasco an excuse to screw around and get hammered. All show no substance (plenty of substances) unlike the song here which has good wallop and a gnawing edge. The main gyp I have is that the songs lasts too long, bah - I can't help my punk slamdunk leanings. 'How Now' follows, it is a pleasing adventure into some well-billowed recesses of rhythm. The song is of a simple orchestration, a repeatoid promise in some respects that just nags away and gets the reviewer in tune. A creeping start with stealth and nakedness apparent - it isn't long before intensity rises and we are caught up in a brief tidal flow before matters re-run. Not a bad dig baby!
Closure and 'The Oswald Cobblepot Complex' baffles the cranial juices with its name alone. From secretive vestibules of barely touched tonality I await a bomb-blast, the instrumentalisation is in no rush and as we pass the halfway point the soporific and drowsy values are upheld in a song that is a mere dope eyed drift into the final silence. Music to massage the senses, the closing groove leaves one semi-thrilled and then we are... finished. Strange stuff!
A mix of many flavours that makes for a sonic soup only to be tasted at certain points in one's musical week. Too much of this will give the shits of disappointment, the odd indulgence will keep the tastebuds alive and leave one with enough curiosity to want a little more. I have fed at the trough, had a guzzle and have avoided a vicious puke flow - I hope this suggests things half decent, I also hope I have been fair here and captured the essence - hopeless I say, tis all hopeless.
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AMBULANZ - III I have dabbled with the art-punk angularity that the Ambulanz offer on one previous occasion. I enjoyed what I heard but recognised the fact that the Leipzig based crew were walking on a precipice and always hanging on to the side of decency by the eternally dabbling digits. I received another request to review and wondered if I was taking a risk and maybe coming up against noise that I could not wholly grasp. I jumped in with the swords of honesty and discretion brandished, one can only try and a rhythmic risk is always good for the soul.
Great magnetic grooves welcome and the aptly named 'Joy' gets me instantly bopping. The heavy rolling wire work and the graceful escort that brings an open spaciousness to the intro all add extra life before the oddment of a verse comes. Futuristic and off-the-wall, this colliding moment drifts with space age experimentation before juddering and shuddering with effective and cranky crackpot nervousness. This song has a veritable skin-deep charm, one that pervades the epidermal layers in a sneaky fashion and has you nodding along without truly knowing why - ooh the crafty bastards.
More fat wire work, an emphatic breathless mania, a rising stress and of course the usual sub-anarchic angularity. 'Flowers' is a seed planted, it germinates, we await the blossoming with trepidation, it is slow going with many influential nutrients used to throw forth the final bloom. There is a lot of entangled growth sending out shoots in many ways here, I take my time and examine several times over. Have we got a multi-coloured hybrid on our mucky mitts - one with a softness, a sharpness, a sting, a soothe and perhaps without a defining structure? I know not, what I do know is this creeper gets entangled in the soil of the cerebral substrate and feeds. Some moments are all consuming, some curiosity inducing - I am in a state of befuddlement but it seems to be pleasurable.
'Number' pootles in, a cuckoo-fucked winkle-wankle before a breakdown and then a good thrusty, lusty strum. The opening verse has a suggestion of e-numbered activity which only increases during the chorus and the marvellous waltzer keyed head spinner where the band let all manner of twitches run wild. There is a distinct hint of another band I have reviewed, namely The Ghoulies. This latter lot are a manic pop punk unit and here we have a great hint at that crackpot realm with perhaps added disarray and ambiguity. I like The Ghoulies, I like this song - it may be a form of madness.
'Repetition' begins with a broken jigsaw style angularity. It is a really comforting disjointed noise that attacks before a snagging repeat beat comes with a chug charge and wired up eccentricity that stutters and shakes whilst manic surges glow with thermal enthusiasm and a much needed relief. If anyone is wanking off to the rhythm of this riot I do have the greatest pity for their private areas - by heck, the scars will be deep. This is a song with many influences that one is unable to actually define or truly pinpoint, this is where the success lies and how the band operate methinks.
The last of the penta-punky produce spills forth under the tab of 'Slime'. And what oozes from the speakers I hear you ask? Strange emanations and scritchy-scratchy annoyances combine before a gentle rise into pastures horrified. Frenzied foaming soon jumps to the fore with inner sputterings and fluent outpourings having a real funfair cum happy-go-fucky swing of capricious leaning. It is a jolly old final fling although the following nonsense just after the 4 minute mark is pointless. Crikey what are they thinking about!
So, despite the final blip this is fine and dandy stuff folks. It is creative gunk best produced in these bite-sized chunks so the listener doesn't get over faced with too much fizzy-busy happenings and can spend time properly digesting what has transpired. If the next release is similar of another 5 part scenario then count me in. Gunk Chunks – bring em’ on!
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ALL SEEING EYES - TRONE DES FLEUR From Kentucky comes a three-piece of a bluesy leaning, with essences from beyond that sub-genre thus making for a multi-coloured, many faceted mix of melody, that grooves and moves with high hip-thrusting relish. I have 10 tracks to digest and assess, I get cracking and after numerous eavesdropping sessions spit forth the following considerations.
'Brick X Brick' hits the spot with its crummy cur tinklings and driving forcefulness that comes from an incessancy of rhythm and a tin-foil reflectiveness that shimmers and shakes whilst keeping all animation levels loaded on up. Old school copulates with things more modernised whilst all the while, never letting go of the garage and blues fundamentals and the necessity of a good old tune. One crucial aspect the band get right here is the scuzzy, roughhouse edge that gives the whole escapade grimy life. As a fellow sonic scratcher I am yapping with glee.
'See My Jumper' bass bumbles in with a nifty tympanic escort that is awash with shadow shimmers and a sub-sinisterism. The guitar wanks soon come, they bend the weapon of tuneful war this way and that and have a certain naturalised reactive rhythm that is straight off the cuff. The verbals unfold, the subject matter is non-too profound (to say the least) and we progress with an intrinsically basic ease that is indicative of the sub-scene. Matters work, there is good relish in the riffage, plenty of sleaze sauce splattered and a nice balance of simplistic cacophonic condiments to make this an appealing dish without being overly fanciful.
A whine, a cool dude drift and 'No Blood Blues' goes back to early rhythm roots and takes a slow sanguine waltz that is just not for me. I like spunk and gumption and things of this ilk with pace, when the accelerator is abandoned and a real slow groove is taken I am left standing. There is a pseudo-sexed up intro with subtle threat and only when the song is left off the leash do I feel any inkling of promise. Alas even then I don't fully grasp this dubious ditty and find it a little to self-absorbed. 'Caravan' has an obvious lick, an immediate snag and a real desert-drawl that works a treat. Suggestions of outback ramblings, things gently countrified and highly nomadic this may not be my daily ditty dabbling but I can appreciate the accents and the punters who will embrace it. There is a liquidity and a good shift in tone throughout this with an uplift of honky-tock goodness suggested - not bad if I am fair, which of course, I always try to be.
A hint at an air raid warning is banished whilst wires warp and procrastinate. Smouldering bluegrass ashes welcome us into 'Jackals' a very reclined piece of work for those lazy contemplative times when the sun is setting and the day is done. This is no great sugar rush, it is no shaker of the shitty, it is a simmering drift done with no effort to burst a blood vessel - somehow it works and generates a fair amount of heat provided one is aurally prepared. Best served with more animated dishes methinks.
I grab a brace, 'Elevation' has a neat swing, a throwback 60's release and something slightly spaced out. A search for a more lofted plane seems to be the theme we are grooving with here as the band cut out a nice hip-swing inducing rhythm. Away from stresses and strains, a place where multicultural colours move and merge as one, this has sub-essences of psychedelic happenings and is all the better for it. The inner release adds to the freedom in a song that does what it sets out to do and doesn't labour the point. 'Faded And Jaded' switches style, glides in with a sleepy-eyed sidle that is still slightly imbued with reminiscences of the Land of Nod. To my lugs, the song is in two sections, the first dreamy and soothe-smooth, of coffee-smoked contemplation whilst the second is a trifle more uplifting, more free and perhaps more natural. I remain unsure about the opening throes but this is only due to personal tastes and in no way due to the lack of musical artistry. There are many out there who will love this one.
'DaytonKY/Train Kept A Rollin' is perhaps the most satisfying, hip-gyration inducing and doggone grooviest track of the lot. The coupling of two creations into one ride of rolling fluidity works mighty well and all the while there is excitement aplenty of a good old jingle-jangle jaunty joy to skip along to. A great switch-off moment with no stresses on the reviewer to plough any depths or reveal anything profound. Tis' rock and roll music, played with a smile, and done with relaxed and impacting affect. If you add juice to the speaker output the whole shebang will just sound better - yes!
Into the last two, I cut a dash to the closing silence. Throwback country-azure crooning comes via 'Blue Cashmere' - a yokelised dawdle drool that drips into the lap with a suspicious grooming style I am not tempted by. I am not a lover of country and western music and this one strays a little too closely into that realm for my liking and leaves me somewhat cold and thankfully, musically unmolested. 'She's Fine, She's Mine' twinges in, tympanically staggers and 'whoa hoas' from cavernous depths. The pace of the song is set to 'treacle tiptoe' and is a drawn out dirty dog of sound that drags its flea-bitten belly over the dusty substrate of your mind and leaves you... scratching. This isn't a song I would rush to if in need of a pleasure fix or a dose of uplifting resonance but - the musical mutt somehow worms its way onto my lap, gives me vibes of something decent and in some way, doesn't leave me fully deflated. Maybe it is a case of one unhygienic dog recognising another or the cool ripples of the acoustic fur that tickle certain parts best left unnamed. I know not and I sign off uncertain.
A CD that has good vibes, changes in texture and is a cut of something different to my usual eavesdropping leanings. The crew know what they are doing and are doing it well, I may not be fully smitten here but I hope I recognise a CD that will please many with a fondness for this kind of shizzle - my fingers are crossed.
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HARABALL - FEAR OF THE PLOW Here we have a Norwegian band, dropping from the multi-fractured sonic skies and catching me unawares. I perused the bumph that came with the digital promo, pondered then cast it to one side so I wouldn't be too swayed prior to the splattering down of my textual tossery. Again the formula used is simple - listen, mull, be honest.
The starting point comes with 'Pink Tiles' slowly appearing from the silent recesses. Strange and somewhat eerie musical manifestations arise before a main charge is taken and the flurry of all components takes precedence. The gobbage is worked up, slightly scurfy and neatly balanced amid the tonal tumult. All areas pour in a good amount of perspired labour and the unity during the progression is notable. The raging holler is effective although just a little more juice in the end mix would have helped and the inner switch down to things contemplative is a bit of a hindrance. This is fair noise though and best played with the volume adjusted to level 'max'.
'Fear The Plow' wastes no time in jumping to the fore and grabbing the jugular with vicious intent. The opening attack continues the theme set in gratifying style and the pace is more than adequate for the task at hand. There is a bleak feeling to this and the preceding track, a pregnant cloud threat that seems ready to give birth at any moment to a Lovecraftian based paranoia that seeks solace in the primeval scream. What lurks beneath the upper epidermal layers of the song is anyone's guess and the nightmare feel continues through the moments pace riddled and more ponderous. This is all OK but the best song of the opening trio comes under the appellation of 'The Squatter'. Pronouncements are made, the theatrical stage is set before a schizoid claim is made. A voice is heard, a mystery guest has taken up residence, a distinct feeling of unease is created via a number that is disturbed, clashing and colliding and with a sound equilibrium between the settled and the upset. The situation set and the general unhealthy feeling within the mind all leave one with a sensation of uncleanliness - I reckon this a good job done - crikey, where's me carbolic?
A couple to embrace, the first is 'Prison Cheese', a song that pulses in on old-school 80's synth pulses before adopting the now usual approach. Mid-flavoured, growing in threat stature and exposing more muscle than first deemed probable. The arrangement is sub-orthodox and low-fi blitzkrieging liable to appeal those who love matters a trifle fiery, semi-hard-edged and with the usual sable shadings. The second track of the quickly snatched duo is the aptly named 'Year Old Bread'. Sub-Pistol glass-light twinklings, raw-assed opening verse, a progression that is slight, a somewhat flatlined commencement that duly reaches a moment to gulp in new air and 'go for it'. More fear-inducing, more swathing slashes at the carcass of your resistance and despite the unappealing start this one comes to life albeit too briefly before settling back down and not really creating the thunderstorm expected. Both the tracks here are decent but just leave me unsatisfied, the crew have more to offer and need to get full wallop out of the production room.
Another brace, the CD moves up a notch that is for sure. 'Clown College' catches light via sharded string work whilst heavy statements underscore via the rest of the musical makers. The weight of the song adds to the impact, the opening verse is controlled but blatantly aching to escape the leash. Tension rises, a quick flicker and the chorus thrust is sodden through, highly electrified and testament to a band hitting a real zenith. From here the magnitude of the song is impressive, I rate this one very highly, those surges are really something else. The follow-up here needs to be tasty and that is indeed the case as 'Floral Prints' is a doom-laden song with a very vicious score and a temperament that always seems on the cusp. Inner palpitations add new angles, the chant sub-chorus is easily snatched and joined in with and as the earworm eats wax and shits out a molten fluid we are duly seared into submission - a very exciting grower for sure.
'Toska' next, the penultimate track. Something different this way comes via the early strokes that sees strange layers peeled back and the entrance into hard cacophony made. A decent change in attack this although it isn't my favoured piece and perhaps comes in at an awkward situation after two fantastic tracks. There is added depth here though that may give it the greatest longevity factor, I am just finding that both main facets fail to fully gel within my own personal noggin. Tis' a tightly played number nonetheless and will have ardent fans jigging. The last piece is known as 'Circling The Drain'. Rumble pulses, touches of delicacy and then more of what has been. The opening throes here are almost stripped naked, when matters are upped the nasty, nasty spittle edge comes but just needs a more hammering effect. As per, this greedy bugger always wants a little extra during the last throes and I don't feel we get it here. The song is for those who prefer things dark-edged and perhaps more gothic in its flow. It moves well, has some layers that I may have overlooked but after a few listens I am just not being convinced.
Hey, there we go, Fungal has investigated another disc and come up with a review that is what it is. There are a couple of standout moments on here, a few songs that are darn tidy and a few that I just don't fall in line with. I think the band have more to offer, each component though needs added volume, space and ‘oomph’ in the mixing room. Of course, these are personal honest thoughts and could be a recipe for disaster although I think not. What comes next is anyone's guess, enjoy this in the meantime folks and watch out for those sizzlers!
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EAMON THE DESTROYER - THE MAKERS QUIT What strange cadences are emanated from the speakers this time? From dingly dells of misshapen discordance comes a collection of crooked cacophonies with charm, rhythm and moments of soothing ease. To help ye have a little more insight we see that the man at the helm is a painting graduate and hails from Edinburgh - perhaps these romances into the world of music are audio artworks played out on your awaiting canvas with deep consideration - we must delve deeper to find out methinks.
'The Maker's Quit' begins with careful and perhaps overly considered orchestrations before developing into a cool wafting balmy somnolence. The utterances that come are just on the wrong side of level 'lucid' but with effort they are decipherable. We are carried with care on a featherbed of thoughtful quietude with the opiate of the outpouring very much of a lid-tugging lilt. A veritable laid-back piece that must find the listener in the same state of cerebral composure to garner any true appreciation.
'Silverback' creeps in on thermally tepid tiptoes. I envision an untrustworthy shapeshifter manifesting itself from beneath a coffee table where brews cool and open magazines parade pictures of thought provoking soporific slumber. It is a dreamy number built from foundations as light and fluffy as Angel's Delight whilst, may I suggest, being of a similar tonal flavour. Another one of those that I politely label a 'mood' piece, I hope you get my drift! 'Three Wheels' follows a similar thread, it is how the cacophonic cake doth crumble. From pastel shades of hesitant caresses and across a canvas already subdued with a mellow wash comes a landscape structure that is not liable to stand up to any critical downpours. The initial throes attempt to make big pronouncements before we are taken down a thoroughfare of controlled emotion and fantasyland creativity. The application is exact but a little too gracile.
Oriental tints and panoramic vistas combine as 'The Ocean' unfolds and seeks to envelop. The reservations I have only come after the creative force outstays its welcome and somewhat diminishes its own impact and identity. From the opening throes to the midway section we get a secure comfort emanated whilst hesitant experimentation unwinds and reveals itself in the usual soothing manner. The application is precise and tenderised, before an inner funfair invasion comes and disjoints the whole fiasco. We move on, fall back into a buoyancy of tranquillity before finalising via a hybridised freak of child cum dove - it is all rather unsettling.
Onto 'Captive' we go, another careful number with childlike magic dictating the general thread. The initial touches are almost done with an 'as you go' quality and so leave one unsure as to the main motif and the general aim. The quietude seems to fight for prominence and does indeed win through but for me, matters outstay their welcome and things become too smoothed down and somewhat wishy-washy. This is water-colour music that has not been given a good vibrancy, something I think would enhance all properties and give the creation extra life - I have gotta be fair ha' knows.
3 to go, I don't mind 'Firefly In The Leg' - it has a nice blend of components that bring a certain contrast factor to the fore. The jazzy elements and the upbeat way that they are delivered help things to progress whilst dragging the luggite along for the journey. I would have preferred a full on episode of this malarkey, preferably with a 2.5 minute running time. This is still a concoction with many fascinations though - I am gently charmed. 'Pleasureland' is a meadowland moment, it takes me to flower-strewn vistas of thoughtful magnitude. It maintains the slow-swaying monopolisation that takes precedence throughout this 8 track journey and if one throws this, or indeed any other number, into a melting pot of hardcorian expulsions, a distinct enhancement of all takes place - well worth considering.
We end on an expected note with more ambiguity, soft pliability and general care in the cacophonic community. 'The Buffalo's Song' stutters in, poses questions and ambles along in the now predictable fashion. The creative forces know what they want to do, at this point I just go with the flow and accept the situation. At this punctuating musical mark I would have liked something really capricious and vulgarly dynamic but, this is not how it is. There is little to criticise here although I am left wanting a little more.
Eamon The Destroyer is a strange kettle of fish, a real challenge for this spiked reviewer who, does indeed tackle all sounds and sensations and always wonders if he has captured what is going on. This is for those in need of chill-out time, who like things unrushed and who are happy to sit back and summon all kinds of cerebral fantasies. It isn't my everyday sonic slurpage but it is done well and challenges - dare any idler ask for more?
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NEON CRABS - DROP IT ON YA Yeah, I am into the next rhythmic rockpool and getting my sonic tootsies pincered. The dry flaky crusts of tonal terra firma are seeing a slowdown in cacophonic creativity and I am happy to wander further out and dabble with dins submerged. Father Time encourages me to stray from the well-trodden pathways and to keep on exploring, these dayglo crustaceans have me intrigued.
Track one, 'Table Talk' opens with a well-compressed groovy fascination that has a cold, stark and mechanical sensation running right to the core of the rhythm. The recognisable verbals soon join the fray, come in a strained and stated pseudo-digital style with questions asked and no answers given. A very post-punk, futurised sidewind of sound with a consistent roll emanated and a quite subtle snag factor that keeps one piqued and involved. The end collapse was always destined to happen but this doesn't detract from an enticing opening account.
'Modern Convenience' shuffles in with back sparks enhancing and the robotic routine a combination of the spasmed, smooth and sweated. This is a look at the stressed demands, the everyday mania and the way we are going in this world of 'everything on a plate and at our beck and call'. Hints of Heads Talking soon manifest themselves in my eavesdropping noggin as well as plugged in automatons going through the motions in Metropolistian fashion whilst devoid of emotion or any questioning ability. Take a look around you, play this, have we really got it sussed in this demanding 21st Century shambles. Not a bad do this one, and into the fluster-bluster confoundedness of 'Pumps On A Puma' we go. This is a cacophonic spurt of annoyance, a song relaying a disgruntlement with a slip into a world of idiocy and hate with no seeming chance of escape. A really wound up number that jangles the joints as well as tingles the tendons, in an almost uncomfortable way - one to reconsider when my blood pressure is down methinks, as for now, it is not a fave.
The slow and deliberate plod of 'Boneshow' is very intriguing and the bass bumble heavyweight addition gives the song a really cauldron-bubble. The guitars are screwed up tinfoil, the tympanics metronomic and purposeful, the gobbage semi-snarling, stated with a spittle-soaked edge and thrown into a mix that is thermally ready to boil over and burn your juiced up genitals. I do like this one, it is awkward but easy to embrace and throws in a new angle to the manifestation made thus far.
'Red Foxx's Car Velvetising' begins in a lunatic tribal kind of way. This one sincerely sounds like a black-magic summoning, borne from heatwave back lands in places deemed out of bounds. A very voodoo VD infected number, curling its own cacophonic cock around the perineum and bumming out a quite disturbing piece of ambiguous mania. There is a nasty relish jacking out a sugar rush/ruddy thrush here and I feel myself in danger of catching something unhygienic - I scarper on into further orifices of dinnage before my cobblers get crippled.
One of the CD highpoints comes next via the 'Information Super Highway'. This is a solid song with a good momentum and some fine rock and roll riffage working along the usual crabby vibes and tonal tangents. A forceful grinder with plenty of flesh on the bone. Take note, the Universal Resource Locator has everything at your fingertips, even your fuckin' soul baby! I take this chunky thriller chiller as a warning via a good creation - dance, do not take a chance, seek too deeply, you may not like what you find...but, now and again, vibes like this are unearthed.
Just before we retire with have two more tracks. 'Tea Time Bitches' runs along with good activity levels and a watertight delivery. A travelling vehicle that rides a rocky path and makes sure the inner engine is given a good old rattling and the pistons are pushed to a fair level of productivity. The head gaskets fail to blow, the exhaust grumbles out good plumes of noxious noise though and the ending is abrupt and leaves a feeling of a journey unfinished - it is all reflective of drivers who go with a hunch, drive with DIY focus and if need be, take a leak when necessary.
The finale, title track it is 'Drop It On Ya'. A jaunty little number plays out with a bountiful under-throb and a well waggled ad-hoc nob. There is a superfluity of flavoursome submission here with many layers to peel away so as to reveal the inner workings. Again, the feeling of restless disgruntlement is never far away, it seems the creators are niggled by many everyday wankerys .They progress though with a distinct directness, do what they do and round off a CD with many questions answered, some left dangling like a dehydrated turd from a duck's arse.
Hey man, this ain't a bad do and as per, it adds a different angle to the everyday play list and brings a contrast factor to many other sounds. Keep stepping out from your safety circles folks, it be mighty interesting out there tha' knows.
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