THE SENTON BOMBS - MASS VENDETTA

The Senton Bombs are a band I have followed, assisted and promoted since the very early days and I have seen them completely grow from a very able-bodied band with numerous pleasing ditties to a full-on, don't fuck unit that is absolutely firing on all sizzling cylinders and blowing the minds of all and sundry who have a taste not restricted and an attitude to embrace quality outside the pig ignorant borders.  The band have never claimed to be a punk rock group, they have no desire to jump into any shit rank pigeon-hole, all they want to do is rock hard and roll out some quality tuneage - I stand up and applaud this attitude and am happy they break away from the stranglehold scenes can put on many fine noise makers.  Here we have the band’s latest spillage and I am pregnant with a bastard of anticipation and I just hope my cerebral assessing cunt gets ripped wide open by another kicking and screaming bout of classy rock and roll - my legs are parted, pray let me soon be farted, now let's get started!

The first billow of musical breath is belched our way via the consummate ease slapped forth as 'Trailblazer', a song that throbs with the bands new found excellence and eureka invoking sanguinity.  Not many bands open their account with a 5 minute plus saturation of gushing flamboyance but The Senton Bomb Squad are fully armed to the teeth and fully self-assured in their artful attack and give you one mighty chunk of choice noise to get grips with and leave you with no room for negating thought.  Totally solid in all departments and riffing the airwaves to Utopian zeniths the crew set out a high opening gambit that will have them on their toes to maintain.  An extra slice of quality comes in this first smash hit via several switch down westernised moments that just perspire a sweat of golden magnificence to grace the brow of any tuned in, tight fuck musical maestro.  The only question left after this opening thrashing viper of victory is if I will be idiot enough to try and find any fault as this CD progresses - it has been known ya know.  I play this opening song again and again simply because I fuckin' like it, any arguments please keep to yourself - I am not interested!

Second up and a more masterful session of musical midwifery as the cunt of cacophony is torn asunder and the wriggling, shit-kicking 'Mainstream', is borne unto the aural world and given a decent slap of confidence on the arse from this assessing onlooker. There is life aplenty within the belly of the creation, enough noisy animation to keep one occupied and certainly enough gurgling appetite to feed on your turgid pap of praise. As soon as the greedy lips of the song attach themselves to your attentive nipple you are sucked off, sucked in and...sucked dry by a mover that has much to take note of.  That opening multi-faceted screw in fascinates before a steadier approach is briefly taken and gives one time to prepare for another drilling.  A two-fisted fuck, all components are well-lubed, the delivery is easy and the resultant offspring something the band should be very proud of.  I just wish I could have witnessed the conception - you see, we musical perverts can never get enough.

I am on the back foot, looking to take a beating here and 'Train Wreck' offers no respite.  An eager beaver start gnaws at yer toned timbers, the logs fall and the tracks are laid and with a few testing fly bys the band get into a self-made slipstream and drive to a glorious oblivion, all done in sun-smoked tones and wonderfully discovered self-certainty.  The manoeuvre from the utterly restrained to the loose geared trundle is all sublime and very accomplished with the unit quite happy to ponder the musical point and load every moment with savoury and saturated sonic extras.  These are not mere titbits to dabble with and chuck to one side, these are complex creations there to be considered, complimented and critically acclaimed - I move on firm in the belief that the band are doing things oh so right.  'Out West' throws in an early angle to mull over, with whispered tones and slow-swirling respirations of very relaxed rhythms making for an episode that will test the ardent fan of the band.  The rise and fall of the sonic chest occurs with caution and each intake is tinted with trepidation but in no way will hinder the actual living entity that gives rise to this sturdy emanation.  I ask myself a question at this point and that is whether or not this song is the greatest example of the bands advancement thus far and exhibits a marbleised faith in their fecund fodder that is attaining many unpredicted zeniths many would never have thought possible?  Worth a thought and while pondering, ease back and admire the tuneage baby!

No rest for the wickedly active and 'Mass Vendetta' hits my aural orifices with a good punk stagger of crisp wire wanks whilst the drooling oral slaps are puked up with Technicolor hunger you can only get infected by.  The rise in the potential is cute and crafty and comes with behemoth focus and much unquestionable power that gorges on ones erection of alertness and makes sure many seeds of direct observance are ejaculated.  The acupuncture intent has a reverse effect and increases the infected addiction we seem to be very much paralysed by and at the end of this frothing fucker we are back where we were - in need of desperate help and aching  for another Sentonised fix.  We druggies of discordance are an accursed breed.  Onwards and a Thompson Gun blaze mows down any resistance, a caramelised sugar sharpness of lust snatches at your neurones and another darn racing blood vein is opened via the blade of '13 Days' - a fast fucking bastard who wants no prisoners, just victims.  All assets of the creation are polished, cohesive and cracking a whip of concussive vehemence that will get even the most indolent cur off its ass and barking.  Note - become involved!

Time to lower the flame, cook things with a little more patience.  'Avalanche' roams in nebulous mists that leave me kissed by a distinct frostiness and so give me the first opportunity to brandish a caring arm of critique.  A half-baked intro this one that wanders in a land of almost 'nowhere' with the signpost to success veiled and not followed.  Almost indulgent in its involvement and slowly testing the patience of this Fungalised fruit I reach for the replay button several times over and still come up with the verdict of an arid orifice slightly backed up with clogging constipation.  I am not liking the sensation here and provide a verbal laxative as way of relief and advice - 'sharpen up boys and make the drifts darker and more dramatic'.  Oooh me rectum! 'Pretty Tricky' gets back into the super groove and screws things rigid with a flame throwing emittance of perspiring sonica that has that teeth-clashing, spittle-inducing avidity we find most disarming and debilitating.  Frontman Joey has an impenetrable slagdrop of rock and roll dynamism on which to climb and strut his stuff and strut the fucker does.  The heftiness of this and other tracks is impressive and I lunge into the last three diseased with fanaticism.

And so to those final 3, no dawdling here, I am expecting much and will not meander and overfeed your indolent stomachs.  'Wedlock Horns' deliberately puts one sturdy foot in front of the other whilst a very strait-jacketed style of sonica escorts.  The somewhat restricted rhythm is surely making way for a more liberated eruption which is certainly the case but not in the way expected.  The blooming moments are too transient, too fleeting and leave me salivating for more for all the wrong reasons.  The sub-chorus chunks are akin to a peepshow and leave one with a stalk to be rubbed rather than a well jacked member free of frustrating seeds.  The band prolong the prick tease and I walk away perspired and lowly fired with a verdict of unsure - bastards. 'Red Shield' is more like it with an opening gambit that arouses but promises little.  This is the best way so as to stop the listener jumping ahead of the expectation levels.  The ascension is slight, the unwinding of the muscular abdomen of sound subtle and the songs inner heartbeat is resolute, bewitching and yes, you know it, believable.  No rush, no bursting energy - just a reliable saunter to the closure, the confidence oozes and is tinctured with an extra swagger that emanates class.  I am a satisfied eavesdropper. The closure comes via 'Apex', another unflustered account that thumb flicks its pages with aplomb and totally drilled in attention that will not waver from external desire, in-scene request and pop-pigeonholing pissiness.  The band have never been more at home and like it, lump it, love it or hump it you have to admire the full on dedication and austere attention to the slag rock regime.  I would have preferred a back to basics riff and roll out that slammed one in the eye and left a scar to attend to rather than this dwelling, overlong delivery that has little instantaneous wham factor.  There ya go, an opinion, but even so my applause is not muted and I stand back and clap like a cunt for a band who have progressed in their own way and are now at the top of their game.

The Senton Bombs are a different beast from when I first witnessed them many moons ago and along the way I have seen them slowly but surely advance through many tunnels of detracting shite and develop into a firm-footed band purely at home with their sound and very much in control of what they do, who they do it to (oooh the nasty chaps) and how they do it.  The journey hasn't been plain sailing, many dogs have tried to detract and drag but this lot are a fine example of what will happen if you stick to your guns and avoid the shackles of many strangling scenes - success I holler, success and this CD emphasises this belief.  Onwards, upwards, sideways and then some - Bombs away!

SOLIDS - ELSE EP

4 songs of intense blood-letting vibrology released on 2 labels, namely Top Shelf Records and Dine Alone Records.  I am not familiar with the band who are trembling my cables of tonality and so go in all virginal and without infecting sway. Immediate impressions are of a shambling, stodge-pile of unflustered music erupting from one noxious nucleus where self-inspection and over analysis take place and curdle the inner matter to buggery.  Slapped down in some quarters as a fuzzy power pop rock duo from Montreal this quartet of slow copulating crapulence surely does test my patience and I end up with an overview something like this.

'Blank Stare' briefly twinges before grinding through the gloop, forcing a headway through a murky sub-musical mire and finding something resembling a tune.  A heavy, oppressive shading is slapped throughout the veins of this vibrating monster and when an incision is made so as to assess the real flesh and fabric of the shifter one finds all matter is bleak, turgid and of a life-force very much clouded by intensity and pondering pretension.  There is a gnawing anxiety within the blood of the beast, a crushing worry prevalent throughout that seems to hinder what the band are actually trying to defecate our way.  The constipated effect is only eased by a laxative of volume and that only relieves matters in a very small way thus leaving us, at the end of the session, strained and drained.  'Wait It Out' threatens to break the clouds, offers initial hope of sunshine blessing but soon finds itself in a lazy arse mode of self-indulgence that is reminiscent of fagged out stoner rock diseased with a head melting lethargy that takes the soul, rapes the spirit.  The solution to the misery is drug abuse - simple as, an escorting chemical that will aid in passing the 4 minute 48 crawl in double quick time.  I like the saturation of sound, the harmonised utterances do have some glinting light to find hope with but, when it comes to an ultimatum and a verdict is needed from this weary reviewer, then the hat of negativity is delved into and a ruddy red card is issued - get off out of it!

Next and my patience goes through another mangle of mushed melodica via a mess known as 'Blurs'.  A steaming pile of compressed and condensed cacophony with all layers dispersed over a running period that is too long for its own good health.  The murked strata is so dense the vocal strains seem almost starved of oxygenating goodness and so it is with a furrowed brow the listener strives to uncover some semblance of positivity.  Scratch deep enough and take profound interest and elements of worth do manifest themselves but again it is a gruelling task that once more takes up more of one’s time than it should.  We fuck off with the final fling of the four known as 'Shine'.  Another slug that belly sidles its way through a snagging undergrowth and fails to emerge into a rescuing glade of upbeat relief.  This  chunk of noxious noise really does dwell  in its own defecation and I am left totally uncharmed by the stench that rises my way.  This happens, I am never going to like everything that enters my listening district, this is one of those instances when a definite 'yuk' escapes from my distorted lips - hey bloody ho.

Thoroughly not my bag and an offering that plays on one level way too much and sacrifices a change in mood and temperament for a damning flatline approach.  It is a stifling listen best left for certain bods in a very specific state of mind - thank fuck my moods don't sink this low too often.  All I can add is 'each to their own'.

HEADSTICKS - FEATHER AND FLAME

Music should be rule free, there should be no in-scene restrictions especially when coming under the loose and ragged umbrella scabbed as 'punk'.  I care not for strict musical order and care equally less of keeping things cosy, predictable and of a certain one way vibe.  When the folky fruitiness of the Headsticks machine graced my pathway I was all lugs and was acutely keen to get them a gig or two and help with the old facet of 'exposure'.  The band duly came, played and plucked and the punters with insight were intrigued and pleasantly fucked by a consistent display of artful, cutting and politically razored music delivered with gentle skill and knowledgeable nouse.  The band released what I considered to be an Album of the Year, gained a momentum and at the moment of writing are due to headline a Fungal show and look set to impress with this latest CD.  But is this CD up to the lofty scratch mark of the first or does it lurk below a crappy tideline where much melodic muck sinks and eventually gets flushed away.  I may be a fan of the band (gastric, elastic or those deemed fantastic) but I never hold favour (that is crude and unfair behaviour best left to the insincere sycophants).  I digress, a rant is on the cusp, I best get on with the review - gaskets are precious these days, why blow them unnecessarily.

First up and a marvellously wound up overspill tagged as 'What Do You Want', a song that viciously kicks out at the apathetic sofa slugs who want to munch their lazy lettuce leaves and stay below their stones rather than get up and upset a few applecarts (best leave that to others don't ya think).  The initial tones are crisply moving and that first repercussive sub-chorus demand tumbles over its own eager tootsies and takes us into the first desirous slab of foaming gobbage that grabs our listening radars and duly convinces.  Orally acute, musically subtly adept - the combination sees Headsticks maintain a heady echelon of quality they finished up with on their last CD donation and I for one breathe a sigh of exhaustive relief.  The song winds itself up, finds greater frustration than I feel it first deemed possible and the result is a well vented spleen worth taking note of.  An exemplary opening and into the more sobered 'Cold Grey English Skies', a documentary ditty that crawls from the detritus of a dog-eared dive and delivers something dramatically earthy, reality riddled and intriguing.  Like an ulcerous sore that requires constant picking and pick we readily do, with a studious focus that blocks out distraction and consumes ones very being.  Beneath the crusted upper layers where infection is at its most virulent comes a boyish hope, a naiveté that puts us in some form of decent stead and maybe, just maybe, will give us a 'Castle in the Air' worth striving for or perhaps I am blinded by quality, oh the hazards.

A song regarding the homeless is more than pertinent at the moment, as it was yesterday and will be tomorrow, and with a few pigs in the pit trying to force a social shift it seems as though this next donation of musical mush is there to mull over rather than just swallow and move onto the next course.  'Go, Move, Shift' is a demanding chomper that has a pluckiness of soul and many highly agitated properties that are conducive to a stubborn, heels dug outpouring one can easily get in line with and rant along to.  An almost ad hoc persuasion is had to the music, an off the cuff naturalness that finds its own impetus as the music unfolds and blossoms via the basic, belligerent chorus shout.  Take your time here folks, this is a grower.  'Old Folk Songs' pronounces on sanguine tones and immediately twangs my textual chords of digital verbosity.  A seasoned climate kissed song that blows with weighted winds and invasive backdrafts, an inescapable tickler that will sneak through the merest gap and whisper against your skin with convincing sincerity.  A more forthright song, perhaps the most strictly orthodox thus far but in no way packing any less vigour and spunky pugnacity.

The next brace to bum my receptive openings go by the names of 'Foxford Town' and 'Mississippi's Burning', 2 songs that again sweat with style and move with a wealth of certainty that most definitely enthrals this perusing luggite.  The former begins with a lowly belly grumble before embracing tones float over the airwaves and take one by the mitt into a very comforting place indeed, a place where one can nestle down and just tremble to the tunery.  The latter song is a stand out moment and encapsulates the magic and knowing knack the unit have for coupling thoughtful lyricology and perfectly harvested acoustic accoutrements that are displayed with fascinating accuracy borne of players in a zone.  The rippling waters of sound are silver tinted and catch the aural eye whilst the pastel shadings beneath the upper film are firm and reflective of a band with many depths.  A steadfast sure-fire winner and the song that will win the most instantaneous praise - and so it should.  This vital pip however is gradually superseded by the slowly boa constricting tendrils of 'Pay The Price', a prosperous creation that strongly wraps itself around your entire framework and squeezes out a staunch verdict of the affirmative due to nothing more than an inescapable tonal grip and a mesmeric consistency that has many join in and sway elements.  Am I contemplating the best of the lot here, am I considering a song that will just get better with time - tune in next month folks to check on the progress status - it could be worth it!

'Tomorrow's History' begins with grimy sludge steps before sliding further forth with the expected feistiness and resisting robustness we are by now well versed in.  The structure to this one is of a repeat nag style with the chorus echoing itself over and over and making sure it certainly gets lodged in the cranial fluid.  The spirit is as ever shining and the magnetism high but if I was pushed into a corner by a pecker wielding rapist I would tag this as my least favourite (and run).  Not bad but just a little shy of the umpteen zeniths the band attain.  'Every Single Day' should get the second slap on the wrist due to its Bucks Fizzian leanings (listen closely now peeps) but I can't help but be gratified by the overall chirpiness and cheeky questioning that comes through a quite frothy and colourful crash-bang!  It is a really invasive number that claws at both sides of the reviewer’s decency - with one hand scratching out a sensation of wariness, the other mitt being more gung ho and having it!  Oh the entanglement of assessing - such a bugger it be!

2 left and 'Burn The Sun', is a fine example of how to stretch your acoustic undies and let your pecker tremble to a new tonality.  Never let your privates dangle and dawdle, keep em' ready rubbed and well aired and always reach for the out of bounds.  The funkiness of the opening squelchy sequence excites and offers a glimpse into alleyways new where these trespassing tunesters may wander further.  The attack of the song is almost jazzy, borders on the wise assed street vibe borne from blinged gangstas with a restless soul.  Tis a disorientating piece I find and one that appears to ping back and forth from the centre of the set circle of predictability - you have to applaud that.  The final piece that permeates my listening airspace is 'Falling Out Of Love Song', a piece that contains a wintry austerity, a cold draughted accent that raises many a goosebump and gets one wrapping up warm with the glowing wordage.  That wordage is wonderfully probing and tiptoes on a precipice where many, in this age of 'easy option first', will fear to tread.  Without questions we will never get any answers, and without honesty the answers will be fuckin' pointless.  Listen carefully here, admire the intellect, applaud the inner machinations - and have done with your idle headedness will ya!

And my review is done.  Have I kept thee entertained?  Have I tampered with your nosiness?  Have I niggled your curiosity?  Oh questions, questions - it is all we have left but the main poser I feel that this review should be finalised with is this - why the hell wouldn't you buy this elegant CD and play it to  utter buggery (just like me)?  A fair tickler methinks?

WOLF GIRL - WE TRIED

Odd Box Records are sending the odd delightful curiosity my way of late and due to my predilection for all things new and off-kilter I am finding many new acoustic pleasures to grace my tuned in and out Tobies with.  Wolf Girl are a 4-piece, a crew from South London who play a hybridised mix of the melodic, the slightly murky and the somewhat simplified.  The pop tones are indified, the potential vast and varied and throughout this CD I find myself finding many moments to savour and swing along with.  Some may get it, some may miss the thread entirely but these sub-pit soniceers of noise are not there to appeal to the masses, they are simply there to do their thing and see what transpires - the best way indeed - fuck expectations, let your creations come from the internal core, not the external whore!

The commencement comes arrives via the ambled airwaves of 'Don't Ask Me Questions (I Can't Even Answer The Phone)', a crisp and delightful delivery on well-cushioned tones borne from players who seem content and comfortable with what comes and what ultimately goes. The rise of chirpy hope from what I deem to be acoustic ashes of subdued tonality is guileful and, in a slightly cloaked way, slick.  When the chorus gushes over our initially impressed bonses we are taken to a whole new level of glee and I am up and happy with the jinking jauntiness of this quite pick-me-up opener.  Aren't those choral tones so darned heart-tickling!  I move on with a spring in the heel and gently bump into the rotund rhythmic body of 'Middlesexy', a song that starts with almost hesitant plucks that get comforted by crystal water croons before a fuzzy overleak of the rapids forces its way through the smallest attentive gap.  When the song travels at its most fluent the effect is of a well-foamed semi-velutinous sensation that is easily caught up and ideally reclined in.  A soothing yet prickly number, akin to an acupuncture mat where the initial discomfort leads to a longer term of pleasure - in some ways a paradox I know but such is the sonic world at times.  A supremely delicious moment falls into my lap next with the amusingly entitled 'Are You Reading A Dirty Book'.  Arising from copulated ashes of low-brow 80's indie and 'Summer Holiday' colourised light captures this song has definite angles from various 'Smithonian Shadows' that I find most enlightening and somehow, embracing.  A cushioned cloud of floating graciousness that does what it does without flap or fluster, without crap or bluster - just simply and smoothly moves through the listening panorama and leaves one happier for the event.  Those unfazed oral offerings, the delicate backstroke of harmony and the ever-twinkling touches all make for kindly a kiss on the lug.  Thank you sweet minstrels!

'Sourpuss' taps at the noggin with trepidation before innocent wavelengths tenderly trespass on zone tones not that familiar to this slamdunk punk pig.  When the song gets going there is an obvious repetition within the weave of the backdrop that adds a reliability and somewhat comforting escort which, as a matter of course, gets the listener relaxed and eager for more.  In truth this is the most stabilised cradle rock of the lot although there is a good tickle in the tum caused by the sway.  Not too bad but the youthful freshness of 'Skinned Teen Zine Machine' wins a bigger chunk of the applauding day with its zesty and citrus naiveté and overall abandoned approach that somehow brings images of a bopping pubescent, away with the fairies of sound and oblivious to the external pressures of life.  I love this sensation and the opening pronunciations are ideal for leading the way into a scrummy popsicle pump out of auditory effervescence.  A peculiar many shaded door of quirkiness opens next and gives glimpse of a 60's sounding hippy skip that calls on influences sub-powered by things cutely flowered.  Agree or disagree with the suggestion but there ya go, I can only spill what is aroused by the causal agent, apologies I have none!  In respect of the songs weight and impact I am finding this a good listen with the choppy guitars, noodled twangs and free-floating feathery vocals, a combo that works a treat and keeps me on the upward slope of interest.  What a sweet surprise this CD is turning out to be!

Next up and the jumble jiggle of 'Rotten', a tinkling twinkling that hybridises indie offerings and barnyard jiggery and comes up with a highly squashed and colliding crush of busy nonsense that leaves me picking up the odd word or two and wondering what the hell the band are on about.  'Pineapples' and 'Tomatoes' indeed, I feel on the outside here and am only just grasping the tuneage and so give this latter end effort the lowest rating of the lot although that is far from an insulting score.  'Doom With A View' has sobered, somewhat semi-melancholic reality soaked verses that are emphasised and counterpunched by delicious chorus sprays of fine duo-sexed harmonies that radiate both sagacious and curious tones borne from crooners in and out of sync.  The opening push is corroded, worn with experience and what follows is neatly responsible for reinvigorating the interest levels and...the soul...thank you very muchly.

We bugger off into the final silence with 'The Maybe', a chirpy upchuck coloured in many ways be they pastel, oiled or softer watery tints, this well jaunted jollity has much weight and depth and carries us to the last full stop with confidence and in the same consistent style as witnessed throughout the CD.  I am too far gone to even try and find fault at this stage, I am happy to take it easy and just swallow this one down with no fuss - please send your complaints to...

An eye-opening joy this one, not from my natural habitat but who cares - I trespass in many territories and if the tuneage is good then I'll be the first to say so.  To all those in the varied pits I suggest you have a go at this inoffensive offering and just switch off and swing - no hassle, no underhand motives - just good tunes to savour.

LITTERBUG - ARTISTIC HARRASSMENT

Litterbug have been dabbling with their off-kilter pop garage cacophony for quite a while now and whilst these Blackpool based twang merchants don't necessarily fit into any cosy confines with general ease it is more than obvious the best place for them to strut their stuff is in certain niches within the fractured and fucked punk scene (whatever that is).  Saying that I always express that bands should in no way limit themselves to one target audience and I can't help feeling that most applause for this crew would come from many odd angles (I would certainly hope so).  Here I get to tackle an abundance of tunes (14 in total), some I am familiar and a few new ones.  I will go in gung ho and gritting my gnashers with the hope of some gratifying tuneage, it should happen - the band have a talent for quirky songs that stick in the cranial gunk!  From a personal perspective too, I am interested to see how my thoughts have altered from previous appraisals and what stance I now hold - tis all a test of the lugs.

'I Will Not Explain' opens, tersely rumbles, skids in its own bassed defecation, tympanically tumbles out a brief pebble dash before zipping along in fine, fruity style with all honest aspects of the bands noise thrown to the fore and blatantly bared.  As raw and as wholesome as the day is long, a starting gambit awash with buzzed guitar work and whipped bassism that is kept active with a slap happpy dose of timber tapping goodness, all there to provide energy and give the lucid lyrics to shine above.  I am immediately sucked in to the hoover of sub-dirty dinnage.  'You Don't Want What I Don't Want' slips along on a untroubled structure with a wraparound routine elongated over a period of 2 minutes 41 seconds and given animation via clashy wired layers, tumble twat vigour and the easily picked up and puked wordism.  There is a slight acoustic oxidation that just gives the over-spilling essence a dirty feel, the vocals balance this aspect by being sinisterly clean and as a result the end mix exudes a well-proportioned distribution of accent - nice.  'Bash My Brain' comes next and has a groovy crematorium feel to the opening grind before mushrooming into an exciting flash bomb of electro vitality that adopts a two-way stance and lets the listener have it.  From the condensed saturation points to the opposing rock and roll wank offs this double ended vibration of vigour once again sneaks beneath the epidermal layers and sets a tingling in motion, a sensation that brings with it much tangible pleasure.  The elements used to make such digestible noise are pace, hunger and a desire to keep to the rhythmic basics - these and these alone make for something uncomplicated but quite ruddy absorbing - see, sometimes you don't have to tie yourself in pompous knots.

3 down and 3 nipple tweaking delights and into 'Codeine' we go, a slaggish number with the snotty side slowly dripping from a nasal passage of noise with much deliberate sonic splendour and hypnotic effective.  Like looking at the leaking nose of a cold ridden tramp, you know you shouldn't but the notice taken just won't budge and you remain, perversely transfixed.  These minor facets are what make up good trembling tunes and no matter what, it is the earthy basics that are guaranteed ingredients to make noodles like me ping and pogo!  Another pip in one ever expanding fruit of vitamin vibes - I suck on!  'Work It Out' next , no-nonsense, no fuckin' about - straight into the rut of rhythm and with an all action attraction this one has a superb attacking vibrancy and the jagged incessancy of the nervous agitation will leave the listener shook up and pinging - a ditty I am very much looking forward to in the 'live' pit.  Chasing this lively thrust is the more controlled methodology of 'Do Nothing', a tightly structured cutie that adheres to the musical principles of pop punk and places emphasis on a likeable melody and sing-a-long simplicity.  It is a sugary contrast to the previous overspill and in parts has a certain maturity that borders on something akin to professionalism (oh I do apologise).  There is a fluidity apparent and that chorus is very insightful and happening with still an abundance of rib-rattling effect doings its bit - good work chaps, ruddy good work.

Accelerator push, 5 crash dash overviews.

'It's Not Funny' is a clanking number that stagger struts through the multi-fractured verse sections and yet still holds attention.  Matters are soon plastered up with a stonkingly planed out chorus that moves with uncongealed consistency and wins a larger part of this reviewers praise.  'Don't Listen To The Radio' tunes in and finds an appropriate band before scything and bass bumbling forth into an angular chunk of tuneage that seems utterly at odds and entangled in a mesh of imbalance.  A moment that needs adjusting too but again the chorus offers salvation to the adorers of the simplistic and gives an easy moment to tag along with.  'Stupid, Stupid' sneaks in almost below the radar and eventually comes on recognisable tones of a review long past.  A hectic number in parts, more restrained in others and with a core of vitality that will not be suppressed.  Still on the dangerous sub-cusp of mistuned, mismanaged mayhem which is where perhaps the finger needs pointing so as to indicate where the success levels may be arising from.  'Petrol Situation' switches on, leaves the driveway of uncertainty and hits a wayward road of uneven sonic surface before the driver at the helm loses the plot and gives vent to a screaming horror of a most alarming standard.  From here the song is bound to keep the luggite on their toes and the whispery sequence only adds to the potential threat - scary indeed.  Last of the fervid five and an old fave of mine, namely 'Anaphylactic', a chomping tune full of pulsing and throbbing need, one of those ditties you can feel the mania and perspiration pouring from - a great thrashing delight and one to play very, very loud and beat up the vicar’s wife to - oomph!

Into the last three, 'I Listen To Bands' is a cute dose of pepper spray with a wild spleen vent and melodic pleasure cruise both copulating amid heavy striding moments of ponderous deliberation and discordant dabblings that show the crew are never going to be fully settled and are always prone to dipping their fingers in the waters of experimentation and then in the plug socket of idiocy - I find that fully appreciable behaviour and long may it continue.  'Crowded Room' is the song that gets lost in the pack and seems to be one of those that has no fault, no out-jutting offensiveness but in the same breath has no stand out aspects to make it rise from this certain CD.  It is a sinewy number that is clamping down firmly on the old bit of application and with the usual zest of the crew injected it does get by without a kicking but, it just lacks a little character and may I add, griminess (who knows).  The shut down comes with the nicely off-centred abnormality known as 'OCD'.  A challenging route is adopted and dragged down many avenues of unconventionality whilst twanging and slapping the arse of the output and hoping for something resembling an end tune.  A military drum intro, a duel of strings, an awkward escalation, a move from the cool to the cruel, from the settled to the upset - a solid way to finish and upholding the bands approach and style.

14 tracks and one of the easiest CD's I have had to review in a long while.  The reason for this is the familiarity of several numbers and the fine uncomplicated structure of the songs which entertain and offer a nice blend of many genres previously hinted at.  Litterbug do it well and at last I have the buggers booked for a gig - surely my pleasure, surely the pleasure of the punter who makes the effort - go Litterbug, go!

SYSTEM OF HATE - UNHALLOWED GROUND

A band who formed from the debris of Total Confusion and who have gone down a very dark route indeed and made an excursion into sable realms where many fear to tread.  These bastards from Barnsley are getting good vibrations from the heaving and puking masses and after playing with several big names (not that this matters a jot) they are getting more and more note and more and more expected gigs.  I have reviewed some of the bands fodder on previous occasions and have yet to see them 'live' so I plunge into the meat of the melody here with an almost imbalanced stance (if ever one existed).  The band sent me a fair bit of promotional text with the CD with a lot of names dropped and some positive praise slopped - fear not I don't get swayed by this.  I travel deeper into the shade created, I see what comes, how the CD is fated.

After a mocking pomposity of foreign serenades the skies fracture, liquid filth drops in bleak sonic spears and I bow my head under the initial intensity slagged as 'Rogue Apostle'.  This satanic spew up of worm-infested horror comes from sinful mitts adept at an art form very much best left alone by those with purer hearts.  Praise is given to the cloven one, the monstrosity who turns wine into sewerage, goodness into grime and during this homage to the hated the band apply a shockingly magnetic field of frightening intensity that any straying luggite will get sucked in by and devoured.  The band apply a pressure grip, a thumbscrew of painful delight and with all units harmonised and maximising their potential the end result is of a genuine gratuitous glut of winning noise.  First one signed, sealed and delivered and this recipient is gobsmacked.  'Kiss The World (1916)' is a more staggered number, an encrusted cripple crawling from a wreckage, a wreckage perhaps created by the previous oblivion inducing explosion - who am I to question!  Initial tones are borne from the rubble of a crumbled church, what follows is the final avalanche of evil, the damning apocalypse that silences the masses.  War mongering dominates and the band at the helm are there merely to provide the soundtrack of death to all those lost and cut down in their zenith of existence.  The noise here is awkward, uneven and pulverising - a less liquid movement but gathering in momentum and muscle as it progresses and with each rotation and twist of the volume button we get a greater and greater impression - slam.

Discharge-like wire wankism next (no bad thing) as 'Crucified' taunts and, may we suggest, relieves a soul once scoured now blatantly soured by a fanaticism that has fucked the inner core.  Ill temper, ill judgement, ill will - all elements combine to kick up devilish dung in the face of decency and pour forth a very specific stench of blasphemous terror.  Another rusted nail in the palm of the noise pervert and one that may give immense pleasure if the perversion runs ridiculously deep.  'Antichrist' is the partner in crime and is another contemptuous and impious attack of conscience free cruelty that aims, throws and punctures.  The initial pulse breeds life-draining infection and the head down and focus fuckery takes the wind out of one’s sails and blows it back with dog shit breath - a very stomach cramping, eye-bugging moment not to be taken lightly.  'Sanatoria' next and the brain-beating continues with sporadic ticker thumps, metallic spine-whispers, light swirl tortures before the doors swing open and in strides another behemoth to try and defy.  Within the cold, unforgiving walls of this brutal song a madness pervades as well as a vindictive spite that takes detestable delight in the suffering of others.  A two-way emotion, melting as one into a bastard of grim reality and exposing a dark vileness that is best left alone and not examined too closely.  The erupting pus of cacophony though entices our curious nature and we delve in, removing many scabbed layers to make the wound bleed more and feed our almost vampiric need.  5 tracks in and a desire has been aroused, this latest effort only encourages night crawling behaviour - I willingly submit to the sonica.

The halfway mark has been passed, the scars are deep and pleasurable, let the thrashing continue.  'Zealot's Path', pumps with poisoned blood during an ominous bass grumble that is soon enhanced by horned horror and tympanic persistence.  The verses are stated more than sung, the raw throat viciously cancerous, the ambience cloying and aggressive - the outcome - another towering monolith of overwhelming stature.  Add volume at your peril, don't blame me when your brain bleeds from your ears.  'Mutilation' masturbates itself with a gloved fist, the glove decorated with razors, the razors rusted with piss.  A harsh occurrence that demands attention insists you watch the self abuse take place, all in sacred ground where ghosts kiss and copulate in time to the rhythm.  The song gets on with matters, crunches its own bones without any distraction or driving off course.  A straight ahead sizzler just keeping things horribly roasted.  'Apostle Of Pain' follows and is in vogue with the violence and vindictiveness poured forth with the chorus chunk dripped with molten ease.  No highs, no lows - maybe a failing, maybe the way to do it - do not expect anything different, but do not expect to be let off lightly - this one sucks on your arteries with white-eyed glee, flourishes fangs, feeds and fucks off.  The penultimate punisher is scratched down as 'Killing Fields', a whoring machination of deep-rooted hate, hate built on savage instinct and primeval basics but played out via professional attention and forward thrusting.  The opening glory drowns resistance, the pursuing effervescing gob drags us deep below the surface and we are swirling in a maelstrom of another all-devouring void - enjoy the death trip.

The closure comes via what I deem to be an almost homage to those masters of unsettling gothic tunes, Joy Division.  The similarity is remarkable and the execution equally so, which kind of says a whole lot about the niche the band are finding themselves in and the solid artistry and execution they are exhibiting.  This astounding full stop to an all powerful bomb  blast of shuddering power runs for 7 minutes and 2 seconds and not a bit of that time is wasted.  Like a starved cur let free in a meat factory I chomp with insane desire and rip chunks of noise from the solid bone and swallow with manic desire.  'Unhallowed Ground' is a complete gem, takes the CD to the final breath with consummate exactitude and upholds a theme battered to complete bastard buggery.  

I like this spilling sewerage, I appreciate the density and compaction of the sonica and I am fully aware of the damage this music can do to those looking for something light, fluffy and easily  digested.  All I can say is that I hope the fuckin' cunts choke (gotta keep that nasty edge sharp tha' knows).

POOTIE/ASHALA ROCK - SPLIT CD

Another bend appears in the line of noised normality as two angular elements combined their wavelength warping effects to one CD that kicks up four shit storms of discombobulating dynamism, each one challenging the echelons of decency, expectation and pre-determined delivery.   Pootie is a solo project by a Floridian known as CJ McKenna, a chap who tickles and treats with no thought of procedure.  Ashala Rock are an indie/emo/pop punk band from Rainy Salem, Oregon and produce equally unrestrained fodder.  Off the cuff  and testing this quirky, emotively autistic and utterly natural noisy nutrition is there to be slapped down but I have more patience and give it good time, good grace and...

and to Pootie...

...firstly and crash, wank, chest release - in comes the discordantly diseased naturalisation of 'T. M. F. A. F.', a frustration free for all of many fucked facets that come, echo, mock and state, in a disarming way, the state of fuckin' play you bastards.  The man at the helm throws in an epileptic style and jumps from pillar to post like a whizzed up kangaroo on steroids, leaving behind a trail of messy musical dung we, the bewildered, get to sniff for next to nothing.  If punk has no restrictions, follows no rules and goes for an output that is straight off the cuff then this is very much a prime example.   What we get in truth is a mess, but it is a mess with potential and many aspects to think about - in some ways the job is done.  Be warned though, if you are looking for easy listening matter and something akin to pleasure this is not the place to dwell.  An outlandish peculiarity it may be but surely we don't want everyone producing the same thing and following the same old traditions?

'You Asked For My Opinion' has a soundly strung structure with the schizoid vocals held on a leash of something resembling sanity and making for the most decent listening occurrence of the quartet.  If the song is taken apart then 2 separate entities are revealed - one safe, one highly perilous - but music should never be made to meet the needs of the anxious, it should sometimes be there to push, trespass and bend the rules - in a small way this snippet does just that.

And on to the Ashala Rock...

...with the first effort being the disjointed and awkwardly pointed 'Whoops, Have I Made You Cry Again', a song that begins with an attempt at lucidity and crisp clarity before taking on several guises at once and becoming a confused, emotive dribbling that falls in an unsettled pattern that many a psychologist would have a field day with.  A real unhappy mess but, if care is taken and the pieces are picked up and placed in some semblance of order I reckon a suggestion of potential is there to be had.  Sometimes you have to be considerate.

'When's The Last Time You Felt This Good. It's Called Living Mate' is a lengthy ponse about (too long in fact) and exposes its very bowels and love ruptured heart via a tremble of bone china fragility.  The player attempts a firmness of strum, it doesn't wash - the bleeding ticker and gossamer spirit are both torn asunder via a cloud of shady two-timing and insincere promise.  There is an infernal torture going on here, a suffering that is still taking place and say what you will, this is a very personal and exposing moment that should be applauded.  Musically it is just an embryonic fart  that is far from the finished article but the naiveté does have charm.

There ya go, 4 obscurities dealt with, decided upon and dished out at your dirty feet.  If you are looking for a curio then dip in your tootsies but if you are looking for something to dance along to cut off your plates of meat and sling em' in the bin.  Be interesting to see where these artistes are at 5 years time.

SAM ALONE AND THE GRAVEDIGGERS - TOUGHER THAN LEATHER

Classed primarily as folk music Sam Alone and the Gravediggers for me have a little bit more about them rather than being categorised so simply and I go into this one with a humble attempt at capturing the many flavours and indeed depths.  Strumming from Quarteira in Portugal and released on People Like You Records (thanks Simon) this 11 track CD sees me keeping up the vast and varied approach and dealing with all sorts of minstrelised dabblings from across the grimy globe.  Music for the people this is tagged as on the artistes Facebook site - that will be me then, here we go again.

Initial ticklings come via the ditty scribed as 'Believers And Renegades', a song that for all intents and purposes reminds me of that ghastly American meatball Bruce Springsteen.  Yes he is a good songwriter, yes he has many fans but hey, I fuckin' detest that US bilge and the tones that emanate really do clear my bowels with a vengeance.  As you can guess I am turned off by the initial delivered doses here but, as I am a patient bugger I delve deeper into the meat of the tune, ponder harder and come up with a verdict less harsh than I should.  The precision of the production, the conviction of the crooner is quite tangible and the assembly of the article is quite eye-opening and very, very professional (which may be another reason my lugs (and bowels) are troubled).  The song does have power, is one for the mass market rather than the minnows in the mire but there ya go!  See what ya think, admirable effort but not my chosen cha!  'Gardens Of Death' scuttles in, gathers in its glowing gonads and adopts for a theatrical sub-cock rock approach that cruises with a certain guile and gets by through a leaning towards something more honestly folked than hirsutely fucked.  The effort majestically rises and exhibits itself and a hygienically garnished glory from a crew a million miles away from my DIY dwelling.  The turntable spills out a commercialised cacophony loaded with cleansed antiseptic acoustica that, as I have stated, is not my thing, but which really does resonate with my softer side (which barely gets noted ya know).  A sublimely well-crafted piece of music, my hands need not clap as there will be many others that will.

'Shine' is the third instalment and down the same polished pathway we amble with all players in accord and plying their trade with a seasoned unity and contributing to a highly purified package of sound.  The frontman gobs off with character-laden leanings and maintains a more than credible status with the overall rear scene of sound tidily accomplished.  A no sweat created area, a song that keeps things moving in the same direction which will be to the gratification of the many, the frustration of the few - guess which camp I am pitched up in.  'God's Not Around' is an eager delivery and pours forth with many westernised twangs and much articulate momentum.  The progressing tumbling impetus and general blend of facets make this my favourite of the lot despite the Mr Sheen factor being as obvious as ever.  What wins my favour is the desire in the donation and the snatching undulations of the acoustica that only take a brief moment of respite before continuing the flow - at last I think I have discovered a ditty to dance around to.  I move on before I embarrass myself (as if).

'Coffins And Dog Tags' is a very much 'in scene' offering that shows that the vocalist can holler with supreme quality and produce an acoustic presentation with high resonation that those aficionados of this musical niche will absolutely lap up.  Crisp, clear and coursing with a corpuscle laden spirit that suggests a bold beating ticker and a player saturated in his art.  The thoughtful fodder is packaged well, the placement of each note pre-pondered and the billowing effect of the output does cause one to consider more deeply.  A bold inclusion.  'Gifted' trickles in, exposes the inner core, croons with slightly abraded effect.  Keys add a significant tone of penetrating vision and reveal this yet again to be an advanced accomplishment that flies high with the more polished produce out there in the acoustic Heavens.  No rush, no outlandish explosions - what we are given is a steady trip of toned consistency that proves our artiste to be an accomplished dabbler who is on a plateau above my lowly (and loved) level.  'Another Mile' serves to reinforce my feelings and the prestige of the player with another consummate dose of established acoustica that is certainly for those with leanings towards things scrubbed and rubbed.  Not my favourite and one that leaves me cold but hey, I am outside the circle here and make no apologies for that.   All I can do is whip on and applaud the attention to detail and respect the fact that I may be in the minority (as per).

To the last four and why dawdle, why indeed?  'Sacrifice' is spartan, initially under-dressed and most reliant on the intense gobbage that, as you may expect, holds more than its own and pours in much perspired effort.  You know what you are getting by now, who am I to grapple with your thoughts!  'Tougher Than Leather' starts in almost Gospelised fashion prior to a scuttle that takes us into the melody proper.  The fabric of the woven work is strongly held together by knowing hands and our guardian of the cacophonic cloth is obviously more than happy with his creation.  A totally consuming number again in a league different from where I kick noisy balls but I take note and applaud from the touchline and that is all a man can do at times.  'Shadow Of The Hero' plunges in with different material, something more silky, more spangled and a little more smooth against the skin.  Unflustered, perspiration free cruising with a pseudo-Chris Rea feel that is suggestive of mid-roasted coffee table rock that is ticking all the boxes for those cowboy booted culture nuts.  The inclusion of some aural she-snatching makes the brew simmer a little more and although yet again not a beverage I would generally order I am certainly not going to spill any criticism the players way.  However, with 'Crucify' I will be harsher as I feel the CD has tailed out and flat-lined and needs a super shirt lifting shit splatter to arouse any waning senses.  Crude but apposite I feel as a good rhythmic rogering never goes amiss and here it would be well enjoyed by this needy noise merchant.  I am sure many fans and those in the zone will disagree but what the hell, all I can offer is honesty.  Too much of the same, forces a flush down the drain – now that is a shame!

A CD I have had trouble with - it is executed marvellously and has many exemplary facets but it just isn't what I am into and leaves me, in the main, cold.  If I liked everything that came my way I'd be a liar or an arse-kisser - two options not to be taken, I move on and leave this one to you, never be afraid to still dabble, never closet yourself into one box.

NERVOUS TWITCH - DON'T TAKE MY TV

I have a twitch, in part it is indeed induced by a nervous disposition but in the main it is brought about by noisy activity.  Activity borne from a fine band who I have done a bit with and pushed in the background whenever the chance has arisen.  Having given the band a few showcases, professed to being delighted at the produce to many a peddler and having reviewed a fair bit of their spillage I now find myself in need of another good trembling session that will get me all a quiver.  These retro rockers cough up produce influenced from a generation where grease, switchblades and creepers were the order of the day and melody dictated the direction of the vibe - t'was a fine time!  Here we have a batch of 11 new songs to my earholes, a collection of ditties brought together and released on the Oddbox Records label, a pusher of tunes with an eclectic catalogue to consider further (if ye like yer fodder mixed and fruity).

A crisp stutter of guitars, repeated over whilst sugar popsicle vocal tones rise forth and give the opening gambit a real flavoursome tang and twang to adore.  'So Rock 'n' Roll' is a delicious encounter that sets the CD off on a positive note as well as reminding one of the overall charm and gratifying glory of this pleasing band.  They maintain a garaged aspect, add surfy nuances and season with a great hygienic crystallised water caress of oral excellence and never fail to bring to the fore great inoffensive acoustic amusements I for one find most spurring!  I crack on with a whip of brevity brandished (whether it will be used or not is a different matter).  'John Power' enters, waggles his wired up hips and then deliberately exposes his true self.  I am very fond of this song and love the slow, stated style that gives each and every component ideal airspace and enough room to breathe and be noted.  Who the fuck this guy is is anyone's guess and in truth he sounds like a right wanker but the way the band move through the melody and slip from concrete verse to adorned chorus is rock solid and totally effective - I am convinced.  Next and 'Can't Find The Words How I Feel', is a very sobered and dead-eyed delivery with an inner core of balanced and unwavering determination that paradoxically throws the listeners senses slightly off kilter.  The grubby underlay of unwashed strings and tympanics and the matter-of-fact singing style make this an early oddity that peppers the CD with a certain peril that poses the question of what will the band chuck up next.  Despite the grime exhibited here the band still retain a glint of natural shininess - spanking man, spanking!

The keyed architecture and carefree quest of the chasing construct is perfectly donated to our eager receptors with each and every note falling into a themed position and making for a very generous experience.  'Something Wrong With Me' exudes exactitude and tight application with the sanguine opening nicely followed by dripped oral offerings and a slow rising thermality in the sonic sensations.  A totally easy swinging song, they do it so well.  A break with an instrumental next and 'East Coast Rumble' is perfectly textured water that ripples with sun-kissed magnificence and foams with atmosphere soaked intent.  The visions conjured are of surfed shores, 1950's to the early 70's footage of destinations dreamed of from ones homely armchair.  A fascination cruises over whitecap oceans where warmth and pleasure are the true radiated results - a fine interval.  'Another Fight' is a quick lover’s tiff that tumbles headlong between the boundaries of love and hate.  Our Ms Van Rumble at the fore squeaks her way to a success amid the turmoil of the clashing and thrashing background that once again aches with insightful talent.   All is fine and dandy in the Nervous Twitch camp and at this central stage I am more than looking forward to the second half.

'I'm Sorry That I Made You Cry' twinkle toes in on upbeat shimmers that bounce forth into a song that hardly breaks sweat and sees the band give birth to a simplistic shuffle that goes through the marvellous motions set.  This makes my life as a reviewer easy, there is no depth to delve into, no profundity to dissect - just a straight ahead number with an unconvoluted route taken.  The same can be said for the chasing ditty penned as 'I'm An Idiot Babe' except this one has a straight-faced verse section that counteracts the more liberating chorus chunk and gives a two-toned record that in one part pleases, in another puzzles.  I am hit and miss with this - in one instance I slap, in another I kiss - one of those bouts that confounds the deciding senses - bastard.  There is a groovy undertone to hold attention and a slight horror resonation that will attract outside eavesdroppers so don't lose hope oh curious browsers.

3 to go, 'Lurking In The City', is a mean and direct slab of blinkered noise that moves with a determined lilt from the first unto the last with a relentless bass grumble holding the reins and making sure other components do not stray too far.  The vocalist strains to escape the limitations but to no avail - the 4 wired weapon and his cohorts have made a secure sound and escapees are not allowed.  Following on from this tightly tuned escapade is the hollowed out oddment channelled forth as 'Even Though I Have Regrets', a moment that has a chance to wander and does just that with a new switched out 60's drift that is borne from the flower laden campsite where many skip in self-indulgent thought and flow through hazy dreamscapes and thermal emotive zephyrs.  A snippet to play loud to capture the true ambience and one to sway along with and, ultimately...very much enjoy - a rewarding addition.  We close with the back on track repeat pulse of 'A Little Self Discipline', a very stated and sedated number that takes us to the final curtain with unhurried, unwavering precision with the grill kept at a certain temperature and the aural scorching given done to a very precise measure.  The song does rise towards the end and smoke is seen to emit from the lugs but a fire is held in check and we are left to smoulder at the final fling - you decide if this is a good or bad thing?

I am still loving this band and like what they do and hope to hook up with them again soon, although they do appear to be a little sketchy as regards gigging consistency.  Nay bother - my advice if ye be a garaged gringo or a lover of old vibed noise is to get this silver disc and grind out a response - there are worse things you could be doing with your listening time.

THE FATTY FARMERS - ESCAPE FROM THE DIRTY PIGS

I have been sat on this one for a while now, the CD's pile up and some just need to be contemplated over a staggered period rather than dealt with over a shorter time and blasted out with a greater ease (although you can rest assured none of this reviewing lark is easy hence the lack of scribblers out there).  This band have been on the block since 2009, hail from Toledo in Spain and bring to the table of tunery a collection of Celtic Folk Punk, a very traditional mix some buggers are immersed in.  I swim in many pools of noise and so strip off, jump in and have no sway either here, there or any fuckin' where!  A four paragraph review here - a 4 * 4 drive through that will keep me in check and keep thee intrigued (I hopes).

Paragraph one, songs 1 to 4 and we open with the upchuck known as, 'Carrot Man', a delightful tumble across dew glistened lawns throwing up an immediate impact of shindiggery and foaming tankard jiggery.  The textures are traditional and tickling with that relish and fervour so often found in this particular musical mire.  'Dirty Tricks' is more staggered, more quirked but with the usual expected hunger and joyous jingling that wins that immediate favour.  The singing style is slightly light though and lacks a cutting thrust and the direction of the song seems a little unsure of itself at times.  The sound seems to lack the saturation of the first fling and so I reserve judgement here and move on, hoping for something a little better.  'Freddy' dishes up textures deep, resonating and rippled with golden threads and gypsified juiciness.  A very convincing song that strays off the orthodox route but one which emanates the player’s involvement and passion for the cause.  A fling from a foreign land and with varied spices to appeal wider than perhaps deemed.  'The Kings Of Our Farm' is a song that I feel as though I have heard a million times before, a glowing bout of fluid folked punkiness draped in those professional and whistled-up raiments that blow so easily in a self-made breeze and bring much fascination.  The song that takes the least effort on the part of the listener, the ditty that brings most delight to the lugs and the effort so far that has the least originality - there is a connection there and despite an inner disagreement it is my pick of the opening batch.  

Paragraph two, songs 5 to 8 and 'Gafitaeh' continues where the last batch left off and to my knackered ear-holes seems like an almost doppleganging tune that vulgarly attempts to offer nothing new under the red-rimmed sun.  It is an instrumental and so takes less time to assess and for me it is a sweet delight to just throw yourself around with and drink vast quantities of ale to.  There is a charm most apparent and The Fatty Farmers are exhibiting their artful talent.  'Grandma's Drug Lab' follows with darker tones that soon lighten and adopt the same gusto and gumption driven tinklings that may intertwine with expectation but still lift the spirits with the overall mush of jumping melody.  The verse and chorus chunks amalgamate into one chunk of choice noise although a trimming of the time would suffice so as to heighten the impression made.  Saying that, I do like the final juggle - hey ho!  'A Doubt In My Heart' alters pace, wanders around and weaves a somewhat dragging path whilst churning out a semi-acousticised ponder that delves within and pours out varied considerations.  For aficionados I presume it adds a pertinent flavour to a very distinct mix but for me, a mere passing dabbler, it fails to ignite any flames of interest.  It is a sweet little trickle but nothing to get too carried away by - it is a grower though and my opinion may improve with time, I suspect so!  'A Letter To Beth' closes this next quartet and is a heartfelt outburst with a freshened wild moors wind blowing throughout and giving the song a turbulence and bustling aspect so as to leave one almost breathless.  Lots happening and over a lengthy 4 minutes plus, you should be getting the flavour now - this is a continuation of that same taste, I skip on in fear of inducing ennui!

The next 4 and 'Invictus' is the opening acoustic hand-out and is the most substantial and strapping sonic boom thus far with an overload of big riffage, a plethora of piped pleasure and a good throaty delivery that packs the most punked punch.  Elements of those Dropkicked Murphy’s are glaring, pub rock boisterousness is relentless and the combined efforts of the bands passions and gushing make this a triumph to pick up those midway neurones of attentiveness.  'There's Treasure Everywhere' starts in military fashion before going into an uncertain mode that leaves me staggering in its wake. No sooner booted though than smartly suited and to a careening ball of liberated frivolity we go with the song finding its true impetus and free-wheeling and tumble twisting with utter delight amidst a jamboree of sonic sensations that fly free and come together in equal measure.  One not to ponder too deeply - just roll with it.  'Under Our Kilts' is one I am not keen on, it has its moments but overall it is a trifle too long, too wayward and wanders from whatever path it has set and leaves me trailing at the back.  One of those where from one song you could get several - a shame.  I push on, not wanting to dwell on this dud moment!  'Drunk Fighters' has the biggest bollocks on show and starts with blinkers on, attitude glowing and target zoned in on.  The grip is tight and from verse to chorus we go with a feeling of total conviction and a muscular assuredness that snatches us by the scruff of the neck and throws us into the very direct and robust melee.  I instantly play over, with extra ooomph in the speakers and let the waves of keyed and wired warmongering wash over me and take me along on a foam of fervid lust.  A crackin' attack.

And the last quartet with the foot on the gas of rapidity - here we go then.   'Fanegas TV Show', is a fluttery fly by on wings of wonder with feathers duly flying and the eager approach as blatant as ever.  Not a lot more to add to be honest and I am keeping swift here, please excuse me!  'Queen Of Drag Queens' bounds along during the opening parade before taking tuned tranquilisers and treading with more care through the verse sections.  The chorus chunks have a bit more lunge in the loop, more meat in the sonic soup and finalise with undulating accents that will magnetise appreciation - not bad at all.  'When Our River Was A Beach' is a song that doesn't alert my appreciation levels and I find myself at this late stage all folked up and folked out.  It can happen even to the worst of us so even though this is a tune that is well played and follows a set theme I leave the judgement for you,  effort can never be all one way you know.  The final instrumental however is a  pleasure to praise and 'Dancing Duels' hits the mark every time with its lilted facets and short running time (tis the punk purist in me and my short attention span).  A good shantified way to finish and leaving me with a sugar kissed palate rather than a sour pissed one.

Personal thoughts are that this CD would have been better released as two seven trackers as only the folked and punked connoisseurs will last the course whereas others (like me) may be getting weary at the CD's end.  The track lengths need looking at too as greater impact can be made over shorter distances and I think the songs would get more attention if trimmed.  Other than that this is a very well played and well produced effort and will bring joy to many in the sub-mire - I hope so!