TERMINAL RAGE - WHERE'S OUR DEMOCRACY

Another band on the Fungal radar that has recently played a gig and stormed to a level of raging success to the great gratification of my irritated spiky soul.  The band gob off with political angst and are led by a frontman who has severe anger issus and a quite foul mouth - 2 qualities that should never be lacking in any worthwhile punk scene.  They hail from Hereford, are making a good impression wherever they blaze from and have a passion that certainly needs noting.  Here is my opinion on a six-track tickler I have been looking forward to with salivating jowls.

'Casual Racist' cuts no slack and jumps right up at the jugular and carves out a reaction.  A great machined fuzz function is oiled through with initial gobbage that finds comradeship and enthuses us to holler along.  The ethics and musical accent of the song are of a persuasive slant and that all-inclusive warning yell really resonates within the soul of reason and sanity.  The strait-jacketed rage is bursting at the straps and one can feel a seething despair build to something uncontrolled.  The band do well to drive this one with some authority and perhaps the final 'fuck em' sums up many peoples thinking out there.  A fine opening gambit and reinforced by the livid and blood-vessel bursting behemoth known as 'Class Crime'.  An incandescent blinding glare of tantrumised trauma ignited by a system gone wank and controlled by uncaring fucks on a power trip to hopeless Hell.  The points made suggest taking matters into your own hands and grabbing the bull by the horns and shaking out an attentive response that simply says 'wake up and fuckin' listen'.  From the opening spiral of tension the song never eases down and boils away with scalding ill-feeling and takes us to echelons of foaming disgust.  This is a fuckin' choice tune and is the sturdy backbone of socially aware punkism that really matters - excellent work.

I take a breather and replay the opening two gambits - oh man, hurtful for sure.

'Guilty' rusts up against an abrasive comb of corroding wire work that is worked along with a regular tympanic rhythm and a consistent word weave that stabilises the CD and takes us down a peg or two from the upper storey infernos.  The song here is composed and has the emotions on a fair leash but there is still a good nip at the ankles that keeps us fully alert and taking in all areas of the noise.  The song is concrete in the mix, aims to build sturdy spines of conviction and it alters the style of the CD quite subtly.  A signature tune next, Terminal Rage' has the same drilling essence but this time combines old school punkism, a quirky vocal style borne from pop punk quarters and a winning progression of tone that gratifies my sensors of the most basic noise.  The resistance within the lyrics and the yearning for change are encouraging and although, what this can be considered something of a flatline song, it does indeed work.  Similar in stance is the chasing ditty called 'Supposed To Be Upside Down' but this one has a magnetism I cannot escape but I don't know why!  There are no massive peaks, no discernible troughs, no great splashes of sonic brilliance - all we get is one steady piece of watertight, notably accented music that relies on street talk lyrics, a resolute standing that wants, demands and asks questions.  We get a final thrust for the line, a final snatch at your gonads of attention but other than that frills are minimal - somehow though I fuckin' love it!

The finale, a clobber clout called 'Where's Our Democracy'.  A skin skip, a 4 count, a forceful buzzsaw cuts through the vines of resistance and the question is asked about the fairness of the land and the consideration of what the people want.  A threat of refusal comes, the anger borne from a feeling of uselessness is blatant, the spiral to soaring fury is a matter of course.  The final hate holler out is necessary and leaves a footprint on your arse to admire - ouch!

I am done, I am taken, I have done my bit.  The question is now - are you fuckin' interested?  If not, I find it no reason to stop, nor should the band!

CRIMINAL X - ERNIE ELSE IS A POLICE INMFORMANT

A Chesterfield based punk band here with no airs and graces just 4 noisy disgraces who have beaten around the block, plucked and fucked with gusto and are still at it...regardless.  Some may call it a form of madness, some may say it is a passion in the blood and there are even those that say (on the grapevine) that the fuckers need locking away at her majesties displeasure.  And so here I am with many tracks to textually molest and hopefully come out with something akin to the truth, the arthritic digits are still crossed.

We get started with a song known as 'Criminal Sex', a tasteless roll out that begins with a '5 Minute' tick threat before guitars peel and the mid-paced drive comes.  A tale of the disturbed, the sinister element in your social safety knickers, the fingers in your fanny pie of freedom - or something like that!  The abrasive gruffness and the direct drill of the ditty has the most basic spiked essences ideal for the aging punk noodle and the angry potent forthrightness has an appeal that needs little up-close and personal scrutiny.  This opening belt has no head-popping moments of originality and is far from the cream the cacophonic cat got and, after years of reviewing noise and having my head immersed in the genre, I couldn't care fuckin' less.  It does what it does, sometimes the frills are not needed.  '1984' cements the style of the CD, thumps and skids before ploughing forth with old school direction and uncomplicated lyrics then bangs the output right in yer mush.  The drum beat is incessant and drives the guts of the band into a full on fizz-bang of fired up tightness that is nothing short of frenzied fury - the crew are old enough to know better, thank fuck they don't!

'Feedback Problem' appropriately twinges in before sourcing a sonic pool of tonality that has few ripples and an average amount of cruddy cacophony.  This is the tamest song thus far and comes and goes with very little impact.  The acidic edge and general snap of the wanking wires is just not there and this is a definite motion meander that comes out neither stinking of shit or indeed roses - I class it as middling sir, middling.  'Drug Squad' bands another nail into the previous songs coffin by being a quite wound up number with a snagging chorus hook not to be easily freed from.  The tribal drums that open proceedings prepare the lugs, the slow ascension of string screws enthuse and the feisty delivery, when coupled with the swift running time, make this punk rock to roll around the palate many times over - if you choose to spit or swallow then that is your choice, just make sure you suck off the sonic shaft first!

Next up and 4 dashing dissections.  The assessing scalpel is flashed and 'America', is a song that pummels away at the half-baked head of the US of A and all those who voted in power the Satsuma-tinted twat as well as all those who believe the deviant dream.  A swift swinging number that has cuts of hard chopping and a middle plod detonation of foot-stamping authority amidst the general flow.  All usual stuff and as snarled and snotty as the bastards in the pit will want it - not bad.  'Gangster' whizzes along and operates on a repetitive routine that incessantly wraps around itself and builds up an impetus that is bog-standard and without alteration but which does the job at hand.  'English Schoolboy' creeps with malevolence and has a Sub-sy edge akin to something that told us 'You Don't Belong'.  This offering has deep resonations and shakes its ass with a groovy conviction.  The effort doesn't overstay its welcome and keeps the CD moving in the same confident direction.  The last of the fast four is just idiot bullshit done in the crudest style.  The song 'I Wanna Fuck' was originally a Screaching Weasel cold turd and here it stays just as chilled.  I suppose it lacks any shock value and has no depth or musical insight - it is what it is and hey, even though I rate this as 'shite' I know many goons with gonads on fire who'll love this - it's a man thing I think!

'Steal Yer Car' is  idiocy that repeat slaps with sound relish, easily gets beneath the attentive skin and is a cacophonic catalyst to get a decent reaction.  Again, the intrinsically basic elements are used and fused but done so with such passionate and head down fervour as well as a good level of adhesion that even this critical cunt enjoys it.  A stabbing song, one that cuts deep and wrenches the guts - lovely!  'Hell Of A Long Time Dead' is a bursting song that encourages you to get up and go for it and remember you won't be here forever and so best make the most of it.  If you can do this and harm no-one and leave a decent mark that enthuses others I reckon it is sound advice.  Mind you, if you are one of the massed selfish fucks in this life for your own experience and ego then go fuck ya.  The song jumps straight through the starting tape and thunders along the tuned turf with the ass whip forever brandished and a regular foamed up gallop maintained until the last push for the line that sees the juiced up jockeys gasp home - good on em' the feisty fuckers.

3 left and 'Prostitute' opens its legs, gets itself fucked with a rip roaring shag of sound and left in a heap to contemplate selling ones soul to the dirty devils for a bit of cash and, more than likely, a quick fix afterwards.  The song is in and out and shakes it all about, something akin to one of the dipped todgers the whore under the spotlight gets regularly shafted by - bah, it is a sad old world.  'Town Mentality' is another swift sizzler, it deals with the pin-sized minds who live and dwell in the insignificant land of nowhere where tiddling fish make minor waves whilst falling out with genital-challenged minnows in the same sloshing swill.  I have lived in some right shitholes and seen some real small-time shits make a mess of a situation that should be blissful - what the fuck is wrong with these folk?  The tub-thumping invokes rages here, the fuzzery niggles out frustration and this simplistically arranged song may lack depth, may lack experimentation but is bread and butter punk we will be chomping on forever more - and why that is I cannot explain - something in the blood I think!  The fuck off comes with a cover (not the most ideal way to finish in this DIY gits opinion) and is a well-known ditty we have all pinged and pogoed to over the years.  'Pills' has been done by many bands throughout the spiked ages and I have to hold my hands up that this is a decent effort and has the bouncing verve and general rock and roll gusto we have always been attracted to.  I should have a dig here but I would be going against the gut so I sign off, drop me trollies and waggle my privates to a fine, invigorating finish.

Look, this is a run of the mill punk CD and that isn't a bad thing.  I run my mental digits over much music these days and it is always a pleasure to get back to ground zero and appreciate the roots that have always turned me on.  Like I say, it is the liquid that runs in the veins that one must trust and for me you have to make up your own mind.  I hope I have been fair here, I hope that I have got many a point across and I hope you invest some time, have an aural peek and perhaps invest - it is all hope!

ANIMAL TRAIN - NOVO

Fuck man, how many Animal Train CD's have I reviewed so far?  A quick check shows that it is 8 to date and even I am surprised by that!  Here we have 3 tracks by the band from Austin, Texas who are keeping it DIY and, it seems, progressing at their own pace.  There is a lot to be said for just hanging in and doing your thing, it is no easy task in these throwaway times where many underdogs are cast underfoot and generally ignored. Anyway, my take on matters is as thus:-

'Immortal World' is a steaming push of restless discontent that runs on buzzing rails of rising passion.  The heat generated warps the tracks and one wonders if the crew will hold the sonic chugger steady or encounter a head on crash of confusing chaos.  The direction taken is without any harsh tuned turnings, the major enhancements are background accompaniments to the hoarse fury generated by the banshee at the fore.  The coals are stoked with pokers of sincerity, the blaze generated doesn't scorch but slowly sears and repeat journeys are needed to realise the full weight of the wanderings. A heavy duty song in some respects, ornamented with some good guitar work, the band are slowly moving in waters new methinks.

'Moral Decay' rumbles from the depths of the gut before trampling fast over many envisioned wastelands.  These deserts, that are primarily mental, are bringing the world to its knees as peoples sense of decency gets thrown out of the already cracked window. To resist the incessant overall one needs to cling on mighty hard and take solace in songs of encouragement – just like this one I reckon (nudge, nudge).  The smoked and frazzled throat overspills, the keen edge of the wires, the epileptic drums and the final flourish of defiance forces my voting hand – it is a X in the box of success.

We close with 'Dead Camp', a smothered and controlled escapade that takes a little time to fully smell the essence of.  I play and ponder several times and unveil considerations that indicate a band on a progressive path.  The unity of the noise is compact, the pace unhurried and the back hollers slightly cooled and of an accent that thoughtfully compliments - a very nice inclusion.  A few doorways are opened here and I wonder if the band will be brave enough to enter.

3 tracks to keep the river of rhythm moving and for me the band are at just the right stage to release an album that is used as a vehicle to test new ground.  A skanky track, a hardcore burst, the usual regular DIY-ism and a few experimental upchucks should all be tackled methinks.  I have followed Animal Train for some time now - I have no serious concerns as yet.  Now grab the bull by the bollocks peeps and shake it up big time!

THE KILLING VOLTS - WHY SHOULD I SAY YES

A 4 track EP from a Swedish crew who sprouted from the loins of tonal nowhere and came into existence at some time during 2013.  I am outside my comfort zone, in fact I don't know why I say that because I don't know what the fuck my comfort zone is and if one does exist I refuse to stop inside it - bah.  The band, according to some promotional bumph I was sent over the forever wobbling webwaves 'aim to keep live their rock 'n' roll and punk backgrounds with the main influence of soul/blues/rock voice such as Aretha Franklin, Alison Mosshart, Beth Ditto or Skin.'  Intriguing hey, and all good for the nosey gander who likes to peck at many bags of noisy fodder.  I honk away whilst the tables turn and the music filters forth, here is a review.

'Never Insecure' grinds its framework with suggestions of bigger riffery to come.  The suggestions bear fruit and the intro increases in power before cooling down and allowing the first verse to be orally dictated by rock chick vocal persuasions.  The arrangement is stripped down, the musical maestro's are kept on a leash until the sub-chorus opens new acoustic vistas in which all participants can fly.  The effect works and the more liberated and abandoned moments are emboldened due to the overall clashing and colliding structure.  The clarity levels remain high, the 80's Euro pseudo trashiness is always in the shadows and when the band fuck with passion they do it mighty well.

'Ponyhorn' gyrates with sexual hypnotica and uses the same formula as on the previous track.  Cool moments that are half naked moving into seizured thrusts of orgasmic release that see the emotional floodgates open and a general desire to make melodic nookie.  The construct fizzes in part, has a certain pizzazz laden urgency and foams over in a decent gratifying way to get a pulsing response.  The perspiration generated is honey sweet and dew drop clear and if one were to find gripes from this writhing movement one would have to be highly pedantic or...musically frigid.

'I Got A Somethin' is a serious ditty, has a refrigerated under-threat of cool assassin acuteness that may be masked behind a gentle mist of false tranquillity but which is always there, just visible, just holding promise of things to come.  I wait for an assault,  a barrage of big riffs and untamed din making but it never truly arrives and there is a vague flat-line held throughout this one that forces me to come out an uninterested aural spectator.  A shame, I expected more and the last flourish fails to salvage a lost chance.

'Tainted Love' is a cover of the song served out by Gloria Jones and, more obviously, Soft Cell. Here the upbeat vibes are initially dipped in treacle before being whipped up with rock prongs and poked with chorded weaponry.  The front girl rises to the tonsil-testing occasion and warbles with great authority whilst her fellow strummers and strikers offer good muscular assistance and keep this a quite successful song.  The foundations are there, all the band need do is applying their own streak of sound and make sure they avoid an insult to a classic - I think they manage to overcome both challenges.

A jaunt into another circle and for this spiked fucker 4 tracks is enough.  This is a tidy band of a specific sonic circle and those within the parameters of this area will no doubt get their kicks - good on em'.

HEADSTICKS - LIES, LIES, LIES

As many who know me I tipped Headsticks for bigger and (what many deem to be) better things (silly cunts) quite a while back now after seeing them strut their stuff at a Socialist All Dayer in Bolton.  Since that day they have gladly played a few Fungal shows and always done the business.  They are now moving on to the aforementioned platforms and getting due credit where credit is wholly deserved.  From my sunken position in the lovely pit of 'under the radar' awkwardness I get a more objective view of things and maintain my honesty with good intent and so go about this 4 tracker unswayed and without the arse kissed (which is just as well as I use it to cultivate many rare fungal species which thrive on good nutritious filth).  Here are my thoughts!

The initial dribbling from the prosperous rhythmic rear of this appealing crew is entitled 'Big Game Hunter' which is a pointed stick of pertinence poked in the idiotic eye of those crack-fuck cretins who think blowing the brains out of some endangered animal is a real, big shot achievement. I appreciate the target of the tirade as I am a lover of all things natural but must point out that the huff and puff made over showcase creatures is unfair when little is said about the mass murder of many everyday lives that are not so sexy - kill a whale be hung, drawn and quartered, spill concrete over a brownfield site where wildflowers strive and bugs scurry and no one gives a toss.  Last year I wrote a letter of complaint to my local councillor who gave the nod to have the sides of a cycle path trimmed a metre each side thus destroying life-giving vegetation and wiping out many insect homes - it made no difference, and a post on-line got very few likes - how warped!  Anyway I digress, punk passion does that but back to the track I must go!  This is a neat tune with a sound message, the bass is cooled as are the crisp guitar flicks that provide a nice escort to the scattered skin attention that jumps this way and that but somehow maintains a gratifying uniformity.  The gob duties are shared between the usual rankled git and another whom I first came across back in 1980 and who wound me up no end with his seething soul.  The double delivery is sharp and complimentary and both showcase a sincere belief in their warblings to magnetise anyone with a conscience.  The track is ideally produced and once again shows that the band are masters of the art.  Now get off your arse and do something for our natural neighbours who share this polluted orb.

Next and a soundbite that mentions the Labour filth Tony Blair, one of those peeps many who voted for but soon seem to forget about.  The song, 'Dying For A Lie' is worked on an excitable hepped up trampoline of bouncing noise that tumble runs without pausing for breath. Something Westernised creeps through the speakers as I listen to this outburst, visions of an anarchic cowboy running across a desert of indifference and hoping to whip up a sandstorm of positive thought! The enthusiasm and gusto hoofed out is incessant, the push for a reaction raging and this is a different tack taken by a band reaching further out.  Again sweetly composed, containing enough irritation but not a classic for me and not one that really appeals.  Too much of a one trick pony that needs a rocket of variation up its jacksie – I must be honest tha’ knows.

'Soaps And Costume Dramas' begins with poignant tones, weaves a tale about a waiting game that ends in a wasted life and time lost on fucked up fantasies.  The tonal balance and the thematics of the kitchen-sink sonic scenario are perfectly played out and the equilibrium of all facets is observed and keenly applauded.  The band are in their comfort zone here but they do it so well I would be a cruel cur to take a bite at their productive asses.  I am really taken by this one, it aches for a monochrome video that would hopefully push the cause further and perhaps register in more needy noggins.  Musically, orally and as a work of art this one does the business and is the best of the lot.

Last, and most definitely not least, a classic cut re-hashed.  This one starts with the insane ravings of the US President Donald Trump.  What a guy, what a country, what a fuckin' farce! The breeze blown warning signals come, the guitars are lightly touched, the voice drips with quality soaked passion and the song moves with majesty, good intent and much provocation.  The harmonica touches, the general underskip and the thirst of the chorus all combine to make this a sincere stunner that will embrace souls from across the scarred and divided sonic spectrum.  Not a lot more to add really, it is a ruddy good song and with its latest embellishments it will appeal to the masses even more (I do prefer the unwashed version though).

Headsticks are a choice unit, a band I have been proud to expose and to dabble with (oh how sexy).  The pastures they now move onto are away from the dirty dell of discordance in which I dwell but they will no doubt pop back now and again to do their bit and keep their heads out of the clouds (nudge, nudge).  I am a fan, they are good chaps and the success that comes is truly worthy.  If you haven't checked them out already then have a severe Fungalised kick up your arse and get moving - you will not be disappointed.

APOCALYPSE BABYS - SHOTGUN DIPLOMACY

The AB Squad are still here folks, they are hanging in by the skin of their teeth and trying, as best as they can, to gain some light in some of those cosy sub-circles that appear to have closed rank.  Again if your face doesn't fit it is still tough shit and if you don't play ball you can expect fuck all.  I know this first hand but shout out loud to all those trying to keep it pure that it is no reason to give in.  The Babys have put in their work, have some fine noise to their credit and I hope they dig in and persevere.  Here is another album for my Fungalised self to chomp on, and despite the need for some good promo-praise I can only upchuck my usual honesty as per.  In for a penny, in for a pounding, all is fair in love and proper punk!

Act 1, scene 1 - the CD begins with some bullshit waffle against a backdrop of the star wanked banner that promises much but delivers only doom.  To blow away the cobwebs of disillusionment and hopelessness there is an upchuckof a  good rock and roll Pistol-esque guitar run-through with familiar gob work soon joining the Anti-Yank attack.  The verses and chorus roll (with added liquid ease) whilst a power influence remains throughout before the band wander off track and add a few alternative textures to the discordant development.  It is a confident opening burst from a well versed band and if you add the spice of volume the resultant glory is increased.  To maintain the political pertinence and sharp-tongued slipstream the band offer 'Bonehead'.  The song comes after a This Is England snippet before going straight for the jugular of the skinhead goon who claims to fight for his nation's pride and all that is supposedly good in this green and septic land.  The antagonising, piss-taking acid-edge is marvellously delivered and really nails home a point against those knuckle-dragging dicks that bring down the name of a healthy scene that has many worthwhile points.  Being a non-believer in any flag and against all forms of moronic prejudice I can rock along without any problems at all.  The fact is that this is a sweet tinkle with an appealing snippet of playground name-calling that sinks to the childish level needed to make these inbreeds understand that what they represent is utter nonsense.  A grand ditty indeed.

'Trust Me, I'm A Doctor' deals with the cosmetic-based quacks who prey on our stupid vanities and who promise to roll back the years and make us younger and more acceptable to the thick prick society of judgement.  The Frankensteinian Docs of Deviancy fill your paps with pricey pulp and bloat your face with profit-making crud.  You too can look like a plastic Barbie doll or a cocked up Ken all for an extortionate fee to line the pockets of the ethically devoid.  The song doesn't fuck about, it gets its chest cleared and nails home what it wants to say with a friction-frazzle of sound that comes, goes, injects the arse and does no harm.  'Little Boys Playing Big Men's Games' is a crunching song, creased up with a heavy spite that jibes and jerks with riffing robustness that overspills into harsher realms and shows that this band still have clout and...a reason to get worked up.  A bold throbber this, one that bites into the flesh darn hard and shakes its jaw until meat of resistance is ripped away - be warned.

'Religion Is A Dangerous Thing' vies to be my favourite song of the pack, due to its pertinent point that deals with brain-bending lunacy committed by fanatics who are conned and, ultimately doomed.  The angle of the song perhaps needs a full on fuck roar but the AB team play it their way and used gentle tonality and rhythmic persuasion that is so neatly done, and so opposing to the theme that it is nothing less than a punk masterstroke.  Yeah I love this one - good work dudes.  'This Is War' is what it says on the tin and flies along at breakneck speed with crude and common focus that relives pent up emotion against the idiot occurrence the history of mankind has been scarred by.  It mows down all in its path with disregard for discordant decency - I am split down the middle on this - the band do it well but it is rather a routine punk affair.  'Assassin' follows up with the same kind of punch, sharp, well dug in and with pace - it gets on with matters and leaves me with a verdict similar to the previous.  No moulds are broken, the crew keep it tight and cutting and for those who like their noise obvious this latter double-fisted combo will suit.

'Mr Cab Driver' is a cool cucumber shoved up the attentive jacksie but lacks variation in the penetrating tonality and so eventually irritates my receptive ring instead of achieving a confident duffel bag tremble.  It is nicely inserted and has a general fluidity but the repeat thrust wears thin and doesn't float my bottom boat and leaves me...slightly frustrated.  'Motorhead' comes in with a big stage welcome, the band take over from the raspy gob and pay homage to band I fail to be aroused by and who, in all honesty bore me rigid.  I have never liked Motorhead, I thought Lemmy was a coarse shag-a-round wanker and even my bro, who is a long term metal fan, says they are not one of his faves.  Hey ho, it takes all sorts.  This song has no frills, no distractions, no outrageous delights - it races along, does what it sets out to do and gets the fuck out of there - I am not overly convinced.

2 mid-stream duffers are soon overcome by the funky fruitiness of 'Bored Housewife', a song that sees the band get back to the textured and tantalising tonality that invigorates the soul.  The charm is accentuated by the 'fly on the wall' glimpse into sapping suburbia and the melting pop vibes that drip with mouth-watering trills that capture the attention and are a catalyst for some free-wheeling jiggery.  The thrust to the finale may travel on for a little too long but hey, what the hell - just jump up and have it.  

Two drinking bursts next - 'The Apocalypse Babys Drinking Club' is a weakened wine to sip at and not over indulge in.  It starts well but the latter aftertaste is just a bit off the spectrum of sweet. The place of Boozedom is  where respite from life and where much jollity can be had and talking of 'jollity', this song is just that and one not to be taken too seriously - a piss-pot enthuser that perhaps lingers too long and causes a slight hangover.  The pub song, 'Let's Get Pissed Again' paradoxically says, in a sobered way, that it is time to sup up and visit the land of Alco-haze.   The route taken is via a Chubby Checker twist and allows one to hit the dance floor and let it all hang out (ooh err) and gyrate those arthritic hips to dust.  I likes it I do!

The last 2 songs are idiocy - 'I Love My Horse (but the judge said I should not)' is a tale of bestial shenanigans where a spot of equine erotica is indulged in and the county law makers say 'neigh' to the man/beast coupling. Having seem some rather attractive gallopers over the years and been a subscriber to 'Pony Dong Monthly' I can relate to this open and honest song and appreciate the bravery it takes to confess to having desires what many consider diseased. The song is simple, countrified and for the cracked - everyone must be catered for.  We finish with the toss off known as 'Hello'.  Coffee-table fuck funk and a telephone connection gone twat!  For escort is a series of answer-machine messages from a band member obviously operating in the twilight zone.  For some people there is no hope of progression or sticking to timetables - here we have one such lost soul.  This finale is a titter snip, nothing more, nothing less - make of it what you will.

I am done, the AB crew aren't.  They are pootling along in the face of new adversity and are trying to open many closed doors this shifting scene has now created.  The band are reliable and do what they do without conning nobs on - give them a spin people, give them a gig - it is all about helping each other along - honestly, purely and without looking what is in it for me.

THE RED EYES - MAN AND BOY

If you want cultural punk noise, a sonic strain that has thought behind it and is delivered with an erudite expertise that really resonates deep within the appreciative soul then I suggest you look no further than the band we have on show here, namely The Red Eyes.  Over the years I have reviewed 5 releases by this reliable unit, have had them grace a Fungal stage on 2 occasions and caught up with them last year to see them maintain their quality standard.  Here we have the latest offering from these Glaswegian twangers and I go in anticipating a fine exhibition but will make sure I remain on the ball if I find anything untoward - you know the script!

The first donation to cascade my way is the classical ticker touch of 'Man And Boy', a gentle but emotively strong song that deals with abandonment, loneliness and a feeling of having to fight the good fight all on one’s own.  The rise is slow, the tension builds with care before the subdued and somewhat oppressed tone is overcome by a sudden relieving wash of energy, a vigour that has been pre-planned but is saturated with natural feeling and a bitterised sweetness one can't help be infected by.  The blend of strings, skins and throat expulsions is precision incarnate and the first step taken is spot on and totally balanced.  Up the ante and general pace is the frisky heel-nipper slapped down as 'Bullets'.  A machine-gun roll of drums, a fresh release of wire weaving and then the embracing vocal relish that wins the day time after ruddy time.  The energy and thirst to convince are what make this second instalment most noteworthy but the main winning feature is the attention to detail and the obvious desire to compose tunes that are far from chuck away commodities and are creations that have a careful balance of that which is uncomplicated and that which is tenderly treated with an underlay of depth.  The Red Eyes do it well and this second slice of sound keeps me interested to the hilt.  'It's Over (Before It Even Began)' follows and is more cultured and has a pace that both comforts and assists in the sing-a-long provocation of the listening victim. Unrushed, unflustered, moving with a grace of sanguine measure and showcasing that great songs can be created within this punk rock mire without using uncontrolled fire, an overspill of expletives and a 'fuck it all and see' approach.  The muscularity comes via the bands self-respect and determination not to get dragged down a musical path that would be far too easily to follow. For me the card trick is complete, the band have delivered what was promised - we should be ruddy grateful.

'Always The Bad Guy' begins with Clashed up enthusiasm before casually moving forth with a certain swagger and suited and booted authority that is impossible to knock.  The gist of the juice proffered regards duff advice and infecting doubters and down shouters who pervade every nook and cranny in this life and are quick to put one down.  The feeling is tangible, the finger-pointing fucks visible but through it all one must go with the gut and strive to be who you are and the best you can be.  Listen good to this, it is well delivered on many levels, is executed with crisp clarity and is as honest as the day is long - solid - the Blondified closure is cute.  A Subsy moment takes us into Track 5, and it is time to 'Face The Truth'.  A stabilised, firm-gripped tune on a medium simmer that only slightly boils up with a tepid chorus request that is simple to swallow. The truth is the only way, never shy away from it and use it as your only form of weapon folks.  This is the safest track yet and the one that leaves the least reverberation in my tattered eavesdropping drum.  

4 dashed dissections next and 'You Fade Away' is cultured excellence with a misted string arrangement floating lightly around the oral offerings that gradually rise above, flex muscle and walk with dominance through the theatrical soundscape that is quite absorbing.  The slow and self-assured ascension is subtly magnificent and this is one that will grow and grow as time passes and plays are had.  'Regrets' is a perfect follow on with a delightful draught blowing away any lingering clouds and clearing out the noggin with a tune many of us can relate to - oh we wasters, would we do it any differently?  Of course not!  The melody ridden construction here is once again crafted with educated hands and the flurry of agreeable animation is mightily masticated by aural jaws that are really being spoilt for choice.  The choicest noise continues with the stealthy certainty of 'Nowhere Boy', an outside creep that moves with pulsed steps that get from A to B with a resisting insistence.  Cerebral trouble comes, self-questioning arises, a certain simmer to the sonic thermality manifests itself and all the while there is no escape from a subtle thumbscrew of sound that applies pressure in the most indirect way - crafty hey!  The last of the flicked four is the sub-paranoid, completely sussed, frequently fussed 'The Man Who Thinks He's God'.  A good travelling number done with expected efficiency and this time with an expansive running time that threatens to induce a state of ennui but which passes with ease and surely shows what a listening joy we have under the spotlight here.  Very polished and for your extra pleasure you get a dose of Joy Division'ed repetition that adds a spice to the whole shenanigans.    Tis all grand work.

Into the home stretch, 'Friday Girl' and another soft start plucked song with gossamer fragility comes before pounding in with a yearning not to be denied. The first chunk of sound relies on strict verse/chorus switches before we meet with a stunning upshift of almost celebratory sound that elevates the CD to a fine zenith.  This moment is over too briefly and for some reason I find myself stepping away with frustration at my heels. I was tempted and teased,  I feel only 70% pleased - bah.  'Remember My Name' reflects solitude and introspection and quivers the inner membranes of emotion.  The gear shift that comes is reliable and without stressed perspiration and this latter end lilt is easy as you go sir, simple and effective, a comfortable massage striving to remain registered.  

The last two and 'Lie, Deflect And Spin' is a whipping pearler that has a pizzazz and vitality that froths up with refusing sincerity towards the stupid, stupid media machine which throws heads in many misdirected ways.  The ingredients of frustration and passion counterpunch against each other and are two catalysts for the upswinging chorus that bowls away any reservation one my ridiculously have.  If, for any reason, you are flagging whilst listening to the CD you will soon be roused and ready to rock with this cracking inclusion.  We close on a tough note, a real heart tugger that deals with the destruction and loss brought about by idiot power-games that go under the banner of 'war'.  The keyed up commencement is laden with lachrymal loss, the vocal purity is exact and loaded with heavy grief and questioning sensitivity.  The orchestrated strings add a frosted beauty and further enhance a final artistic swish of the Red Eyes brush that completes one impressive sonic portrait. This last song takes some noise-craft and I sign off totally and utterly convinced.  The last whisperings from the ghostly children reinforces the horror.

I have followed this lot for many a year now and the classy edge and cultured promise are blooming with fine shades and sincerity and I can only tip my hat to a band producing some mighty fine work.  I hope many are convinced by my textual ramblings and then will go out, buy the CD and be convinced by the music - it would be most worthwhile.

PLAN OF ATTACK - STICK TO YOUR GUNS

Brisbane bomb-blasting Oi here that stomps along with muscular heave ho with no thought of changing its appearance or apologising for its blatant forthright rabble rousing.  Common music for the common man, beer swilling thought provoking upchucks that some will find highly invigorating and some will just walk away from - par for the Oi-course (as ever).  I take my noise as it comes, variety matters and Oi has been a part and parcel of my listening matter since the tuned time began - I see no way to change now.  

First fucker to burst from the concentrated pack is the title track 'Stick To Your Guns', a song that begins with scything string labour and a Gorilla chest thump before wank riffing on and hitting the first forceful verse assault.  The robust and action alert style booms with wide-eyed muscularity and this street-based, strong-spined initial slap in the mush leaves little room for apology.  The mix emphasises the heavyweight accents and this gushing gets the CD punching hard from the off.  The haymakers still come via ‘Heed The Call’ which splashes in and immediately follows on with a gravel voiced grip that squeezes the nob of noise and makes sure we spurt out a reaction rather than deflate like many of the known inattentive pricks out there.  All areas are flexed hard, the drive is focused and confronts a theme that poses a question to those ready to rise up and fight and those ready to shy away.  You know the score, it has all been heard before but this music has a motivational streak that gets one prepared to face the day and deal with the shit-flingers forthwith.  Instrumental ornamentation is brief, the players prefer to twist the riffs with obvious authority rather than rely on ambiguous and over artistic trimmings - I am not complaining.  This is the best of the pack for me with an incendiary impetus that ignites ones enthusiasm and punk rock primitiveness and drags it into the pit for a good old dose of ruck, resist and roll.  

'Use To Be, Wanna Be' is a giant bulldoze of incessant riot running that remains consistent in all ways and bursts many blood-vessels whilst thrashing along with strong-armed heave ho that many sweating skinbo maniacs will love.  The energy is high, the threat levels always there and we have yet another bootstomping smack to get kicked around by.  No time to pause 'A Threat' comes in, brandishes all fists of forthright commandeering.  The clout is deliberately repeated and although this song, when stripped down, is a basic blow-out, the inner spirit that grew up on edgy overspills such as this cannot resist a thumbs up.  Again, specific generic jackhammering this may be but man it blows away the cobwebs.  'Bullshitters And Backstabbers' is another favourite, an intolerant onslaught that will not get dragged down by dross, will not be impeded by the filth that impregnates every walk of life with their lies, untrustworthiness and trouble making tossology.  This one hollers and who hoa's hard, the tempest whipped up will tear yer clothes to shreds and as you stand naked against the offload of turbine tonality expect a kick up the arse too - a great moment. 'Glass Half Fucked' pushes in, clenches its arse checks with preparation before clobberin' time comes and these hulking buggers forcefully plod at a mid-paced tempo with a refusal to be stopped.  A ship-steadying moment that subdues the bullish drive and maintains a weight whilst at the same time taking a breather.  Not the most effective song of the lot but comfortably delivered home and, as a standalone, has enough strength to consider.

'Hangover' is a niggled whack of tension as self-made sufferers relive the time when the boozed blow-out is kicking back and making the body pay...big time.  Guitar twinges are harsh as are the symptoms of heavy duty drinking.  The trampling method runs riot, the crew have obviously much experience of the swilling ways and throw this out like post-binge victims in trouble.  As a counter-punch to the feelings of regret the band swing in with the chest-swollen blow-out of 'Pissed And Proud'.  This second soaked to the soul song follows the set theme but has a 'fuck free' essence one feels when the gut is bloated, the head swimming and the veins running with alco-fuel.  A real robust, short sharp dig that comes and goes and completes the slurping brace - now go get a drink ya bastards - mines a sherry!

A quick dash to the line now, needs must for both you and for me. 'Same Old Story' is sobered slogging, driven hard and released during chorus bursts that are done in a fashion to get the sweating pit dwellers shouting in unison and upping their ping and pogo antics.  A straight jab of streetpunk, nothing more, nothing less - make of that what you will!  'Us Against Them' is a divide and conquer embrace that takes under its wing the outsiders and in a subtle way tells them to stick it out and resist.  The tribal drums at the start shift arse, the impetus found though the well-blended verse/chorus construction is fluent and although a song lacking thrills it keeps us moving in the same vein and with consistency.  A latter end pinnacle for me is the chopping and boisterous 'Work Is Curse'.  A hard-rammed blow-out that vents spleen against the day to day toil that interferes with the boozing culture so many of us find quite gratifying.  A blow-out is a blessing, there ain't nowt like a good old sozzling but when the Monday morning comes around and the ale-soaked carcass needs dragging to the place of labour one is quite justified in feeling...irate.  This is a great antidote, a fine hair of the dog that may encourage further resentment but reminds us the next piss-up is not very far away - ooh aye man!

We fuck off with a Rose Tattoo cover and 2 bonus session outakes.  The cover song I shall tackle, the final two I will leave to you fuckers to ponder further.  'All The Lessons' is a clobbering tune, beefed up and blown out with expected force.  It is given a good hoof up the jacksie, is tight and orthodox and in many ways full stops the CD in expected style - I don't think this is bad thing.  The two extras are entitled 'What You See Is What You Get' and 'Fight To Death', I will only give hint and you can do the rest. Both are heavy gales with usual balls bared but the latter song whips up the greatest storm and I leave proceedings...tattered.

That is that, you do indeed get what you see here and if you are from a certain generic pool you will certainly be bopping to this.  I like to vary my playing material and am always up for an injection of cobble-stoned cacophony, if you don't like it then tough shit is all I can finish with and of course...each to their fuckin' own!

SUICIDE GENERATION - 1ST SUICIDE

Fuck gut punkism from the sheep-shit laden shores of New Zealand floats my way and I come, I listen and I hope to be aroused.  The slack wank dumb jerk leanings are rough, acoustically unshaven and thrown forth with a shoddy abandonment only those most ardent dwellers in the squalor will be able to mentally decipher.  A distinct sickness has come to fruition here and is  sporulating with sinisterism that forces me to review this whilst close to the well-used medicine cabinet.  It may take more than pills to sort the noggin out after this vulgar attack of the vapours.

Title track attack first, 'Suicide Generation' splats down on your lap with a disgusting dampness in the discordance thus leaving the listener...delightfully appalled.  All here are slung low so that the bare arse of the inner machinations are exposed and left for you to kick to fuck with open toed criticism.  I don some steel capped boots, swing with fervour but fail to find any real gripes as this simple yet mightily effective repeat fuck comes, blows and duly goes without affected nonsense - it is what it is, get off ya high horse and just fuckin' enjoy.  'Why Can't I Play With You' strums up, hesitates, 4 counts and eventually finds impetus.  The first vocal burst is disturbed, mentally at war and delivered via a contortion that certainly upsets.  Adjustments are taken, we strip down to level 'corrupt' and get in line with a rank affair that once again voids its bending bowels in the most crudest fashion but with a naturalness that appeals to the inner nuclei of noise.  The slaggy throw-down abandon, the sub-chaotic ease and the wound up madness that pervades somehow nudge my nipples of cacophony into a harder, firmer place - mother pass me the fuckin' meds baby.

Arsonised glory next when a flammable fuck feels the urge to burn and hollers from the off 'Set Me On Fire'.  A desire needs meeting, the band are aroused and led by a hot-assed frontman with a twitching pecker that spunks passion.  His clashing and colliding comrades pull no punches and thrust to the fore with a loud, brash trash that creates a spark that soon glows and burns away any stiffened resistance.

'Nora' struggles to start, is like a constipated camel with an arse full of sand, the difficulty to get into motion is painful.  When the rhythmic rectal muscle is relaxed what flies out is utter pebble-dashing shit and it no sooner hits the pan of your attention than is flushed away, bleached and leaves very little effective stench - I close the cacophonic karsi door and flee - simple but honest!  Bumpkin blues follows with a certain countrified cretinism delivered by knock-knee, boss-eyed fruitloops on a mission to humiliate.  This is real slack-jawed japery that rolls around the palate with a two-toned flavour that in part nauseates, but perversely titivates.  'London Blues' is in trouble - both physically and mentally with a repeat escalation of gooned aggravation gnawing at your nether-regions and doing nothing more than creating a pure annoyance that is easy to grasp.  A corruption has taken place and the jarring guitars, crud-tumble skins and the semi-paralysed slurrings are all sloshed about an unhygienic commode and slopped, quite randomly, over your walls of decency - the stench is hard to cope with.

Primeval ravings resonate from the cavern of silence before the next song gets wired up and wanks with pace and fungi crusted fuckeroonery.  The uncultivated savagery and asylum cell release rhythm is scaffolded with a drilling bass-line that trembles the grey mush.  I like 'Love Is Hate', I have a fondness for the fracas and overall rabid possession that transcends the band from the troubled trashcan into the glorious gutter - both shithole refuges, both impregnated with many delights that just need a little poke to drop from the gut of noise. 'Little Mama' is rock and roll routine slagged down and raped by reckless mitts determined to make mess and tear the arse out of anything deemed commercially acceptable.  Within the reeking post-apocalyptic arse fuck we are left with a shambolic spurt of sound that is briefly kicked about, jerked off and left for dead. No sooner has the beating taken place than we fade away...bewildered.

Last two peeps, 'Evil Everywhere', a four count, a dirty trundle and an oral output that fights through the clatter.  Like crumpled arse-paper that has been freshly used this one is stained and smeared, stinks like fuck and is creased in many ways with various shades of acoustic excreta. The movement though is liquid, a veritable diarrhoea of discordance that runs through the listeners fingers and splats with a resonant ugliness. The crew are destined to remain shabby and shambolic but out of the mayhem some fragrance of hope can be had.  We commit the final flush to the sludge swirl of 'You Love Me', and rather than come across as a statement of adoring facts this appears more threat-like.  After creeping like a sinister tomcat down your back-passage of shadow (ooh how sexy) an attack soon follows although talons aren't fully drawn and we escape with a light molestation rather that a full-on shredding.  From slow implication, to a delivery of devilment to a final slink away - the style is dirty!

Over...out...screwed.  This is a CD that will separate the rash form the flash, the crud from the good and along the way will winkle out those dwellers in the dingle who love things undercooked.  I find some bright spots here as I wade through the marshland of melodic muck and hope the crew continue to do what they do.

BOGANS - UNO MAS

Bogans may at first be considered social trash from the rectal crack of society's arse but the music comes from a place with much pedigree, considered experience and much anecdotal upheaval.  The players have dabbled before, the lead lunatic I have entertained on a brace of Fungalised gigs in the past when he created mischief in a crew known as The Smack Rats - some buggers never change.  I gave the Bogans a gig (their 5th to date) and it was a pleasure which, in turn, as encouraged me to repeat the dabbling.  Here, I have 6 songs to dissect, who knows what order to do them in - ah fuck it and see hey?

'Dumbskulls' is a nasty number that is heavily condensed and served up on a slow sizzle grill perhaps designed for you to singe your fingers on.  A plug in and plod, a bass drive full of gunk and a quick careen with danger are all had before the route proper is taken and the bubble-fat of sound is spat your way.  A deviancy works beneath the dense tonality and as the song progresses a further compaction takes place and towards the latter end we find ourselves more and more impressed - not a bad debut listen.  I dip into the lucky bag of sound and pluck out the tirade known as 'Murdoch', this is a more flavoursome song with a snatching thorn of sound that has a distinct viciousness that elevates itself after the initial intro shuffle.  Again the band have all tonal chompings on the leash and make sure the move with a directness and strong authority before building to the expected climax.  Behind the gristly and throat-fucking lead there are some solid harmonised reinforcements that come into their own as the song progresses and finalises itself with a sound flourish.  Yeah baby, I am liking this and as a matter of consequence my nipples are found in a state of firmness - now that is a good sign - paptastic for sure!

In for a penny in for a pound, I pull out my grabbing mitts, oh look what I've found! 'Redacted' is ship steadier, a rail-holding number that takes stock, moves over melodic waters with care and gives us time to appreciate a band who know their pluck and fuck acoustic pumpkins inside and out.  A safe and sturdy vessel that rolls on middling waves and avoids tossing anyone overboard or indeed 'off'.  The throat is still gravelled, the music utterly controlled but convincing and this one sheds new light on a crew undertaking a fresh, and I hope, successful voyage - see what ya think.

Next and my hands delve in the crusty underpants of 'Granddad' and what I uncover is nasty, well-mauled and musically rough.  The impetus of the pulsations gets beneath my skin, I feel a response coming on (as well as a semi - ooh me mind) and I cough up a verdict of warm gratification (a bit like a spermed patch of moistness).  This song has a good surge, holds no prisoners and moves with a certain style that is polished, harsh and neatly grilled.  Play louder with each spin, feel the increase in impact, this is a sure-fire grower and a firm and fruity blower (a bit like Oral Annie with the rubber fanny - buts that's another story).  Yeah, enjoy!

2 left, a brace to manhandle, molest and perhaps...textually masturbate.  'To What End' has a nice lilt but is a bit too repetitive for me and even though there is a good counterpunching combo of oral offerings - the sandpapered, the pebble-dashed - I remain not entirely convinced by the initial chuck-outs.  The construction does increase in stature when the band avoid the sub-chorus copulation with the scorched serenader and when a release of the reins is had greater accomplishment is achieved.  It is still one to ponder further and my verdict is definitely unsure.  The last blast I ride along with is the hot-assed, friskily tempoed 'Buckin' Bronco', an arse bruising ride with extra technicality thrown our way and the unit pissing a definite desire in a running time of 1 minute and 9 seconds.  It is that short duration period which gives the song impact and helps it avoid a surgical dissection that may reveal tumours of fault.  I delve in, cut away the layers and find no serious problems to crinkle the brow.  It is a quick waft of escaping gut effluence with a reek that comes, goes and does what it needs to do.

I am over and out, my balls of honesty have been dangled and I reckon I have grasped the shaft of a CD with plenty of clout.  The Bogans have promise, here they have lain down a firm stepping stone that will put them in good stead and give them something to build upon.  I am a mere layer of noisy slabs, I shall add a few to the Bogans rhythmic residence and maybe encourage them to dwell as long as possible in this well-trodden discordant district!