THE MOLOCHS - FLOWERS IN THE SPRING

Drifty and dreamy, loosened and languid hippified strollings taken beneath summery sonic skies were swallows soar and swifts swoop in slo-motion uniformity to the flow of the music exposed.  These LA based minstrels present before us a retro-kissed sampling of sonic persuasion that deals with many themes whilst all the while striving to turn things to greater positivity and keep the uplifts warm and secure.  The band use techniques that many of us will be familiar with but they bring a certain cleansed and charming product laden with easily digestible songs that I find quite encompassing.  From one CD that sizzles, to one that soothes, from one that bubbles blood, to one that cools the stress, from one that forces one to smile, to one that causes one to snarl - it is a merry journey for the reviewer and here I take a pathway that leads to...ah yes, to where I wonder.

The beginning is entitled 'To Kick In A Lover's Door', not what you would expect but the crisp and slightly tinned strokes of the strings soon banish any divergent thoughts and we head forward into a well-calculated and prudent construction that has a paradoxical suggestion of that which is frugal and that which is acoustically affluent.  The oral offerings above the languid but moving music are lucid and well-lilted with a feathered anguish lightly breezed throughout via a hesitancy of action that is the name of the troubled game.  The song feels complete and is delivered with subtle authority - I move one...hopeful.  'I Wanna Say To You' feels, to me at least, like a copulation between things borne from an Oasis laden with roaming Beatle-fied under-rhythms.  The first tonal suggestion turns me off, the second forces me to stick with it and as I dabble deeper I find the dreamy dropped-out state, the crystallised guitar flicks and the rustling skins all contributing to a sub-weight that persuades favour.  I ponder some more, consider the slow whirlpool that tries its best to hypnotise and recognise something 'Byrd'-esque which also appeals.  I walk away with a 60/40 favour - I may be underestimating matters.  

'A Little Glimpse Of Death' is a marvellous little snippet of moribund melody that floats in on a cushioned substrate of searching sound enhanced by flickering guitar motes from realms of suggestive brilliance.  The oral gift is fragile but radiates a certain inner firmness that carries us along in an almost funereal style that is kissed with lunar hope.  The song culminates in a beautiful repetition of the title, a quite convincing moment to be sure and a combination of that most feared and that most welcome - cute!  'Shadow Of A Girl' is slow and deliberate in its stride and in no rush to get from A to B.  The slow heat haze that rises around the pondering framework of the song is introspective, poetical and melancholic and spends thoughtful time on love lost, times fading and a relationship now turned frosty.  The wire caresses, the skin strokes, the vocal blessings are all submissive to the over-riding emotions thus creating a final melting pot of what could have been rather than what was - and vice versa - lovely!

'Flowers In The Spring' brings instantly reclined invitations before even a note is borne.  The song smacks of many a folked and long-mopped headed expulsion that rose on acidised thinking and over-observed instances.  The oral inclusions and musical escort stride as one but remain clearly separate components thus holding crystal clarity and a well-showered freshness.  I like this one, a firm and pollen graced flutter from a summertime meadow where everything is done with languidness and a touch of sun-dried lugubriousness.  'Pages Of Your Journal' pursues the previous charmer but comes with too many country-fied aromas and with too much deliberation in the sonic step.  Again, another laxed and low blazed affair, this time with the simmer giving off too few essences to attract my major attention.  The sluggish style emits a torpidness of tune that does little to provoke Fungalised interest - I skip on, I consider this one a let-down. Thankfully 'When I First Saw You' picks matters up, goes back to the more unequivocal optimistic strains discovered in earlier donations.  Again the strings are blessed from up on high, the drums are enthused and as we waltz along with the serenade all areas stay spacious and readily animated.  The motes of the melody swirl to create a certain subdued kaleidoscopic affect that is far from offensive.  The added harmonica increases the folk appeal and adds deeper texture - a very easy listening experience, of that I am sure.

'She's Sleeping Now' is a touching moment of considered prose that moves in wafted waves of lullaby lilts that massage the aural membranes and persuade appreciation.  The opening simplistic fascinations draw one in with irresistible allurement.  The acoustic embrace offered becomes a comforting hug, the hug exudes strength, the strength comes in many forms, it more than suggests a band on their game.  My spiked angles should be blunted by this noise, eclecticism however wins the day.  'Too Lost In Love' is a minor exhibition of acoustic art executed with minimalistic undercoats before being overlain with the most considered strokes that maintain the stripped down affect whilst adding enough tonal texture to grant aesthetical pleasure.  The turn of the song is borne from blinded hearts where adoration drowns out distractions and an all-absorbing sensation is perfectly captured - winner!    'Wade In The Water' is a tentative paddle into pseudo-religious rivers of questioning accents that turn tables and put certain routines on their head.  The song is orchestrated and floats without a care, it seems to have no idea where the end situation will be, and the fact that no toss is given perhaps adds to a tune that is best used as a switch off moment.  'She Glows' is a brief musical oddment that whines, repeats and fades out - I can't see the point myself, maybe I am missing the obvious!  We finish matters with 'All The Things That Happen To Me', a song that stays within the set boundaries, lethargically advances with little fuss and perhaps, in many ways, falls into the shadows of its many fine predecessors.  I find little to say at this late juncture - no outrageous 'Hallelujahs’' no roaring claims of 'fuckin' shit' - just a flow going sensation that sees the CD fall into the final silence.

What a sweet surprise this has been and a pleasant interlude to the more riotous rackets I surround myself with.  The tones are welcome, the thread of the melody a joy to follow and as I unwind and indulge I would suggest that you do the same.  It isn't punk, it isn't head melting noise - it is what it is and that, now and again, is all I ask for.

CENTURION SECT - BIG RED BUTTON

One of the best bands I have seen in quite a while, Centurion Sect came out of the blue by the usual odd happenings and jumped on a Fungal show that was almost last minute - well thereabouts.  The band were added to a line-up and, if truth be told (which it always should be), they nailed it.  The band come from the fine seaside town of Whitstable in Kent, a place where that fine actor Peter Cushing resided for many a year.  The bands output is a collection of oddments and observations nicely delivered via a tongue-in-cheek but pertinent style.  They have a vibe going on that one would have found more readily in the mid-to late 70's methinks, here is what it sounds like in the modern day.

'Novichok' is the first song, a perky prickle up the arse end of eavesdropper, a song bouncing along on fine alternative tones and lyrics of nonsensical essence.  The nerve agent in the title is altered to take on the form of killer confectionary and will no doubt appeal to those with an eating habit or who are turning the scales quicker than Buster Bloodvessel on a burger bender.  A healthy slab of idiocy this with an earthy feel to the radiated rhythm.  The curious vibes satisfies, the jumping bean style gets one in line, I am happy enough with this, I move on with the conk of curiosity trembling.  'I Am A Drone' is wishful thinking spunked forth with a repeat-beat relish that sees a deviant mind exposed.  It is a mere confessional, an admittance of a mind pondering the impossible.  When we were kids we wanted to be invisible men, now it is all 'techno tooting' that has taken over - ooh these advanced perverts.    This is a crisply strung song that is like a pair of Jimmy Saville’s Quick Release Tracksuit Bottoms - easy to get into.  Next, and barging its way in is the 'Crazy Fat Kid', a grand entrance it makes too.  A chomping song in many ways, picking up a thread I thought was left well behind in those stressed filled school days that usually involved a bully, a chunky chap and much name calling.  The vibe is garaged, fully weighted with a rehearsal rawness that escapes beneath the crack under the door and rises to assault our lugs in a bold and brash attitude.  Elements of surfed guitar spill in, a repetition will have a few lesser loons swinging - I think it does what it sets out to do.

'I Love The DWP' continues matters, flies in the face of the usual procedure and twists on its head the expectations you may have cultivated.  The band are soaked through with sarcasm, sweating with ironic idiocy and come across the airwaves with a construction that tickles pimples that are usually left neglected.  Despite the angularity of the output the band keep things sharp-suited, well booted and thrusting with an admirable tightness - not a bad do at all.  'Big Red Button' taps in and moves with snazzy vibrancy.  The vocals are momentarily left to sexually suggest that there is a device that is there to tempt but is better left alone.  The button is portrayed as a phallus, is dangled before our attentive neurones in order to expand a few blood vessels and get something of a reaction back.  I think the reaction will be one borne for hearts soaked through with ale and ones looking to have a good old sing-a-long - and why the hell not!

'Punk On A Mobility Scooter' is stutter chug nonsense highlighting that age doesn't matter and a wrinkled old bat on a scooter can still tear it up and keep the punk ethos alive (barely) and kicking (with the odd arthritic twinge).  You can't help but titter at the visions this ditty brings to the forefront of the mind and with a scuzzy, fuzzy musical escort to the wordery and the usual stated not sedated vocal style I reckon this is one of those songs that will get the 'live' crowd cooing.  'Pig Head' screeches in like a freshly bummed porker.  The crawl that comes is suffering, highly troubled and perversely tribal.  Vegetarians and voters of that tory fucker with a penchant for all things sporting the crackling factor will hate this one but those with a sense of mischief, an ear for the angled and with a gut aching for their next 'baconised' fix will no doubt love it.  Despite its abrasive strains and spirit it is easily joined in with and 'oinks' with impish intent.  'She Works In The Chippy' has a fresh and fruity start, almost akin to an old rock and roll record many of us jived around to in those pre-punk days - oh aye man, jitterbugging and jacking off - what a combo!  Anyway, this perky little treat of sound melds together the bubbling chip fat of sound with a gravy of idiocy that sees a man in love with a donator of the blessed deep fried potatoes become in  danger of getting his todger fat splattered.  No great shakes of the salt cellar of sound come, the vocal vinegar sprinkled is safe enough and the final wrapping contributes to a serving that retains its flavour - not bad but a bit more frivolous fish wouldn't have gone amiss (oooh I sound almost like Mickey there, the sex-addled sod).

A song aching to be joined in with is 'Tourette's', an obvious attempt at clearing the chest of idiot foul-mouthed necessity but here done with a skid-string jazzism and an angularised jizzism that sprays its maniacal crudity every which way it can whilst finding room for some biscuits on the tits.  It is an irresponsible tune made by minds with too much time to deviate and hands with too much time to musically masturbate.  The end result - is a grinning Fungalpunk, a grin borne of mischief and appreciation of a good piss patch of sound.  The follow up to this nonsensical number is 'Hen-Night', a crooked and crippled number that limps along like a one-legged whore with buttock cramps.  It jerks, judders and slips and slides through the mess pondered as visions of slags, old bags and sex-starved hags all fall arse over sagging tit before one's tender mind.  I am not overly keen on this one, too much of the same thing, a lack of flow and obviously crude - plus my idea of the goings on has always left me somewhat depressed.  'Road Kill' is a nasty piece of work and uses an abhorrence as a way of attaining a certain erection of evil, nay a state of appalling arousal only the truly perverse will enjoy.  The songs runs, rapes and runs around many thoroughfares of mental ill health before having one last spurt down the final highway of corruption - I ask you honestly, is this where you get off?

'Nazi Disco' leads us by the trembling hand into the upsetting final stretch, a clutter-fucket, hate-bucket number fizzing over with nerved agitation whilst the right winged bastards get off on Bisto bombers and blow their already damaged minds - or something like that!  This is a tetchy tune, built on un-trustable instability but something within the manky weavings hits home and pleasures my dubious side.  Do you know what - I am giving this a thumbs up - a clanking troubler and delivered with devilment - nowt like it for keeping one on the toes.   'Cuntsters' could be about any bunch of nauseates but this one goes for the jugular of the germs in power who send out their infecting spores and make this land a stinking shitheap in which we are destined to choke and fail.  These 'Munsters' from Hell are given a roasting via a tune most appropriate and one that adds a light-hearted counterpunch to the oral viciousness.  The vocal nastiness is fully justified though and the list of corrupt and egotistical power-mongers deserve to have the balance addressed and their names dragged through the sonic slutch. A good air-clearing fiasco this - nowt like a bit of open air laundry - suck on it!  We finish with ''Revenge Porn Helpline', a slow and sultry start welcomes us and gives us a slight insight into the state of things in today's mucky world.  Revenge Porn is out there, it is the work of the diseased, the desperate and the dick-addled deviants (both sexes by the way) who need to get a little respect and morality in their lives.  This is a shifty little shitter of a song and makes ones skin crawl whilst making its seedy point with a caress, a kiss and a...penetration.  Nasty man, nasty!

I was stupid enough to dabble here, I have paid the price and had my moral fibre molested.  There is one question that, when answered, may sum up about how I feel about what has transpired thus far - 'would I book the band again?'   The answer is honest, perhaps embarrassing, maybe a reflection on my cerebral state - it goes like this - 'yes' - thank you!

CAROL HODGE - HOLD ON TO THAT FLAME

The artiste under the spotlight here has played a few Fungalised gigs in the past and has pootled around the music scene in many, many guises.  The main word on everyone's lips who has witnessed this discordant dabbler in the midst of her performance is 'talented' - a word used perhaps too often in today's diluted and fucked up celebrity riddled world but not here.  The lady is thoughtful, creative, always pushing herself and does so in a DIY style to make many spiky tops and wannabe anarchists wither.  Here the melodic madam pours out pertinent point after pertinent point via a beautifully constructed collection of songs that ooze class and erudite insight.  I go in expectant, and that, as many may realise, can be a very perilous position for the player/s.

'Stop The World In Its Tracks' tiptoes in on ballet toes, performs a gossamer blue pirouette in thoughtful tempo before opening the oral gateway.  Words fall like emotive confetti from a bride married to a melody borne of consideration and feeling.  The vocal style is nothing less than beautiful, the musical arrangement is ornamented quality with great substance and all the while we are asked questions, given answers but requested to listen, have patience and try one's best.  In this world of selfishness, cruelty and sheer misfortune it is time for us to take stock, think and reassess what the hell we are doing.  I am totally and utterly convinced by this opening donation, it is a work of marvellous quality and created by a gifted DIY minstrel who is proving once and for all that we have, in our midst, a talent to be reckoned with - stunning.

Moorland rain falls as twilight comes and a thoughtfulness of mind is heightened.  From the misted realms a voice hits us, a voice awash with touching emotion and subtle questions.  The pitter-patter that teases the cranial gunk into animation metamorphs into melodic patternisation and a chorus caresses.  'No Holds Barred' is a gothic beauty, melodramatic, injured, wondering and of two distinct styles - the dark side contemplative, the clear side released.  A desire to create a transparency is apparent, a composite of weighty structure is had - a quite ideal follow up to the opening number achieved.  'You Don't Dream Enough' holds itself aloft with gentle positivity whilst waltzing along with a peregrinating pathway followed to wherever it leads.  The uncertainty, the puzzlement and the tender disagreement with those who never ponder outside their own safety net are all donated our way via the expected tonal qualities so easily created by our artiste under the Fungalised spotlight.  The whole movement is cohesive and attractively placid with undulations careful but effective - my only gripe is that the end comes rather abruptly - how odd?

'First World Problems' has a jazzoid rhythm and moves with an off-the-cuff jerkiness with the oral offerings having a meaner edge.  The meanness is born from the fact that many who moan are far better off than most and instead of looking at the immediate picture should look further, take stock and have some fuckin' appreciation.  If, from this appreciation, a helping hand or an act of good will can be had then so much the better.  The deliberate key touches, the warm disgust and the intolerance all culiminate in a middle burst of angularity and madhouse jangling that heightens the disgruntlement.  I like the message here, I like the oddment that it is - it is one to come back to (many times).   'Your Heart Is Breaking' hesitantly enters, is kissed with oral gifts from lofty heights before opening an emotive vein and letting bleed forth a honest and open bout of love-laden advice, all ingrained with resolute strength and deep-rooted care.  A majestic grandiosity is held in check and what we get is an emboldened and highly infecting bout of touching magnificence.  My spiked soul may be niggled by this, my eclectic side is delighted - the war continues inside and I am happy with that.  If music touches a chord and a tremulous reaction is had the thumbs will always be raised.  'Fallibility' continues matters with a windswept animation that needs much chasing and much effort to get truly in line with.  The composition is the most blown thus far and within the personal storm moments of a placid temperament manifest themselves.  The switch in force cum impetus works well but this is still a difficult piece to fully estimate.  The mix is superb, the haunting touches sublime, the tossing and turning restlessness donated our way with skill, and yet I remain 50/50.

I embrace the next 3 with kindness and honesty and move matters on with something akin to fluidity.  'Weather The Storm' reminds me of a rock and roll blue'd down serenade sang from a retro cafe were shakes foam over, popsicles juice up and a heart beats bearing another Cupid-esque scar.  The windows are flecked with rain as the grey outside mirrors the grey inside and our lead lady contemplates and croons in a tired yet hopeful way.  Not my sonic favourite but again, beautifully delivered.  'Bullet In The Moonlight' is a much more convincing outpouring with heavy doubt, dubious suggestion and underhand thoughts all working beneath a cerebral shadow that has one guessing.  The clouds gather in a predatory fashion and darken with each and every verse, each and every sub-chorus movement - we are persuaded to step beneath the downpour and absorb the convincing semi-sable kiss of liquid wonder - quite excellent.  'The Witch Is Dead' is a vicious kick done in classical style, aimed, no doubt at a self-serving, unfeeling automaton created by puppeteers and a world of detachment.  Born innocent, turned sour, died a sinner - the loop repeats, tis easy to point rather than examine oneself.  The world is full of criminals, shitmongers and hate-stirrers, one less hardly makes a difference and here the song celebrates and gives sound advice but with no treatment of the cause, no cure will ever come.  A short tickle this, you may fall in line with the sentiments, you may fall in line with the sonica - go dabble bastards!

'Undone' begins like a very commercialised song, akin to one of those ballads from the conveyor belt of expected safety the more mainstream regurgitators throw our way (well, attempt to at least).  The maturity of the song-writing, the she needs on show and the exposure of injured inner machinery are all delivered in a very hygienic and processed way and will hit the sensors of many rhythmic lovers.  I am turned off here, something catches in the internal cogs of awkwardness where spiked spirit and much muck rotate and cause merry hell.  I am not so foolish though as to call this number a shit do - it is the work of a very intelligent and gifted creator that is for sure.  We close with 'Bear With Me', a very subdued palette of tonal application that deals with a low-brow, self-doubting state of play where a victim of 'out of fashion' awkwardness strives to get into many grooves and be 'accepted'.  The personality is questioned, the feeling of abandonment is tangible, the run for a darkened corner tinged with sadness.  Socially inept, reaching out for acceptance, trying to fit into a slot that really isn't there - feelings run deep, depressive thoughts are the result.  For me this is material to use as a kick back, a beautiful reassurance that if your face doesn't fit then it is tough shit but...fuck em', be you and never let any bastard grind you down.  Life is the eternal challenge, people and the circles make it more so - just because you don't fit in doesn't make you anything less or anything to feed many schadenfreude-soaked streaks - think on, let us all end on a high, just like this musical treat.

And there you have it - a nice lady, a nice collection of songs and a nice bout of honesty.  I have time and patience for the artiste, don't always get in line with the output but many times lap it up like a DIY dog on a bender.  We need many flavours, we need people pushing themselves and we need folk to support em' - I hope I have done my small bit to encourage you, squeeze out some agreement and disagreement and got your aural twitchers twanging - you may be quite surprised here!

SPLATTER - CRIME SPREE

On BVI Records comes another release, this time 5 tracks of spit and snot aggression delivered in an almost basic hardcore way.  Spikes and studs and shitty duds, this is a heavily soiled sound that harks back to of the second punk wave, when energy, passion and wild untamed riffage came crashing against the shores of those entrenched in the more rhythmic pillaging that was transpiring at the time. Some drowned, some swam away to calmer seas, some were happy to be repeatedly dashed against the rocks of discordance - I, as per, like the variation of sound and so dabbled, here is my take of the 21st century offering.

'Nazis (Fuck Off)' doesn't beat around the indecisive bush, scythes in with a taut chainsaw approach and scatters the foliage of resistance all over the fuckin' show and leaves all debris to blow away in the breeze of belligerent based annoyance.  All areas are screwed tightly and the drilling that comes is acute, pain inducing and not one to indulge in too many consecutive times.  The pressure is intense, the panic button easily avoided as all is done in 1 minute and 27 seconds - just how it should be.  'Anhedonia' is a better song as the impetus is more impressive and the switch from the galloping to the briefly cantering is nicely done.  This contrast in time helps galvanise the song onto a better footing and makes sure when the bollocks are really kicked the pain is set to level 'fuck'.  Again the band keep things short and to the point, the only way for hardcore thrashing to be played, anything more would be just plain old silly.  Not a bad double whammy but nowt new under the blazing sun, can there ever be anymore - harrumph.

The central track of 5, this one is slabbed and slagged and goes under the name of 'Last Fall', a scabby mutt of sound that sniffs its own arse, wanks and ejaculates a poison to impregnate even the most ardent chuff and a she-bitch inclusion that adds true fire to the mix.  These femme-fucks are a fine addition, something the band need to concentrate on for future efforts and perhaps design their own signature sound around.  I play again and again to confirm my thoughts, yes - he and she hybridisation cum copulation is a must.

'No Hope' channels its grubby energy into one tight-arsed head numb of incessant self-examination that comes out at the end of a bout of heavy questioning with the solution that everything is ultimately pointless.  The sharp sting of the final admittance poisons the track from first to last and what we get is perhaps more of the same, a screwed up HC burst and in keeping with the theme set and the raw-assed punkiness that never seeks to advance from the raw basics.  We close with 'Skate To Spill', another pacey piss-patch of noxious noise spat and shat with clatter clout and careless crashing.  The board of sound is ridden, knee-pads and helmets are abandoned as the crew race to oblivion and refuse to give a fuck about the consequences.  This hungry and idiot engrained mania is what gives the noise its raison d'être and what makes this old spiked git avoid putting the boot in.  Forget originality, forget deep profound investigations, pick up on the buzz and enjoy!

5 songs, no boundaries warped, no new ground kicked up but...plenty of spunk splattered, plenty of eardrums no doubt will be battered - is there really anything more we should be asking for at the DIY level?   I wouldn't give this one a golden handshake, I wouldn't give it a golden shower either but it has been worth my time and I hope the band can go on from here, stretch their arses and throw in a few curveballs - here's watching.

WASTED WORLD - BLACKPOOL COMPILATION

A mush, a mess, a mere melodrama of seaside happenings are collected together here and after a staggering glut has been indulged in I find it within myself to lean over the side of the assessing pier and puke up into your sea of patience, a multi-coloured assessment of what has been digested.  The splash of sonica is a celebration from the land of piss-pots, arcades, retailers of tat, vulgarity and…in some ways…distorted reality.  I don my plastic breasts, shove a chocolate cock up my arse and prepare to ride the ‘Real One’, a musical roller coaster that I truly up will turn my bowels onside and out – let the laughing man continue, I am doing my bit.

I am all for instrumental introductions and here we see Rida ZM plough in with 'Jawsome', a very interesting futuristic mix that adopts a grandiose start before travelling the dusted highways of sonic silence and kicking up some nice plumes of attractive tonality.  As we run alongside the music making beast we attain a greater appreciation of the head-meddling music that is being hurled our way by controlling hands that are considerate and in a certain groove.  A soothing sci-fi underscore, a mood from a place within the inner depths of the cranial universe comes - I reached for a tab, drift off and absorb this unexpected drop out.  Dig that 80's suggestion, get groomed by that bass manipulation ma'an.  If you haven't already done so The Drop Out Wives ask you, in the usual strained and saturated special kind of way to 'Get On The Ride'.  A sleazed, hard squeezed bout of sexed up sonic sweat that flows from pores well versed and highly cursed cacophonic victims.  This offering is an ideal partner to the previous hygienically based production with warts, wickedness and a fuzzing molestation all there for the dirty dogs to indulge in.   The track perspires wonderful sludgey grime whilst all the while rising higher and fist-fucking with convincing relish.  This is an early winner for me - a real clonking scummer with all the DIY goodness on show - cock out, rock out, whatever!

Du Pig are a delightful oddity and here give an insight into their crooked sound via 'Du Pigs In Space', a raw, under-processed sub-proto-punk semi-grunged piece of angle wanking.  The tune slips from the open wound of basic application to the full on gash of infecting fuzzery that contrasts and counterblasts.  There is much ado about something here, the band are combining styles with ease and giving the listener options as well as their playing comrades.  I have seen Du Pig on a couple of occasions, this is a reason why I was very much taken.  'Filming His Agony' by Uncle Paul is a dirty decadent backfire of twisted self-therapy that sees a molten hotpot of throbbing frustration get thrown against the walls of indifference with spiteful and blazing intention.  A repeatoid hurt of nagging proportions I feel there is a place for this kind of torture, this provides another angle and precedes a turnabout that comes under the name of 'Witherslack Gold' by The Delmars.  A Rock and Roll 'Eddy'-esque guitar expulsion that twists and grooves with shadowy effect and brings cerebral suggestions of plume laden retro-groove dens laden with moving cool cats and rats, some lip-sticked, some razored - all in the zone and soaking up the escapist acoustica.  An unexpected curveball thrown in so as to help us keep on guessing - you can't beat the mix and match of a good compilation.

Boom!  Back to things more brutal with the heavy arsenal of C. S. O. D. exposed and breaking your tonal territory with a hand-grenade of disabling power duly called 'Manipulate'.  Off to war, no choice given, destruction the end result - the band are wound up, go frenzied at the gullibility, kick forth a weighted tune destined to bruise bollocks and blow down walls of wanked weakness.  The outfit is quality, listen in to every department and try your hardest not to get aroused - you will fail.  All you need to do now is jack off, get their merchandise and hang your head in shame that we have let another band split - fuckin' hell!  'Milk' by Father Stone sludge crawls, pulsates like a heaving mass of toxic turdery.  The opening wordage is slack-jawed, equally poisoned and in-time with the slow-curdling mix of ear crapping goodness that comes.  Stoners and slow-shit flinging reprobates will love to toke up and wallow in this - who am I to shatter their murky (and perhaps moistened) dreams?

Litterbug have found their sound, deliver with exceptional authority and, after just sticking at it, are winning more and more plaudits by the day - about fuckin' time!  'I Will Not Explain' bass weaves, skids and judders before swinging in with the first verse that is immediately tattooed through with defiance and a sound of earthy honesty that always puts the band in good stead.  Popped in moderate terms, fizzed with general spirit and ingrained with many fundamentals of a DIY scene that keeps the flavour digestible.  A cute addition next via The Freak Beats and their curiosity known as 'Where Did Alice Go'.  This disturbing stroll through the twisted cranial catacombs of one Charlie Dodgson comes out like the author himself - unsettling, creepy and of dubious intent.  This contribution is a snaking warted hand up the inner thigh of essential innocence and as matters progress the sinister grooming reveals itself to be darkened, untrustworthy but very effective in its approach.   What the band set out to achieve I think they do, this is a charming piece - in many ways.

The Senton Bombs turn up the tempo, add seasoned class and hit the rails with runaway intent whilst emitting great plumes of believable passion from an engine that is now slick, well-greased and hitting each and every destination with precision and power.  The opening chug rises to a tetchy tempo that mows down all in its track and leaves one rattled.  'Trainwreck' is a savoured moment, hearing a band take delight in the tear-up whilst executing a masterclass of hot rockin' sound.  As I listen over and over I dress up as Casey Jones, throw one off the wrist and knock seven bells out of an old lady waiting for the 7.32 to Clacton - music can have that effect don't ya know.  'Sea Mammoth' by Tirikilatops is an experimental bout of head-melting nonsense that shows a band reaching into niches where child-like innocence and mischievous marvelling duly impregnate each other and make for a nursery rhyme raping that comes over as an acid-head dabble overly cutiefied.  One has to cater for every taste though and this is a welcome oddity.  The Polyesters stabilise matters with the expected rocked up riffery that contains the sex-siren hunger as well as the usual thrust and fuck action in the vibe.  ‘Cracked’ whispers, snarls, swings its ass with vixen violence whilst all the while staying in control and grinding out a response that is highly positive.  The anxiety spews over, rises and entangles - the nightmare is never over.  Black Eddy come next, an ever impressive band winding in with the sludgy horror cum self-inflicted torture known as 'Old Emotions'.  A slow moving glutinous mass of suffering comes and rises.  This band I have seen on a couple of occasions and they have grown in stature within my assessing gunk.  This is a dirty mover, heaving up with aged battle scars and simmering with a potential threat that at any time may just spill over.  Cooled moments come, they are soon doused in manic morasses of molten sufferance - this is another angle for the CD listeners to contemplate - under the vibrating moon it is best to keep things varied.

2 left, Dischord do what they do best and provide passion, chant-a-long efficiency and a kind of youthful zest that sees the band continue their run of stunning form and make their presence felt.  'S. O. B. S' is a song to chomp on and kicks back against scuzz, general idle-headedness and thoroughfares where all turns to shit.  The guitar strokes are scything, the drums slap happy, the bass disciplined and grooving with the vocal style hungry and delivered with relish.  In their embryonic years I hailed Dischord as good, I have changed my mind, Dischord are fuckin' good.  We close with 'Killer's Moon' by Stormy Weathers, a fantastical acidised promotion that describes visions from beyond the so-called norm, cerebral sights that distort, sometimes disturb and now and again, display insight.  Acid is hailed as a mind expanding drug yet so many addled headed restricted thinkers who know little came from the hippy generation, I think small doses when in the mood are better rather than a headlong indulgent crash that will duly end up nowhere.  This final piece is the last shard of disturbance that will throw you off kilter, it is more art than acoustica, but still I have to say it has its place.  The colours presented are garish, molesting and glutinous - I rise up, come down and don't know how the fuck I feel - that is a good sensation for any self-respecting reprobate.

I finish this CD with one holler that may sum up my feelings, 4 words I shout loud and hope that the creator and creators are listening - 'what about Volume 2' - do you get my gist - I fuckin' hope so.  Let the applause ring out!

FASCINATING - COMMUNIST POWER

Laid-back, sometimes almost lazy gutterised punk with a sludgy feel that many will embrace, many will be nauseated by Fascinating bring to the table a tonal mix to test the neurones and keep one wondering where things will end up.  Based in Cleveland, Ohio the crew have their own political outlook, own style of sound and put things forward with an undiluted and rather gritty slant.  I pick up the play-list, rotate in various order and eventually have enough clarity to create a review, or something like that.  Here are my literary weavings.

'Life By The Thorns' is the first grubby and unwashed bastard to flaunt itself before our awaiting ears.  The opening tonality is semi-shat, slow and reclining with an attitude that transcends the carefree and almost becomes careless.  A lidded, insulating and cloying sound with components both garaged and subtly psyched this an opening piece that needs a certain effort on the listener's part to fully appreciated.  I am not 100% convinced, I am a great believer in CD starters having an authority and a tinder box danger - it isn't found here and the second track is, I am afraid, more of the same with 'Neon Lite', an idling effort that seems played by limbs too heavy to make the actual music on show.  Both these tracks lack an inspired spark, they fail to kick my ass and get me swaying to the cadence, they are of course of a nook and cranny style but I await an uplift in activity - it is a crucial component very much missing.

'Take Back The 9' is another tepid turnaround of thoughtful noise and although similar to the first expulsion I am feeling a little more favourable here as perhaps a certain acclimatisation has taken place.  The rotation is highly deliberate, there is no startling revelations of rhythm encountered and the doped delivery is perhaps too soon in the mix but it is short, consistent and precedes the more effective and animated 'Going Down'.  When combined as a couple this pair of fuzz numbed numbers work well and for me that is the way to digest the whole CD, as a series of couplets rather than one long playing effort.  It is a tactic I use quite often, the review will now follow that pattern.

And to neighbours 5 and 6 with 'Empire Of Lydia' tympanically staggering in before becoming part of a languid laze of slow moving energy liable to fall into a coma at any given time.  The miasma built around this and the chasing track 'The Dancer' can be quite suffocating if the mood is tuned out and one is not fully connected with what is actually transpiring.  The initial effort has a pseudo-snag that may attract the sing-a-long automatons, the second effort has an appeal that comes from a distance and delivers with a quite impressive dream-like melody.  An inner turmoil arises, I shouldn't like this latter lilt, I find it most fascinating, akin to watching water flow steadily down the plug-hole - mesmerising!

'Dark Soul Of The Night' emerges from stuttered silence and uncertain beginnings to becoming a fluent fuzz up of frayed content that is wonderfully amateurish in aspect and is mixed with an unwashed end appearance always in mind.  This is intrinsically a basic song, a pop punk episode bathed in scum, scrubbed down with wire-wool and left to drip dry in the smog of an urbanised thoroughfare.  The fumes and litter that float around the acoustic avenue are obvious but for me this is a place where one shouldn't wander for too long.  'Communist Power' is a fine moving scuff of nasty abrasion that is completely 'shine' free and of such a fug fucked state as to appeal only to my more 'niche market' neurones.   I crank up the decibels, refuse to give a flying fuck and whilst free-wheeling to this one I feel mighty good. Now that one was easy enough!

'Continue To A Maze' trundles through the snagging pseudo-Ramonesy care-free surf out hybrid that reflects what the band are about and the state of play they refuse to alter.  This one has a decent groove and with just that little extra clarity in the fuzz and a touch more spaciousness in the application we could have a far better thrust.  This isn't bad mind you, neither is 'Don't Ruin My High', a barely ruffled number that just wants to disappear within its own melodic folds and float on by to the rhythm of the haze.  The songs needs juice via the speakers, thrives as a result but all the while we are still in the realms of 'acquired taste'.  The last two, known as 'Bush Years' and 'After Death' fail to rouse any sense of something novel and dangerous with the former a heap of slow moving angst, boiling up with dirty toxicity and looking to envelope your resistance with the unstoppable sludgery.  The latter, and final song of the CD, ups the ante and propels itself along on an expected easy tonality whilst all the while refusing to add ornamentation or drift off from a very predetermined course.  This is not my favourite and the end comes all to abruptly.

Hit, miss, hit, miss and repeat.  The inner thoughts forever conflict as I try to ascertain an overall verdict for this one and come up a trifle short.  It has its own recognisable flavour, it is grubby enough to have niche appeal but there is also a lack of clout and clarity that could propel many of these tunes onto better things.  Personally I think each individual number would sound better in the midst of opposing music and as a complete collection here a certain edge is lost.   Too much of the same thing methinks!

THE CAVEMEN - BURN OUT FOR LOVE

Scum rocking, shit flinging zealots of the vibe, The Cavemen come, conquer and create chaos.  The mix offered has blasted the Fungalised lugs several times, here we have a single to mull over and either get sickened by, aroused by or perhaps, disturbed by.  These toned up troglodytes hail from New Zealand and brandish their clubs of cacophony with head-melting intensity. The band are out there touring, the reputation is building - will it end in a headlong crash of glory or stutter out like the erection of a porn-watching drunkard - who the hell knows, here is my take on the latest happening and how it may affect you.

'Burning Out For Love' is a reckless clatter twatter just kept on the right side of decency by some hard fought steering by these wank happy warriors cut out for all things maniacal.   This song is hungry with spunk-surging desire, the loins of the lilt are sweating hard and trembling with ardour as the tunery races along, the intensity builds and the arses of the eavesdropper gest shredded.  The throwback to things primitive and clubbing is done with a youthful stupidity that spills every each way you care to look and dazzles and bewilders in one great showcase of sub-spontaneous naturalness.  Wham!

'Dancing On A Razors Edge' is a beautifully short composition of encrusted sonic shit rattling the basin of decency in untamed style.  The danger is always imminent, the rhythmic roadway driven down the wrong way and all the while this white knuckle ride seems destined to end in one cataclysmic distortion of overwhelming oblivion.  The players somehow remain intact, their visceral and violent approach is handled with muscle and we get to our destination, shaken, stirred and with a touch of reality...blurred.  Slam!

Job done, the band don't fuck about and neither have I.  These louts of chaos chuck it at you and all you have to do is either run for your life or fuckin' suck on it.  My jaws are aching, my head is a mush - can you tell which option I took?

BLACK BELT EAGLE SCOUT - MOTHER OF MY CHILDREN

And I quote 'Having this identity - radical indigenous queer feminist - keeps me going. My music and my identity come from the same foundation of being a Native woman'.  Cripes, now here comes territory to trespass and do my Fungalised thing.  What we get is a one woman showcase of emotion, confrontation and striving to be at one with life and the landscape.  The album was written after a heart-wrenching loss, the soul is exposed, the talent used to the extreme.  As an assessor I have to stay true to my ethos too - I hope to gain balance, truth and insight - as per, time is taken, appreciation given, heaps of honesty used with thoughtful strain - it is no easy thing.

We begin with 'Soft Stud', a needful song that begins on stripped down minimalism and gradually works itself up into a more complete composite of impressing sound with whispered tentativeness gradually leading the way into something more sanguine and striding.  The power of emotion forces the progression and despite the lengthy running time of this opening aural episode we find ourselves well into the fray before wondering when the end will come.  The blend of featherlight oral offerings and the ominously wired underscore add a subtle strength of he/she hybridisation and perhaps here we find the songs greatest assets.  An intriguing commencement and onto 'Indians Never Die' and 'Keyboard' we travel, a barely touched couplet of fragility unbound and an emotive essence that is both dew kissed and gently ambiguous.  The first offering suggests a chant cum incantation within a weft of soft-lipped utterances blessed with lullaby warmth.  The second sliver of embracing delicacy is caressed and entrancing with the ebony and ivory hypnotica slow and disrobing.  From a realm of hefty head blasting matter to these tender offerings a certain appreciation can be had as well as a naked intrigue created by the obvious tonal opposition - I am happy to nudge these along with a vote of semi-clouded confidence.

The next 2 and 'Mother Of My Children' and 'Yard' stay within the confines of the dreamscape drive and down avenues of thoughtful prose we are carried by tender hands of parental care. The first is too fluffed and floated to make any significant impression on this hardened sonic git although the ambience sought is well achieved.  The second song is barely touched, an almost naked number that hardly registers on the rhythmic Richter Scale and seems almost destined to become background music (well, at least in my gaff anyway).  I do like my music to have guts, here we have something that has spirit but no blatant hooks or moving weight.  I listen intently and recognise the pastel shades that have been applied with porcelain-like delicacy - I am not convinced but there are some I know who will appreciate it.

'I Don't Have You In My Life' wire walks and soothes with an empty heart recently tattooed with the pang of loneliness. The barren soundscape reflects the stark isolation and as emotion is gently warmed by thermal turmoil all things stay serene, contemplative and almost of a meditating therapeutic slant.  Is release sought through acoustic incantation?   Is the refusal to get angry a ploy to punish an endo-suffering that remains mostly hidden between a conscious substrate of bruised mistakes?  There is a fascination and intrigue here if one tries hard enough!  'Just Lie Down' enters from white fuzz confusion where a maelstrom consumes and anxiety levels spill over and twist all sensibilities and sear all outlooks. A salvation from the wreckage comes in the form of a wisped apparition that enshrouds our prostrate form and eases the misery.  Questions posed, facts offered, solution perhaps gained.   The time to rest is encouraged, this is a moment to take time out with, to absorb what is, what isn't and gain some semblance of that which we all seek - equilibrium!    We close matters and are led by the hand into silence by the kissed lilt known as 'Sam, A Dream'. A case of hopeless dreaming filled, paradoxically, with hope! A situation impossible it seems, a cerebral wonderment of wishful thinking and liquid drop fantasy moving into musical wafts of softly smoked scenarios where imaginations can...flow.   I am in the groove, I can see the raison d'etre but now my punked soul is ready for some action and so I leave this opposing sound behind and maybe, just maybe, will revisit it in times of necessity - who knows?

Overall this is far removed from that which thrills my soul and spills my praise but...variation to one's listening matter is never a bad thing and this has had me thinking and searching which in itself is small success.  I won't be investigating this artiste further though, I would not recommend to many of my spiked and spitting mates but...one or two, with curious snouts may just well get it.   If you want something easeful and uncomplicated then this may be the route to take!

BOILERMAKER - SHOP FLOOR

I have never seen Boilermaker but am familiar with the tones.  The band are of a working class ethic, feature a few familiar faces and are driving home their noise with an unassuming edge - there ain't nowt wrong with that.  The band are a back-burning unit and are in no rush to get things going, slow and steady is the way it seems and this CD is a firm foundation and a good introduction to a noise with backbone.  I spin over and over, this is the end result of my musical contemplation.

'Bang To Rights' begins with cretinous utterances from an outback redneck who may have just hit on a little sense.  From here we have a stage setting sound blast that gives the song an almost instant authority and lyrics that pull no punches and indicate what can happen when a cunt gets his comeuppance.  The guitars saw through the listening bone, the gobbage is rough and raucous but still lucid, the skins are slapped around with care but with gumption.  What we end up with is a sub-Oi-esque gallop that improves all the while with each and every spin and each and every twist of the volume dial.  The solo perhaps needs a bit move bollocks and obvious riffery but besides that the song is nicely soiled, torn and fuckin' real.  'This Time' is a strong counterbalancing number that has a good pop in the vocal style and comes at you with a chest-swollen sanguinity that makes an impression on this noise-hungry dog.  The opening lamp-light flickerings fall into the yodelling’s before a real boot-stomping forthrightness is had with all ammunition blasted into your mush via an easy pogo and ping bout of street chanting.  The soundscape is full to the brim, the band are in the process of making concrete cacophony and are striving to move forth and drag a few who a willing and able with them.  In this day and age of much technical twattery and ‘me, me, me’ nonsense it is good to remember the guts and gonads of what much of the scene was built on and still should be.  A good hefty effort to manhandle when the mood so takes you.

Third up, '81/82' is a rekindle of a memory I am sure many old stagers can relate to.  The hopelessness of the school situation and out into the big wide world with no future - oh bugger.  The wide-eyed idiocy, the first taste of work, the soon to be joined queue of losers.  I went through it - left school young, spat back, got bunged on a YOP, burnt the factory down, was on the outside for many years to come - disillusioned, unmotivated and finding my feet.  This for me is a celebration of the survivors, the ones who went one way, came the other and still have spirit and, added sense.  During this time a certain war was taking place, more buggers were being used, thrown to one side and left to ponder - it were a crazy time and full of uncertainty.  The band buzz along here with good clout, put in a strong verse that will be picked up by the 'live' crooners who will jump around, spill their foaming beer and enjoy a sound slab of earthy noise.  This one, once more, like a choice wine, improves with age - sup deep ya bastards.  'Weekend Millionaire' neatly moves in, 'whoa hoa's' and welcomes the chance to celebrate weekly escapism.  The song is what you would expect, the band have set out their stall and are moving through obvious gears with no shame.  The grind is over, the time to switch off comes, there are no frills or fuck-about frivolities - this effort is a mere stabilising and somewhat cementing number in a CD that has a firm consistency.

'All Night, Alright' strides forth, hits a foot-tapping, head rapping nag of noise and ploughs away with a burning and insistent drive.  This drive comes from the tympanic section and urges on the boys and makes sure they keep animated, rolling with fluid sanguinity and maintaining a good massage of the musical movement so as to finally end up with a supple and street-fighting sound, albeit in a subtle kind of way.  There is no bedecking to prettify the production, no affected baubles of shifty suggestion to try and up the ante in a most unconvincing way.  No, this is feet-on-the ground boots and braces honesty - like it or lump it!

'Away Days, 'The Sirens And The Lights' and 'Gotta Let You Go' get grabbed as a fistful of 3 and tossed around the shithouse of consideration by my ever-hungry mitts.  The first is probably the most subtly emotive and understated piece of the lot with fine textured guitars, a semi-harmonised sounding vocal timbre and a straight-forward alertness that puts the band in good stead at all times.  From here we move into the second shifter, this time with an early 'Insane-esque' guitar rumble joined by ascending vocals and a cymabalised thermality sending us into the deliberate march of the first verse.  The chorus cut splashes and opposes, it carves a swathe through the pressure cooker environment built by crafted technicians and yet within the grilled atmosphere we still feel that street-cred transparency and working class reality that makes matters believable.  From here we get another switch as the last batch of this snatched trio briefly skin roll and moves along with the most cultured and sub-snotty leaning that harks back to times of yore.  The sneer is effective, the bitterness delivered with convincing venom albeit without an 'OTT' exaggeration.  There is an in-built fluidity and magnetising melody here that I just can't nail.  I am taken, I think something old blended with something new has won the day, I am a sucker for the basics.

Into the final 4 rhythmic furlongs and as the whip of assessment is brandished 'They Say, We Say' repeats a tale we are all well-versed in and yet is a tragedy many don't take heed of and walk a life that is without question and offers little threat to the minds of the masses.  To question, to do your bit, to walk against the flow - Albert Finney says his bit, a snippet from that classic film introduces and then we saw to the bone of the matter with a somewhat matter-of-fact acceptance before rebellion is had via a slap and grab sub-chorus.  When the blow-out comes the band stay restrained and I would have preferred a greater flourish, a more resolute fuck off to the controlling powers.  The string work is nifty though, the hot arse instrumental that sees the harmonica raise life is a delight, I go out of this one stomping.  'All The People' cuts a dash, gets on with matters from the off and has a biting appeal that grabs my attentive gonads.   Somewhere along the line the thread is diluted and that initial attraction is lost.  This is still a worthwhile inclusion and after such a scything introduction I would be a fool to bruise the knackers of the noise for my lack of concentration.

'All Day Session' comes with a determined outlook and is hell-bent on supping hard and enjoying a heavy bout of escapism.  That feeling before a full-on blow out is captured and expectation is mighty high.  The desire to get to the bar and begin the belly swelling/head melting shenanigans is felt throughout the celebration.  Along the way big riffs come, switches in the onslaught and an insatiable zest for life are created - tis amazing what the prospect of beer can do.  I love this one, it would be a good way to finish but we have one more, namely 'You Threw It All Away', a song that is a tad gentler and one, if my honesty must dictate, that I am not fond of.  The CD, as a whole, has been a fine jaunt with plenty of clobber had and a good reinforcement of talent never doubted but here, the emotive and more tenderised approach just doesn't resonate within my soul and so I end on a downer - bah.

Ok, so the final full stop was a personal flop but that shouldn't detract from that which has gone before and exposed a band playing in their groove, sticking to their ethics and providing a healthy bout of alleyway acoustica where strains of nostalgia pervade, heaps of heartfelt honesty are thrown in and that industrial town earthiness is rife.  If you like your music without unnecessary adornments and as straight up as you could wish for you may well just get switched on by this 12 track creeper - I expect, with increased spins, it may just get better and better – who the hell knows?