FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 53
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LUCY AND THE RATS - STICK TO YOU/TRUE ROMANCE From London to Melbourne and now from here, to there and back again. Lucy and the Rats have been reviewed on this site before, I am rushed and can't keep repeating the introductions, here is a 2 tracker - make of this what you will and if intrigued, go find out a little more - they have produced some quite nifty noises over the years. And flip, as per. |
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TRIPLE SUNDAE - GLOW Look, let me make one thing clear, when something gets labelled 'melodic punk' I do get concerned and after having witnessed so many bands turn out the same 'sub-generic' noise and fail to rock one's conkers I have to try darned hard not to be a petty purveyor and add salted criticisms due to a long-term sozzling of the same old, same old. The same can be said of many other sub-generic areas but when one is dealing with one zone less favoured one has to watch their step. Triple Sundae come, offer nothing new and so I step back and take it for what it is, consider where they will fit in, where they won't and how they ply their trade - at over 1500 reviews in, assessing CD's gets no fuckin' easier. Oh, the band come from London by the way and, at the time of writing, have been on the rhythmic block for about 5 years. 'Mental Pollution' is a full-on song, alters tempo at will and at times gushes in torrents and bubbles with perhaps debilitating mediocrity. For me the band showcase many skills in this strongly orchestrated piece, the only blip I uncover is the harmonised moments that get caught up in cobwebs of consideration and so impede the more liquid moments that give the song the most impressive spice of life. The crew have obviously spent time composing, recording and generally mixing, the question that immediately springs to my DIY encrusting mind is 'have they over done things'. I remain in judgemental limbo, the song isn't a favoured tipple but is indicative of a tidy band - ooh the perpetual problems of this musical life! 'Swisher' is a rather ordinary episode that comes from an era when many a band fell into a kind of suffocating middle-of-the-road punkism that, in truth, wasn't punk at all but some watered down bi-product that catered to a new generation of dudes looking to chill rather than challenge. The ability shown, as is the case here, was very applaudable but just never rang true in my barbed heart that always requires things more obvious. Here the players pull out a decent effort with the blend of all areas just right and complimentary, I however, remain uninspired. 'Dazed' has more clout due to its machine-like drive and fuller feel to the soundwaves. Again, I am out of sync with the flavour and would like to see some bare-arsed bollocks of the crudest kind thrown in but hey, this music menagerie is all about personal tastes. The main gripe I have is that the song appears to have no real backbone of sound and waltzes around a flimsy core of nebularity that never really catches the passing ear (well, mine at least). Upsurges in power do come, the density of sound works well, but once more, young Fungal is left flapping away and struggling to spill true praise. The 4th song, 'Everything's Cool' is a straight-forward, stated case that is initially easy to get in line with and shows that the band are thinking on their feet and striving to keep the flavours varied. The track soon veers off into many different avenues which is a shame as I found this rather uncomplicated approach highly appealling and think it could have led to a moment of angular surprise. What comes is a multi-faceted mush of technically sound music with great gusto poured - it is what bands of this ilk do - I think sometimes say and do too much in one blast though. Not a bad effort this and throughout lucidity is upheld. The title track 'Glow' is a number I find too bland and lacking in any decisive moments to make an impression on my rhythmically bombarded noggin. Time submerged in tonal waters does take its toll and on my quest for new treats and something close to originality I find myself with nothing to inspire here. The route taken is very safe, the stabilisers are working and there is nothing whatsoever out of place and no frayed edges. This is pure bleached and blended music that, to me at least, needs a good noxious rocket up its arse. I can't fault the musicianship, the application, it is just the end result and sobered edges that are just too refined - no not my bag at all. We close with 'Safe', I shudder at the title and hope the band don't play it so! The opening is reliant on minimal guitars and gobwork, a twilight tinkle enhances, the movement stays mid-paced. Again the cream at the core is slowly curdled, the foam that rises is of an acquired taste, the mathematical precision may be too much for those who prefer things off the cuff and raw-assed. A casual croon this one, with all individual components easily examined and given the thumbs up and yet overall, I am still on the outside feeling rather chilled - ah shit happens. No, not my thing, no, not a flavour I am taken by and by a band that are very, very good at what they do but fail to turn on my nob of musical attention. I will sign off and leave it there, if you like the more modernised pop sub-punkism that gets bandied about then this may very well be your thing - please have a see and do a review more 'glow'-ing than mine - it is all about balance after all. |
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NATHAN SEATON - RUNNIN' LATE AGAIN More one man meddling via the Hospital Food stalwart, one Nathan Seaton. A good old bread and butter bloke and an important part of the DIY scene with an appreciation of the shit being shifted and the shit being thrown. He has stuck in through thick and thin, stayed loyal to the cause and seen his outfit finally get due reward. Here he bravely goes it alone and perhaps even more intrepidly asks yours truly for a review. Is the man laden with self-belief, keen to get advice or playing with fire - we will just have to wait and see. 'What Was Yer Name' is the opening gambit, it knocks me sideways as I genuinely and truly had reservations about Mr Seaton's ability to pull off the one man routine - my doubts were unfounded - I love the raw talent in this underprocessed outburst, an effort that sees the man shine bright. The string work is wispy, a gentle accompaniment to a vocal effort that is worked at with a naturalness that operates at a quite convincing level. The episode here concerns a meeting, a forgetfulness, a moment in time that is scratched in the subversive annals of history as a faux pas. It is a mere confessional moment, it works well, I am rather taken. 'Thick Rick' calls upon our doofer to test his mettle, the 'whoa hoa's' require accuracy, I think flying colours are exposed before we travel into a tale of an idling, weaving wanker who takes all and gives nothing (we all know one don't we). A song to remember is played out with careful adjustments in tone, a steady oral application held and a certain disgruntlement with one of life's parasites convincingly relayed. I like the way the irritation ascends, I like the exposure of a recalcitrant shitehawk who has no morals, no cares, no fuckin' decency. I think the job here, is once again, a good un'. 'Secrets' shuffles, delivers, keeps the opening verse honest whilst regarding a date, a word best not shared. The move into the chorus is done without perspiration on the brow, the content deals with a dubious slag who, in truth, wants her fanny kicking in. I prefer loyalty, there is no place in life for deceivers. I am sure many will be able to relate to this underhand dabbling, I am not interested. Tis a well played song, the content just turns me off. 'Armageddon' is a serious stalker whose presence is just lightened by the odd string flick and the general rhythm. Our plucking gent grinds out a gravelly account, faces head on the decaying mess that grows and grows, assesses the situation and seems to fall down when it comes to any solution. This is a strong song and one that has solid resonations, I consider and give a thumbs up - it would be rude not to! 'She's A Hurricane' stops and starts, looks back to the 1980's and seems to have a fondness for the shit that went on due to another episode of loved-soaked misdirection. The song has its own character, the minimalism works well, it gives space for our player to expose his dulcet tones and expose them he does in unabashed and careful style with a small flag of victory flying at the end. The overall construction is uncluttered, reflects a DIY approach and succeeds as a result! Next and 'We Gotta Fight' drives in with a resolute determination emanated from the strings, states a case, looks forward to the end full stop and relieves one's chest of many, many gripes. The tilt, the sway, the imbalance are all there to correct and realign but as long as people are kept distracted that is the way it will stay. The intent of the song is to provoke thought and to inspire action, the pied piper needs to blow damn hard to shift some of the many redundant arses out there and I wish him well. The flow here is tidy, orthodox and sweetly executed, it is not a bad effort despite staying within certain parameters. 'Superman' is a far better song, a song with a searching soul stretching himself, creating a sound of very gratifying tones and one, that once again, is blessed with a voice that is honest, effortless and very real. The blend of string work and throat application is found to be in a fine state of equilibrium and as the song progresses one feels we may be witnessing the best effort to date. I play over and over, tis a lovely number. 'Goodbye Harry Patch' is a Hospital Foot re-jig, a sanguine song that deals with a lost soul, a victim to the senselessness of war, an emotive serving that shows how people can be persuaded to abandon common sense and follow some senseless propaganda. The tonal touches of the guitars are splendid, the oral escort blended with disbelief, sadness and regret. The whole composite is perfectly put together with thought behind every ounce of the acoustic arrangement and the weight of the chorus perfectly contrasting with the considered verses - a pinnacle for sure and a tribute to the last fighting Tommy of WW1. 'Suck On That' is a feisty number, plucking with zeal, throatily spitting out its verbage and seemingly coming out on top. The guitar neck is molested, the domestic situation out of control, I find this one a struggle to fully enjoy, I reckon the main cause is that is comes after the preceding whopper and the one chasing it - like a spat out cherry stone between the cleavage of 2 fine heavers no less. The chasing number is entitled 'Small Man In A Big World', a very gentle song despite the subject matter, a ditty held in good check even though there is an undercurrent of ill-feeling towards a ten-man bully beef who really needs bringing down a peg or two. The soft whoa hoa's, the tender verse, the embracing chorus all count and make for a drawn out listening experience made by an artiste very much in his own quality-riddled zone. The last 3, She's The One Who's Cryin', 'Jimmy' and 'Intimidating Man' are all sober tunes, the first a miserable dirge that does little for me and leaves me with ghastly visions of a well-punctured hag who has lost her self-respect and is mere an article for society to use and abuse. There are many out there who are in the same situation, stuck in a rut at the beck and call of men's needs and using the only way they know to gain some sort of twisted love - quite tragic and the song, although not for me, captures the theme quite ideally. The second ditty is a very accomplished piece of corn that rings many a bell but retains its own identity. A war torn tune that relates the usual tale of loss and overall pointless stupidity - you know the script, just enjoy it. The latter song regards a washed-up wanker, who is looking to strut his stuff and is never what he seems. A middling effort for me, one not listed on the CD case, it may have been a mistake to add it at this late juncture. I sign off, despite a few songs I find not to my liking I can confidently say Mr Seaton has worked wonders here and done himself proud with an acoustic venture he should continue to follow. Next time a few different themes, some obscure genres and perhaps a few extra instruments and we could be in for another treat - I hope so. Personally I would like to see an alternating pattern of Hospital Food songs and solo efforts - I think it would work a treat. |
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LES BOF - VIOLA Vintage vibrations surf forth with many accents and strains via a band that jump from one age to the next and leave one struggling to actually assess. The mix is best described as 'strange', the accented avenues invaded are at times dubious, at others slightly unsettling but all the while reminiscent of acoustic areas I have wandered in my time and come out of aurally bummed. It is good to explore and when something unexpected turns up one must appreciate it even if one doesn't like it. I pounce here and let the assessing words flow - naturalness must be maintained. 'Jezebel' jangles, gyrates, emits a hunger for the cause whilst radiating a lusty sex-drive with all implements getting fucked. The throwback mix is cavernous, straight from the cool cat dives where monochromed montages move and groove beneath a myriad of swirling lights. The brothel creeping bass line that arises from the opening cacophony drives the song forward with the regulated skin tap equally motivational. The strings play it low, the vocal is sub-sinister and stalking, the back 'whoa's' add to an overall eeriness. This is a decent opener, I am wondering where this CD will go already - tis no bad position to be in. 'Fin De Monde' begins with big swishing drums, rolls on with dramatic effect, screws out a sonic revelation from yesterday all ready for the morrow. The stop start guitars, the Euro-salivations, the easy chorus that breezes through all make for a mix that is delivered by obviously excited artistes. This excitement gushes over from out of the speakers into the receptive acoustic valleys and pings around many easily persuaded neurones - I get greatly affected, shake the ass and find myself enjoying this one - oh man, let's groove! 'Vie De Chien' gives suggestions of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich throughout, rustily travels and oozes itself outward through a constipated sound system that, in some slight way, hinders the end fluidity. The inclinations are awkward, not as effective as they should be and of a certain B-grade ilk that, despite the critique, just manages to saves its sonic arse and have some semblance of success. All the while though I can't help feeling this one is not the finished article and I do struggle trying to get into the proffered zone. I prefer the funky chicken strut of 'Ma Claque' with its jingle-jangle accents, corn-ball cruising and uncomplicated approach that is easy to pick up, digest and puke back up in the nearest bin. A throwaway morsel from and old era, almost of the pubescent rock and roll times when greased barnets and basic tones ruled the roost and innocence was a commodity taken for granted - how silly! Yeah, I like this one, I move on with a skip in the arthritic step. The blues pour down from shimmering skies were tub thunder seizures all helps welcome the zoned-in, staccato vocals that make for one higgledy-piggledy listening excursion. 'Je Suis le Boss' rides roughshod over an uneven musical substrate and sticks to a very direct route with no diversions had. The band have their methodology set in stone, they stick to the drawing board plans and come out with an easily digested song of sub-generic character. 'Drogue 'N' Roll' is another uneven trundle, traversing scuzz-fuzz trackways with all manner of tonal parts falling this way and that as the chassis of the song clanks and clatters forward on a mission to destination 'uncertain'. For me, the greatest failure of this song is to not fully grab the steering wheel and drive along without any strict direction and acoustic smoothness. There is an inner break that brings a cruised cacophony but we are soon back on the ambiguous track and all the while, I lose a certain interest! A snatch of 4, 'Souviens Toi' is a slightly darkened mystery, casually sweeping in on low thermality and convincing me this may be the true direction that the band must aim for. They capture a Noir-esque sub sexual ambience, create an end result that oozes conviction that I am sure will get any cool cats out there releasing their pheromones after only a few eavesdropping sessions. 'Un, Deux, Trois, Quatre' boogies and bops with a strict stutter style that shakes the undercarriage and gets any loose nuts and bolts rolling down the trouser leg and relieving a little tension. For me, the saving grace is the sax soothing that helps balance the journey as well as the blatant throwback tones that will appeal to many aging passers-by (oops). 'Soixante-Huitard' is a spunky number with a dirty guitar lick and some bass and stick driven gumption that helps the richly accented vocals overspill with obvious relish, a relish that keeps the listener appreciative and involved. The style may be a slight upheaval but it gets by, just! The last of the quartet examined in one passing fist is 'Liberes Moi', a song that begins with a fine splashing appeal before saw-boning, stopping and starting and then swinging along with invigorated joy with one of the most naturally kicking tunes of the pack. The fuzz, the buzz and the emboldened drive make this a slightly elevated episode and I listen over and over just to make sure the juices are flowing in the right direction. The wind down comes, I enter the tune known as 'C'est La Vie', a creeping feline slinking along your aural alleyways and flicking its tickling tail here and there to create extra invigorating sensations. The whole composition steps with stealth but makes good headway into the inner receptive recesses and leaves one with a fine impression of a song with more depth than initially considered. The harmonica spices matters up, the slow staccato certainty creates a stratagem to explore over a longer period - nice! 'La Fievre Du R'n'R' is a frothy number, over-spilling with much dynamism and general breathless steam that comes in relentless minor plumes, each one as clear and lucid as the next and giving note that the internal machinations are well-lubed and moving as one. The positioning of this number gives it greater success, I go into the last two rather juiced up. 'Port St Louis' is a short, spicy Blues-ed up jangle of instrumental inspiration, thrown together with a blend of sub-skiffle, surf and psychedelia - it doesn't hang about, it hits the nerve and gets one jigging. The closure comes, 'Formidable' has the responsibility to full-stop matters, it does so with a riff akin to an Edgar Wallace mystery souped up with oral offerers very much up for some resonating sensations to inspire a reaction. The guitar is the main dictator and twangs and twilights whilst the bass beetles and the drums skip and splash. The vocals over the top are clear and precise, I think this minor flourish suits the CD as a whole. I am outta here - this CD has taken up a huge portion of my time (don't they always) and I am 60% sure I like it. This may sound harsh but I listen to a lot of stuff and sometimes get lost in a maze of musical madness and have times when some tunes work and then they don't. This is such a CD, I have to be in the zone to fully appreciate and when I do it feels mighty good. There are of course some tracks that stand tall, I particularly like the instrumental - it is all about different flavours for different folk though and let us hope it stays that way. |
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PAT BUTCHER - SELF-TITLED Pat Butcher - no not the fat-slab of ham from Eastenders but a group of hardcore arse-wipes raring to go and always willing to smear their sonic shit over your aural wall. I have spun many times over, have found nothing new to fracture the spiky sun that pours its rhythmic rays forever on my sizzled pate but I have discovered some good bollock-hoofing bellicose noise that rather excites something inside this seasoned and spiked carcass. 'Conservative Crop Circles' celebrates the madness of our ex-Tory leader who threw caution to the wind and ran riot through the fields of wheat proving that pure, unadulterated rebellion is rife in all walks of life (I doth taketh the piss). The opening confession is soon drowned out in a bloodbath of dirty fuckin' noise that rumbles, grumbles and winds itself up into manky states of spasmodic shit-kicking. At times the musicianship collapses in on itself but is utterly forgivable as the design of this discordance is purely aimed at dabbling with disaster - I don't mind the end result at all. 'Raceday Wanker' is typical drilling that is based on a repeat-beat blasting and a clobberin-time energy. A titled statement, a gruff-response, a fast and furious sonic approach and some high-wire wanking and a full-on fuelled throat release - there you fuckin' go. No nonsense, no nobbing any niceties, just a slam-ram with juicy jangling jam smeared all over your apathetic arse - have it. 'The Suit Is Black' is an 8 second speedburst - many bands of this ilk do these kind of things - it comes, it goes, it is barely noticed. 'Butcher's Block' shadow taps in, power pronounces and then pummels away with much excitable industry. The stall has been set, kicked over and set on fire - the meat served is bloodied and flung many ways with the gristle grimly riddled with many toxic tones and dripping with a thermality not to be underestimated. I like the pulverising strength of this one and the unapologetic raucousness - sometimes we all need to get sonically molested by something primitive. 'Clifton Cat' is a tale about a scavenging bastard who takes and doesn't give a fuck whilst doing so. The song has a rasping tongue in the furry cheek, bounces along with the greatest rhythm grabbed thus far and uses a double-ended gob jab that penetrates with arduous hollering gusto and taut wire work that soon fuzzes up and gets some fluttering sticks to assist. I don't mind this bout of tomfoolery, the song has multi-dimensions and much contrast, it works well, it may be a route the band could ponder a little more. We belch outwards towards the final silence with 'Boozehound' a rabid foamer that starts on the leash before running wild around the bar whilst barking hard for more liquid refreshment of the intoxicating kind. The immersion into all things raw, alcho-based and frenzied is done with such utter sincerity that one could easily question the mentality of the players at the helm which, in truth, is always a good sign. From the stated to the sprinted, from the controlled to the clattering, this is no bad way to shut the door on this 6 track sensation. Pat Butcher, come, throw their full weight behind matters and splat down into one's lap with decent impact. Some accepting eavesdroppers may get squashed, some may survive and live to share the experience, either way I think it is worth taking the risk. |
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RUMOURS OF WAR - SLOGANEERING A Scottish band with a problem, the problem being an urgency to create a noise and get one thinking. In this day and age to get anyone's noggin ticking is a real troublesome task but here the crew have a go, play out matters in their own style and make sure things are not overly done and kept real with a very obvious DIY minimalism. The frontman has a definite singing style I have encountered several times before, here I go again, dissecting, deciding, doing my thing in the usual way. 'Declaration Of War' is a shifty shit tiptoeing over the recording surface of silence and leaving behind a very light tread of tonality that, if examined in an up close and personal manner, reveals careful lyrical content and a certain situation where the composer has taken an abundance of time to get the atmosphere and message exactly right. The outcome is a throwback song that stays within a certain straitjacket of sound and wallows in one semi-subdued state that has to be listened to when in a certain, almost studious, mood. This isn't 'get up and dance' music but rather more political finger-pointing that further exposes a situation and throws due shit. Thinking man's fodder methinks and nicely arranged at that - the only request - more gumption in the mixing room please. Next and 'Clean', a sedate and tentatively looming song springs to lo-fi life with great consideration verbally played out and all with a detestation for the great scheme of things where contradictions, imbalances and unfairness rule the roost and makes for a society tilted all the wrong way. The main style of the song is the fact that it is in no rush to get things dished out, is determined to relay its full message in its own poetical style with the verbals taking precedence over the tuneage. In this day and age of the idle-headed and cranially inept this could be a severe drawback but I feel we need sounds with substance and designed to make one...think. A bouncing bass, a string flicker, a skip in the skins, 'Sloganeering' comes and points a very straight finger at the many slotting into place, singing about the right things in the right way but making sure they sit within the parameters of the middle ground and do fuck all. Quick to encourage, slow to act - sound familiar! The spartan soundscape, the disillusioned wordery, the wondering where it has all gone so fuckin' wrong spills with sharp passion and although the chorus doesn't rise as much as I like, I reckon in the 'live' arena this one will be a real treat. The finale of the four is 'Half Mast', we start with a sound-bite that gently peers into the awaiting space of silence before stepping forth and placing one tonal foot in front of the other. Again we are soon donated a downpour of direct and uncompromising detail that uncovers the false grief, the commanding con and the sheer atrocity and waste of war that can never be encapsulated within the confines of one song. The impetus of this effort rises as we progress, the initial impression is of a sombre shading across the palette of the punk canvas, with time the hues become sharper and more intense, with thought the final picture can be viewed with greater clarity with all areas nicely positioned. A 4 track CD that takes some adjusting to simply because that songs aren't of a 'crash, bang and wallop' mode and it is designed to get the juices of the noggin flowing. For me it is of good stock but, if it is to be part of an album then several shorter songs need throwing in the mix and next time emphasis needs placing on moments of contrasting sounds and some heavy riffage - it will be interesting to see how things progress. |
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BLITZKRIEG - BLIND FAITH For fuck sake, this band have been around longer than Ken Barlow and thankfully provide a damned sight more excitement and intrigue. They have had a rocky ride over the years, ups, downs and roundabout turns but, at the end of the day, this stubborn unit from Southport is still blaring loud and with much impressive gusto. A recent re-acquaintance in the 'live' pit convinced me that the band still have a lot of fuel in the tank, the question is 'can the same be said after listening to the latest CD'? I duly received this disc, spun amongst the musical melee that hits my cranial nucleus - eventually I came up with these thoughts. 'Stay Asleep, Obey Or Wake Up' is a resounding message in the first instance, the music backs up the thrust of the tonality and razor-wires across your apathetic throat with much venomous spite. The dirty opening bass lets you know what to expect, the slap-heavy drums and keen edged guitar insistence are thriving and are soon joined by the gristly and forthright command of the gob, a blistering element that breathes 'fuck you' fire and doesn't mind who gets in the way. The target for this intense fireball of no-nonsense noise are the doped-up dullards who are being defeated each and every day without ever realising it. On your toes is the place to be and what better way to take up that stance than with a musical escort such as this. 'What's Your Game' has a groovy rock and roll core slapped up with driving toughness and rigid rhythms that consistently wraparound a spine of sonic goodness. When stripped to the waist this song is, in all truth, an intrinsically simple construct but when adorned with the heavy duty attire and given a size 12 boot up the arse, it gets moving with purpose. It is a mere stabiliser for me, continues the assault already started, this is no bad thing but I am expecting track three to really get into the meat of the murderous matter - the clobbering finish here though is very much needed. 'Blind Faith' comes, horror bells toll from feedback and murk. A rumble, a roll, a rhythm of cutting intent that denounces the human filth. They create war, bring about untold deaths and perpetuate a foul suffering - it seems to be the entire lot of man. The anger and energy poured in is tangible, the raw-boned electricity emanated strong and healthy, the inner core is borne from a time when punk spat with a vicious intent and the cabaret was left to those washed up. The band nail this one, drive it home with consummate energy and make one sit up and take note - fuck your war! 'Conspiracy' features the ex-warbler of Wasted Life who is now the frontman of Discharge. The song flutters with palpitating energy, cuts a swathe through your senses and batters on your back door of indifference before bursting in and taking your senses hostage. Straight ahead slamming, swashbuckling releases of nuclear power and a fiery gob flame searing the upper surface make this one an incandescent moment to be struck blind by. Relentless, all consuming, not a song to be fucked with - lovely and...without a moments respite we are cymbally rushed into the meaty and moving 'Glass Eyed God'. This one takes the theme of 'Big Brother', warns of the ubiquitous electro-peepers watching and recording your every move and kicks back with a feeling of disgruntlement and general unease. The band, through the verse bites, keep things on a leash and foaming and only when the chorus comes do they ease up on the chain and snap with more venom - I find myself convinced thus far. 'These Four Walls' is a tale of claustrophobic intensity played out within a grinding enclosure of high pressure frustration and a need to break free. The band apply themselves with great focus, create a watertight scenario that chainsaws with zoned in focus and sticks to a very strict path of rhythm whilst flexing muscles and resisting the incessant push of the imprisoning boundaries. 'Divide And Conquer' is the chasing track, a far more impressive song due to nothing more than a consistent driving power that never lets up throughout the entire running time and leaves one 'fucked' by the end of the listening experience. The incessant approach, the blister-inducing thermality, the exposure of the controlling cunts who like to see those below given an overspill of misinformation so as to keep them bickering and distracted, all combine to make this bleeding punk built on the fundamentals so many have overlooked, diluted and took the piss out of. This is a soul-sizzling spit out and followed by the equally upsetting 'Inner City Deprivation', another song that takes no prisoners, sweats its bollocks off from first to the last, leaves no room to breathe and absolutely gets the production room finish spot on. This is a gravelly kick up that relishes the task at hand and creates good tonal turmoil loaded with beefy riffs, belted skins and blood-dripping gobwork - massive. 'Bankers Of Hate' wastes no time in preparation, pummels with undying persistence, twists the blade into the guts of the eavesdropping victim whilst bombarding with gusto and throwing numerous big-handed grenades of bad blood to hopefully take one's head clean off. I do find this one disappears into the pack and doesn't make the biggest impression although it has a hardiness and no doubt a durability not to be questioned. 'Got A Gun' is a fave of mine, a veritable implacable and inflexible beast of sound galloping forward on muscular legs weighted with a design to kick ones bollocks to utter hell...and back. The inner turmoil, the taut coiled tension, the need for the release are all caught, mushed together and shit out through a very resistant and yet at the same time relaxed orifice of threat. I find this song is a latter end cruncher and surely crushes any resistance I may pathetically offer. The last two storm down the final furlong and break the tape at the end with much fuel still left in the tank. 'War Breeds War' has a nifty rhythm in the anti-conflict cacophony, progresses through the first impacting verse before simply stating the chorus in a no-nonsense fashion that indeed works. In some ways this is basic punk, in others it is all-consuming, drenched through discordance that hits a studded and spiked nerve and leaves one invigorated. Strip away the layers and what is exposed is a machine built of hard-working components, well-drilled, well-oiled and not afraid to have a tear up. 'Change It' segues in with conspicuous and shameless hammer-wielding madness. The blazing exhausts are given one last blow-out with tympanics clattering, bass bombarding, guitar abrasively lacerating and all the while the fucked and thriving larynx is put through its paces and ultimately bled dry as the oral offerer sweats his guts out. A fine way to finish, a real apposite question placed at your potentially idling feet - yes indeed, what are you gonna do about it? Blitzkrieg have thrown in their all but have they dished out their best offering to date? I think it might just be the case. All I need do now is get these viewed in an up close and personal gaff again and enjoy this power-soaked display and get a few others to do the same. Well done chaps, a fuckin' fine piece of work - just what the punk rock Doc prescribed! |
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UP THE ANTI - AUDIO AMMUNITION There is nowt wrong with good honest-to-good punkiness played with a certain freshness but all the while soaked through with inspirations from the late 70's. One thing the scene can be proud of is that it has many strains, some noticeably honest, some bang on the mark, some obviously dubious as bands try to cover all areas and fail. Up The Anti are a new band to me which is always something I like - new and moving rather that old and stagnant. I have spun this 5 tracker many times, I have weighed up using the scales of the critical and fair, the end review balances out as thus. 'Van Diemens Land' begins with stated bass, flourishes into a nice splash and stream moment, moves with the utmost sanguinity before relating a tale of crime and punishment and the threat of being banished to distant shores now known as Tasmania. The holistic feel of the song is genuinely uplifting and has a mix that gives each and every component room to breathe, express and be examined. I duly delve, I take each contributing factor and come away without anything to find fault with - I am mighty impressed and the vocal style is absolutely bang on the button as regards strength, character and most importantly of all, clarity. 'Guilty' is a real confident construction that proudly pronounces itself on weighty strums before cruising through the first verse, a verse that gets to the nub of the matter and nails its words to the holier than thou walls. Paedo's and psycho's are labelled and put on the row of death which, in truth, is no bad thing at all. The song generates its own zest, bounces with a joy do vivre that is quite infectious and all the while remains clean-cut and very strong. The band have obviously taken time getting the equilibrium of all elements just right, it really does make a difference and indicates a crew well-oiled and functioning at a very efficient level. Cracking stuff I'd say! 'Freedom' tightly glistens, once more makes a stated entrance, scurfs up and goes for it. The sprint via the first chorus is done over a fine bass substrate and whooshed along with nippy drum work and a further urgent guitar. The vocals stay up with the pace, never lose their clarity and contribute to a good raucous punkery that stays clean, agile and impressive throughout. There is a certain style and substance being played out here by a band very much in control both when plying their trade and in the production room - excellent. 'Stranglehold' is a massive mover, laden with sing-a-long defiance that is easily swallowed, swirled, spat back out with spite and utterly believed in. Refuse to take their orders is indeed the message given, live life your own way (provided you cause no harm of course), jump up and salute another rip-roaring effort that moves through various gears, alters tonality without breaking sweat and slams this one home with consummate ease - I struggle to find fault, it makes a change. The closures is entitled 'TV Overkill', one for the brain-dead tube addicts and a raucous wake-up call to get the arses shifted and stop wasting precious time. The band are whipped up for the task at hand, plough away with focused industry and energy whilst going at matters with hammer and tongs blazing. The stick work insists impetus is high, the players are kept on their toes right up until the last and we, the listener are bloody well entertained. That is that, I stride on happy in the knowledge there are many bands out there making some solid music and doing it with style - here is another one, and even though I am 54 years of age at the time of writing, sozzled with sonic overspills, I reckon I can still recognise and enjoy a good tune when I hear one! |
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MUTAGENICOS - 3 Mutagénicos' keep the international flavour of the Dirty Water stable and make sure the vibes are kept in some respect lo-fi, spacious and with a distinct leaning towards the fundamentals of rock and roll. Lyrically I am lost as I am not adept in the lingo donated but, as per, I'll have a good fuckin' go at trying to sum up the vibrations on show and try and give you an insight into what the fuck is going down ma'an. 'Lo Que Digan De Mi' staggers in like an inebriate borne from darkened dells where impish jive-asses tickle away and create interesting vibes that seem to be forever restless and wayward but are just about restrained and held firm against an inner backbone of structural quality. Certain space-age essences fly through the shape-shifting montage, fidget-fuck animation keeps the listener alert for any perilous blips, the coming together of all components is found to be waterproof, melodic and, in some off-hand way - appealing. 'Actualice Su Fe' is a quick trundle of tonality starting with semi-harsh guitars, going through a somewhat honest and sub-garaged verse and then dishing up a chorus that, for me a least, is a little too blended into the substrate of the song. Overlooking this minor niggle I can honestly say the song gets on with matters, refuses to fuck about and ain't a bad jaunt and jig at all - one has to be fair don't ya know! 'La Cumbia De La Muerta' begins with a 'feelgood' suggestion, struts a certain kinky stuff that brings together several essences and a 'Noir-esque' mystery that immediately absorbs. The whispering cymbals, the 'Wilko J-ayed' bass pulse, the rich ornamentation of the vocals and the pseudo-guitar all creep in a shifty manner towards destination 'who knows where'. Ascensions taken are light, circus-themed intrusions add to the unease, a moment of collapse is indulged in and indicates a band very much on a sonic safety wire - I think they make it to the end here in tact - phew. 'Autocontrol' is a chipper chirper chiming in with a feel-good sub-surfy rhythm that has all the ingredients to make one get up and dance. The quirky opening leads to a strict verse that eventually develops into a growing groove with slight flexibility giving the band room to strut their own individual thing and yet stay as one throughout the rather pleasant distance. The whole essence is smile inducing, there is nothing too political or profound going on here. 'Eres El Mejor' has one ensnared straight from the off with a jerky weaving that entwines itself around your aurally observing radar with each tone picked up full of plucky pep and easy does it effect. The key poppings help matters no end, give an earthy rock and roll feel and carry the band to the apex of the tune that is nicely swollen with rewarding elevations - I am convinced. Next up and 'Resetear' screws in, comes to earth on muffled rotor-blades of bass-ed effect, switches to flight mode 'melodic', stops, starts, glistens and stutters. All the while I await an adherence that gives the song a flowing completion, a holistic unity between all sub-sections that finalise a number with high animation - I feel as though I am always left deflated and...in some ways...confused. The song is neatly played, vigorous and happening but just a trifle out of sync with itself. I re-listen, strive darn hard to muster some further excitement, I remain as per and judge this as a middling effort. And onwards, 'Darlo Todo' begins with funky monkey fruitiness, richly progresses on the bare minimum, rolls with an almost ad hoc response to the self-made sound and all the while gives hint of a patchwork procedure one can't actually decipher. The conundrum may confound if one considers too deeply but for me, if one sticks to the upper surface that is sharp, catchy and played without too much fuss, the pleasure will be easy to find. 'He Venido A Buscarte' is a chirpy little character, bounces along on decent discordant heels whilst all the while keeping things scrubbed up, neat and tidy and without any raucous vulgarity. Tis music to play between blasting heave-ho's - something to soothe the soul after being clattered - just what the Doctor of Madness ordered. The last 3, 'Idiota' is a scuzz-infused surger that flows along on throwback machinations that are invaded with lo-fi/sci-fi sensations and all the while kept in close association with things sub-blue'd. The verse is regular, strums, states and progresses, the pseudo chorus is almost hidden in the depths. We get a short musical interlude where sonic saucers swoop and a renewed energy is found to take the song to the final throes - I am considering this the most intriguing snippet of the lot and the most rewarding! Tis a late bonus for sure! 'Menos Mal' uses old rock and roll corned tinklings mixed with harmonised hollerings and swinging squeaky clean melodies that at times fail to raise the interest level above grade 'average'. This is a shame as I was on a high from the previous offering but there ya go - the good, the bad, the ugly are always close bed partners. We close with 'Muerte Marte', a fuck about, an experimentation, a mere combination kick of verbals, outer space suggestion and more Noir-esque noodle-ism. It is a throwaway piece, it adds an uncertainty to the CD as a whole and makes the future ambiguous - this could be a good thing! An odd one this, I think it is intended to be that way and even though all is not to my liking I am happy to have travelled into the tonal territory and considered the vibrations emitted. In the midst of many musical styles this is best tossed in, as part of a multi-flavoured listening dish it will be an ideal complement, a warning is given though not to overdose - there is nothing worse than a period of sonic shits! |
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STEVE IGNORANT'S SLICE OF LIFE - DON'T TURN AWAY A name from the scene, a name held in awe by many, a name that make cause a tilt in worlds spilled! Not so here, this no-name, in a nowhere sub-scene holds no favours and works damned hard to hold his teetering and much pressurised position on the brittle ladder of honesty whilst trying to clean many clouded windows and achieve something akin to decent transparency. The ex-singer of Crass is at the helm here and although I was very much a fan of the anarcho band back in the day I shall not be swayed and take the CD, like all CD's, and judge on the content alone. Big A, Little A, Bouncing B, they might have fuckin' had ya but they ain't having me! 'Don't Turn Away' a wretched number of deep-rooted dirge-esque sadness borne from a position of pissing in the wind, considering, pissing some more and then finally wondering 'what's the fuckin' point'. Life goes on, protesting and kicking happens, the question of what difference it makes is one that always arises and sometimes, one feels beaten and out of ideas. The key is to dig deep, never give in, listen to the inner heartbeat and move on. Here the ticker is persistently bass'ed, backed by soothing she-caresses whilst the front man gobs off, submerges himself in an ocean of emotions and comes up...with even more questions. It is a provoking piece of work, structured with minimalism and adorned with street-prose, I think it works a treat and gets the CD trickling the right way! 'Your Day Will Come' is really not my bag, it is a seething affair which is all well and good and promises that the dogs will bite and there are many evil doers who will get theirs. I can't fault that either neither can I pick apart the lyrical content and manipulation but the morose accents, the wank sub-jazz dabbling and the almost disjointed dabbling gets on my tonal tits and no matter how hard I try I just can't get into the groove with this one - fuck it, tis better than telling lies. 'The Right Way' corrects the matters that have gone AWOL with a lullaby trinket dangled forth to arouse initial curiosity. Once we peer more closely we soon get ensnared by a webbing of one-upmanship built on nothing more than petty self-justification, ego and nasty fuckin' spite. In this world of anti-social media and fuck-faux celebrity we have many who know best and are happy to let you know it. The self-appointed controllers and fonts of knowledge jack off with utter pseudo-joy as the cranial juice schemes and dreams and spits up vitriol and methodology built on misinformation and misery. The song here exposes the end result, a prisoner - it is as simple as that! 'S. A. D.' is a beautiful moment, both articulate and appealing with an inherent gracefulness that assists the overwhelming bewilderment and creates a sensation of paradoxical sagacity and yet without giving any true answers. The lack of progress, the passing of the blame, the circles forever wandered - the feeling that others know better when deep down, we know the fuckers don't. The soul is restless, the tranquil waters over which it is buoyed is performed via the slight of an insightful majestic hand as keys are tinkled, soft oral caresses come and we are duly floated...astray. I am convinced here, there are several layers that need exploring, thoughtful fathoms to sink within - bear with me. 'Slaughterhouse' creeps, beetles, takes to the air whilst the foaming frontman eases turmoil and refuses to be 'had' and bow down and beg. The promises offered are seen as fraudulence, the discovery of such an enlightening situation is enhanced by a quite perky chorus that really does raise the refusing hackles and gives one a certain kick up the arse and simply says 'watch your step mate'. The fuckers are waiting to have you, on your toes you have to be, loyalty is called for, a faithfulness to things fair, those that matter and not things you are led to believe are true. I love this one, it picks me up, it is good to know others are walking against the grain. 'The Story Continues' is a tender wondering moment that asks why so many lack realisation, overlook crimes of hate, continue to make noise and actually cause no disturbance - I think they are the ultimate losers. The simmering resentment is not to be taken lightly here and as one oral offering threatens to blow a fuse, another brings a soothing balance and adds a therapy and sense of composure very much needed. The ill temper soon rises, and why not, the contrasting bend of emotion brings a doom-laden ambience and with its hauntingly desolate key touches we have something very portending, very ominous - I am absorbed. 'Song For Myself' rises from the ashes of despair, looks inside and out, sees no reason, sees every reason. The opposing forces of the mood counterkick against the inner prick, create a hopeless restlessness and throws around a mix of emotions that seem to have no positive end result. A lift comes, a lull, a final result that leaves us wondering - it is a wonderment of many facets - I think the tonal task is complete. 'Diffrability' is a sharp piece that shouts out for those labelled as misfits, freaks, oddballs, underdogs and strugglers - you know the buggers, the ones warted, worn, not in line and so beautifully out of sync with the flat-line thinking and cranial regimentation so many are afflicted by. A basic key tickle, straight honest words, uplifting 'whoo hoo's' - what is there not to love here? An anthem to stroll down the street to, a two-finger salute and ultimate question to those enslaved by societies guidelines as to what is right and wrong. Thankfully I wipe my arse on their rulebook each and every day and don't give a fuck who any is or what they look like as long as they are something akin to a decent person. I love this one for many reasons, it goes without saying and if I have to explain the reasons again, then I am sorry…sorry for you! 'Stretford Blue' is a song that slowly reaches out and convinces the listener of being better than what it is whilst growing from a fractured soundcut of vocal debris. The tones are darkened, the temper rising, the backbone sturdy. Explosions of oral disgust spill over, the foaming angst is tasted and in truth it feels mighty true and borne of thoughtful hands but...time needs to be given to the tune or else a downturned thumb will be the result. Relax, rise to the routine, build up your spittle of spite and let it go when you feel totally in the groove - it pays dividends. Last 2 - 'Good Intentions' is a stop-start rock and roll pseudo spasm that gobs off, stutters and only finds its true feet via a liquid chorus cut. The staccato delivered statements are too jerky and in many ways state the obvious. The song adds a certain 'out of tune' splash here and there which may be considered 'mad' and 'anarchic' but which does little to enhance the end result. I may be in the minority here but I am not bothered about sucking stinking eggs and I am not keen on this one at all - hey, you gotta be fair and honest tha' knows - it has got me nowhere in 54 years, why change now! 'Whistle Down the Wind' offers nothing new which is a shame as a full-on band number would have been a great way to sign off. Here we get a bout of torture, a refusal, an exposure of an obdurate heart not willing to be palpitated by the force fed shittery. The combo of back flutters, front preaching, and the final claim all come together to leave a short lasting spell that we should take heed of - as per, how many will, how many can be arsed, how many to will claim they have - such is the idle state of this and every other nation. There it is, after all these years who would have thought I'd be still listening to the gut-spills of Mr Ignorant and in many ways - enjoying it. In life, in music, and indeed in punk, there is a lack of anger, effort and encouragement and so one has to cultivate a ray of hope and dig in deep. A little encouragement here and there helps, an understanding that someone else is pissed off can help one make a greater stride and the odd song used as a booster can work fuckin' wonders. There are a few on here that will keep me kicking, a few that will reinforce my irritation, I think the whole episode and been worthy of my time - and now to go 'do something' - result! |