FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 88
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NOMATRIX - SLIBHIN This band, from Athlone in Ireland, tickle along with no concern for kissing arse, indulging in grandeur and wining false favour. They are a tight outfit, doing things just right and without any sub-text and idiot underhand game playing. They put on a good 'live' exposure, nail their songs with zeal and rapidity and 2 of the lads run the fine record label 'Deadlamb Records'. It is DIY in action rather than a lot of hot talk and contemplating the navel - here I do what I do too whilst finding a bit of time to scratch my knackers (phew). 'Slíbhín' is an angry straight-ahead song that deals with the sneaky snakes in the grass that groom with their smooth flow and then bite you on the ass when a better proposition arises. From the opening to the final thrust this is a 1 minute 23 second bog-brush basic passion push of good to honest noise making, executed without idiot baubles and cock-firming thrill, but with a reliability not to be questioned. It is consistent fare from a band who know their stuff and do not look to wallow in experimentation and pomposity. They could do more with this one but it does what it does and who am I to gripe. I do prefer 'Identity' though - the emotive content is greater, there is a good contrast factor enhanced by the unleashed, untamed finale and overall the song feels more complete and more challenging to the players and the listening lugs. The opening throes are pacey and intrinsically laden with Nomatrix essences. The same spicings are felt via the following gob assisted throes with energy aplenty that is easily more appreciated if the 'volume' nob is cranked up. Depth is found and again, that final rabid riot at the end sets the whole song aflame. Ruddy lovely! A tremble of nervousness and outsider oddness. The main drive is soon upon is with a very retro-Nomatrix feel that has me pondering the archives and pondering how long this band has been plying its trade. A gruff, rough and inner-scaffolding with a kick up the arse for those playing a game. 'Victim' wallops home with uncompromising hunger and a no-nonsense style of sound. Very obvious stuff from this lot and it is what it is - frill-free, energetic and to the point. The band have better numbers but there is something so damn deliciously consistent about what transpires here. 'Eulogy' has a seasoned and more emotive quality with a very sober and somewhat disillusioned feel emanated. A hopelessness is found, there seems no escape, the crew face it head on and batter out a very magnetising track that has many nuances and acoustic accoutrements that any knowing fan of the band will appreciate. When the warbler at the fore adopts a greater sense of relaxed persuasion to his oral emanations things seem to be more honest, natural and emotive - I call for more of this during future expulsions. Another reliable track methinks. Four tracks, four examinations and I am still fan. As a fan though I now want the band to take a few risks and change up the style - it will be good for the players, the listeners and the DIY scene - challenge set - Fungal wants another EP with a quartet of real teste-tickling oddments. Phwoar! |
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THE CARS THAT ATE PARIS - BARELY CONCEALED CHAOS WITH From outside yet more parameters of normality and beyond the suffocating restrictions of routine labels comes a band slightly off-kilter and creating music the way they want it to be created. This crew have played a few Fungalised gigs and have added a quite wonderful texture to the proceedings. They come, muck in, waltz along and deliver vibes to keep one thinking and dabbling beyond the usual comfort zones. As the sets have unfolded foots duly tapped, arses waggled and heads nodded along to the warped, sometimes weird but always approachable tones. Here is a Fungalpunkeroono take on the latest toss-off of tonality - make of it what you will but rest assured, I am a fan of the band.
'Fuckin' Jayne' is a song with a simplistic tale about a relationship that seems to hold great prospects and then goes all awry. By heck the lass under the spotlight sounds like a right boozed up dominatrix, she would be a fine partner for some of the lethargic drunks I know. The song itself is a beautifully constructed rust-bucket meander with a blend of many sub-genres and acoustic suggestions with the slip into the chorus from the easy verse being well oiled, unflustered and highly magnetising. The laid-back and intrinsically unflustered approach of the players and the oral offerings are quite attractive and this a short, snagging and utterly enjoyable opening track. 'I Don't Care If You Go' follows suit and has a waltzing lilt that is perspiration free and awash with 'fuck-it' casualness. Added sax appeal gives rippled corrugation, the inner pulse is strong and the overall unassuming blend of all components works mighty well. Free of many punk restrictions, embracing shades and hues outside the obvious spectrum this is a fine follow-up to the opener and even the most ardent lover of crash, bang and clatter those bollocks will undoubtedly be charmed here - I certainly hope so.
A sinister sneaker borne from the lips of a cataleptic next with the gloomy deathbed of sound known as 'Down In The Ground' surely a work of some Poe-tainted noggin. Jizzed and jazzed and holding a creeping style, the mists of eeriness send tendrils of unease down each and every aural avenue of any nearby victim. The drift is unpredictable, I await a rising from the residue, a sudden eruption from the maggot-dance fest, alas what comes is a mere wind-down into oblivion. Despite the lack of any explosive accoutrements of born-again vibes the song has its own signature feel and is unsettling to say the least. I am a convert nay victim!
A real old-skool she-punk jamboree of jauntiness comes next with the agitated, energetically masturbated rag-time rock along mis-routine of 'Girls On Telephones'. A wonderful modern day observation piece of the goggle-eyed robots who just can't take their peepers away from the head-melting device that is destroying every part of their individuality and crippling their chance at cerebral freedom. I love the DIY and honest feel to this one, a real 'get up and have a go' gob off with a charming accent and overall rough and ready effectiveness. It really is right up my rhythmic street.
'Lawnmower Man' is a pop at a destructive bastard who has to have everything manicured and trimmed to a warped sense of perfection. A slow reggae-skank tinged number with an attack carried out on a bloke who sounds like a right wanker. An embracing number especially for those who appreciate and understand the natural world, like a casual dance and have an intolerance for backward shits who can't see beyond their own petty needs. The brass inclusion adds texture to an already sense-laden number that works and works mighty well.
A clutch of two, 'Magic Levitating Finger' is a flower-power contemplation of trickery-laden digits that can do some strange things ma'an. This one takes me back to psychedelic tapestries of yore where headmelt dabblings came, infused the music scene with something soothing, ethereal and gracile. The lead chap does a massaging job with light touches from the lasses both ideal and equally relaxing. A pure submergence into a switched off realm that we all need to wallow in from time to time. I have a fondness for things thrown back and reclined with that 60's essence so sorely overlooked - the creamy bass only adds to this lovely experience - now where's me 'shrooms?
'Sort Your House Out' is a rebellious tinker with a right old crisp and fruity feel that sees the flow become self-perpetuating and kicking back. The masters who make the rules and who attempt to dictate need to self-examine, spend less time point fingers and more time helping folk to get along and be themselves. A saturated mover, with the usual essences the band do so well. Nothing outrageous comes, no big highs invade ones lug space but this is a steady shuffler that again has a liberated dance factor and a certain underground vibe that works ruddy well. I have a preference though for the feisty, anti-idolising fluency of 'Temple' - a fiery infused incessant groover that stands proud in the face of hypocritical and plastic smile fraudulence. This is an all-encompassing saturated sound with many layers all thriving, and richly mellifluous tones that are noticeably unstoppable and highly passionate. I find this a sincere zenith of the CD with many spiked aspects as well as an overall gratifying level of lively animation.
3 left and 'Misery Monger' is a prod at the folk who thrive on doom and gloom and enjoy wallowing in the failings of others. 'Disciples of Schadenfreude', 'Perverts of Discontent' - these folk are on the increase in a world of desperation and turmoil. The band take the subject matter, toss it forth with a great contrasting joy de vivre and a drift assisted by a repetitive nag motif that gets its musical choppers into your ass and just won't let go. Frustration invades, despair with the down and out dwellers whilst the players up the impetus and all work in unison to rise high and thrash forth to the finish. Pacey, piquing and highly perspired - a neat change of approach.
'Too Many Memories' is a tear-soaked dirge that has an almost westernised mocking tone I can't help but snigger at. The Jonah who is juicing out his great swathe of misfortune makes this a crackpot moment of bleak hilarity that has some quite giggle-inducing lines. Not the best song on the CD, not a profound piece aiming to shake your veritable musical foundations but an episode of idiot light relief that does indeed work well and leaves one feeling fuckin' thankful for small mercies ha, ha.
The closure and double entendre takes centre stage as we wonder if we are dealing with a song about a man with radioactive globes or a man who appears at Christmas time and tries to sell his wares for your festive fir. 'The Man With The Illuminous Balls' is a simple piece, easily joined in with and is a good idea for a black and white B-movie. A groovy creeper that is what it is, take it with a pinch of salt, and of course... enjoy.
Yes, I like this lot, they offer options, step back from the pigeon-holed parade and are always welcome on a Fungalised. This CD will serve them well I am sure. Certain in-scene cliques may avoid, those with well-spread lug-radars will pick up on something very rewarding here – by heck, what a reet treet!
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THE BORDELLOS - YOU VAGABOND YOU My 14th venture into the DIY whorehouse of weaving angularity. I have dipped in, been mesmerised, pleased, befuddled and infected with the pox of ambiguity and yet, I still pop back now and again to make sure all is still, off-kilter. I have a growing fondness for this productive force and here I donate more time to try and assess matters in my honest way and get things 'out there'.
2 tracks only, the first falling under the scabbery of 'You Vagabond You' (the 'A' Side I presume). A creamy keyed sequence begins and continues whilst the almost sibilant words fall gently from the speakers into our awaiting lap. Like a slow snake-charming cruise (ooh me asp) this one charms its way to a place of subtle agreement with a tonal slant that is far from being vulgarly intrusive and offending. Again, The Bordellos capture the pure DIY essence and keep up their capital creative outflow in their own pleasing and unpredictable way. A minor episode of hypnotica.
'I Am The New Morrisey' shuffles along and is almost in danger of falling into a state of narcoleptic nothingness as it stands on its uncertain feet. A very hesitant example of serene experimentation that ponders, self-soothes, ponders and then abruptly finishes. An unfinished oddment this one appears to be, stripped almost bare and then re-dressed in the most simplistic of acoustic accoutrement. Despite this, when I reconsider the movement after the event, replay and reassess, I find myself far from insulted. A curious state of affairs but then, what's new?
Have I captured the essence here? Have I done a review worthy of the waves that lap against my lugs? I think, in many ways, it is all irrelevant because The Bordellos will carry on regardless, will keep the fecund loins spilling seeds and will keep me perpetually perplexed, entertained and doofing (now and again) - this is the way things should be - DIY Matters!
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SUBMIT - SELF-TITLED A CD arrived through the post, I was clueless as to who the band where until I recognised a couple of names on the back, put two and two together and came up with 5.85 (darn this moon-powered calculator). I had expectations (such is how the sonic brain operates), I played and had a surprise (who the fuck left that onion on my seat) and indulged in several more silver revolutions. I was considering putting fingertip to keyboard, I felt unsure but hey, one can dawdle too long and come up with a load of old dishonest claptrap) and so the acoustic arse was put in gear and the natural honesty flowed.
Track one, and 'Haunted By The Ghost Of Myself' works in under raindrops of brow-furrowed contemplation before sub-whispered words are proffered. A self-examining escapade with a cool tempo, a certain seriousness and a self-doubting essence that fails to hinder the quality of output and the exactitude of the arrangement. The winning aspects here are the equilibrium of all components, the lucidity of each contribution and the sobering sing-a-long pseudo-dirge that injects a bitter pathos to leave one in a state of flux as regards emotion. Despite the sable-edged leanings to the rhythmic sabre swung this one has enough momentum and accuracy to cut to the core and bleed forth a positive opinion.
'Wankers At The Weekend' pulses, rolls, repeats and calls for our attention with a fine 'hey up'. A tale of the lads, a night out, an indulgence. Each and every town is inundated with these cracked cunts, each group thinking they are 'mad as fuck', outrageous and as original as Hell - ooh the silly cunts. I have avoided this clap-trap existence and formulated 'man's man' approach as best as I can, listening to this reminds me why. A vicious dig in some respects, accurate as buggery and a steady stomper that states a case that sees no progress, more self-serving and a tedious routine that leads to no end result. A quite solid song albeit without any great zeniths of unexpected boom-blasts - it is veritable cement between the bricks. The next song is a delight, a combination of emotive accents with a care-free streak working through. Positivity and negativity are at loggerheads and eternally battling for the upper stranglehold that will direct an existence to who knows where. 'Used By Date' is the best song so far, it envelops many day to day feelings felt by a struggling grappler with life, an eternal outsider, a square peg who is happy to shit in all the round holes. I love the tonal layers, the careful yet natural arrangement and of course, the theme that resonates within this Fungalised soul who is always happy to avoid the idiot comfort zones. Yes, a real subtly sinewy song that has a hefty impact.
A reclined waltz manifests itself during the delivery of 'The Bits I Lost', a consideration of long lost times that are part of one's make-up, that are now blurred but which made a deep moulding impression nonetheless. This one rolls with a very unfussed flow and gets one pondering as to what is the point of a memory that has made no difference, gets jaded and warped with time and is nothing more than a mere illusion/delusion that leaves one... befuddled. This is a real tender piece, posted home with a heartfelt and tear-inducing aplomb - a very satisfying encounter with a darn decent song.
The next couple and the doom-laden threat of a single string thrum is followed with a dark, sombre and very sinister vocal touch that brings self-harm (or worse) to centre stage. 'Let The Razor Slide' is an accomplished work born from a pit of mental ill-health that gnaws away and forces an overspill of confessional creativity. From the damning verse to the delivering chorus, this is a horrorshow not to be taken lightly. The claret-daubing artiste has a pain, a loss, a fear and a voice that pleas for help. A very apposite song in times when many are suffering in this happy-plastic world where smiles are strained, pressures mounting. 'I Can't Swim' comes to the fore on riverbank tones, almost borne in fact, from the loins of 70's sub-hippy kids TV. The exploring of the personal make-up continues with the outside contrasting with the inside and a continuing lack of assuredness running deep through the entire piece. The daily plight is a fight I know too well, the core of the curse is the noggin, a miraculous piece of creation that is nothing less than a bastard. Despite the helplessness, the feeling of no hope and the ongoing battle against unforgivable life this is a beautiful moment of clarity and if taken as a standalone, can explain the whole CD.
'Soil And Blood' slowly electrifies, walks with heavy steps and deals with the aging process that manifests itself as a warning from people deemed ancient before jumping out at you as a reality not to be taken lightly. Growing old is indeed fuckin' crud, an essential humbler of the ego and the arrogant and par for a very trying course. We live, we die, but did we indeed try and put back and be decent (everything else is piffle). The words here are donated by a fellow struggler, a defiant old goat and one still not happy it seems. A muscular mover laden with disgruntlement and exposing an inability (perhaps a refusal) to accept this creeping crippler that wrinkles us beyond hope. Bah fuck!
'Somehow It Feels...' is a tender, frangible and somewhat hesitant piece with a distinct trepidation had in the acoustic delivery. Matters gradually find a tad of extra strength to progress with a less restrained and almost reined in accent, I find myself pulled along rather than skipping alongside fully intrigued. My least favoured track - the reasons, too long, a trifle too sombre and just one of those. I suspect a more uplifting angle would have been well-timed here but who knows? The balanced of all areas is spot on, the theme is in keeping with what has transpired but... Fungal' digestive system isn't satisfied here - belch!
At stage 'penultimate' we land with 'Motherfucker Days' a gently pulsed number with a very approachable and relatable theme that brings back memories of when I was a broken youth with no idea, a belly full of rage and despair and a carcass kicking back against every social nook and cranny you could imagine. This has a friendly feel to it, it comes across as an old fellow struggler who just needs a hug. A debilitated piece that finds inner strength and kicks along against the dreary drain and the grey old days that pile up and add their own little bit of extra pressure. There is no escape, there is no great solution but a sagacious statement says you best make sure you make the most of what is left - I do suspect many will smash and grab and get what they can and fuck everything - hey fuckin' ho, this is still a choice offering.
The last stand, 'The Devils Game'. From bleak and dreary shadowplays comes a whispering, a sub-moan, a pseudo-westernised waltz. Deep within the veins of the fully-flesh shambler we feel a weighted burden, a schizophrenic threat, a worming malevolence that just leaves one oh so slightly on the cusp. Moments of solace seem to be the cursing factor, as open wounds are further exposed and that twisting dissatisfaction comes to the fore and takes all the blame. Shaded work of many greying layers, hang in there folks.
From the problem known as life we have the solution known as death. The problem is all we have, the option is a dread - the questions are many, the answers too few - we are trapped in a playpen of pandemonium, here is a soul bared, can you indeed take it? My thoughts are of a well-scripted and admirably honest work that is heavy going and not for everyday play but which is ideal for provoking thought and creating necessary contrast. Without the dark, can there ever be any light?
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REINE DES LEZARDS - SHOULDN'T WE BE ALL WEARING SILVER NOW An invite to review, an invite that dragged me once more into dungeons of dabbling decadence and testing tonality where multifarious swirls of sonic shades are blended by forces borne from several recognisable names. I had initial trepidations, I should have known better but... the DIY spirit insisted I threw myself into another mischievous mix of experimentation done without shackle. I was prepared to take a stated approach and perhaps use a blend of brevity, analysing tomfoolery and good intent, here is what I came up with. 'Somethin' On U' opens with industrial chuggery and some clutter-fuck-it buggery. The verbal vibes come from icy shadows that are tinted blue and forever shimmering whilst a waywardness of direction always leaves one wondering where the general beat is headed too. Mysticism and melodica combine in a kind of nuthouse way with a dance/trance edge tattoo dictating the main thread of the movement. I find this is one of those shifty shapeshifters that remains elusive - I ponder and play over, it is impish meddling with a quirky charm. 'I'm Sold' is questioning, disgusted and enslaved. Clonk, churn, confound - the machinations of the defeated manoeuvre are all bleak, confused and seemingly in need of a great escape. The bastards at the top have the power, they shuffle the hordes into rank and file, here we see an almost numbed and dumbed down acceptance of a situation most horrid. A gloomy number with a subdued rhythm and no lasting hook - I am not keen at all, I do appreciate the off-kilter approach but find 'Fastnet Rock Automatik' a better jaunt. More focus with a good zipping pulse and with a more forceful intent on getting from A through to B with a decent amount of gumption. The rock and roll injection is blatant here with a certain slag-bag looseness that helps give the song extra juice. Still we retain the jangle-angle accents and oddball outré affect that leaves the song just on the cusp of decency (emphasis on 'just' may I add).
Into the fourth abandonment with 'Lie Glitch' beginning in a very inter-stellar/angular feller way with a tribal underbeat and retro programmed utterance liable to take one out of this realm of sanity. The lyrical content is both nebulous and ambiguous, there is a definite concealment of the actual definition and whilst the lower belly tub thump continues, matters misfire, threaten to implode and duly come to an halt before we fall into the blatant madness of 'Reptile Hitz Paper Clown' - a veritable shuffle-scuttle of nonsensical popple-piffle that leaves me confused, on edge and striving to find reason. This can be a fine state of play if the occasion or mood is just right, more often than not though it leaves one in a state of frustrated fidgety fuckity fuck - I am restless and nowhere near smitten.
'Lizard Boy' swoops in, seems to have a pleasant vibe before vulgarly pounding away with a machine-like clank-o-static incessance that operates with great effective gusto. A real stomping number with a hefty unstoppable metronomic beat that will please many with heads sozzled and in need of a regulated rhythm to keep them upright and moving. I like the fluidity here, the poetical ambiguous lyrics and the weight of the vibe. The follow-on is a disappointment that disgruntles my nerves and has me all a flutter. There is no flow, the sonics are jarring, the lyrical content a puzzling mire of head-twiddling tomfoolery. As ever, these conjurers of crooked cacophonics who masturbate the melodies in a non-orthodox way are always liable to inseminate one’s mind with befuddlement and give birth to the bastard sprog of disbelief - such is the case here. 'Legs 2 Die' comes next, a toy-box drama playing out with a haunting twist that really displaces the internal sense of decency. This one is both disjointed and shambling and yet makes progress in its own crippled and pseudo-cacophonic style. What the fuck is going on here? Who the fuck has animated the pantomime characters and got them moving, creating and cursing. A very frazzling encounter with plastic-face melts and juddering dolls of malevolence.
'Acrylic And Acetate' is one of the better composites with a swirl-whirl interstellar barbing that hooks onto the material of the mind and seems to be unshakable in its tonal tenacity. The space-invader releases are incessant, the general motif wraps-around and around whilst the overall gist is continued. This is ideal music for a 22nd Century back-street freak hive where all the wonderful outsiders come and parade themselves on a neon flickered dancefloor whilst the colour spectrum is ravaged and minds are duly turned to liquid joy. Intriguing for sure. The final brace, 'Lizard Goes Home' is a fuzzbuzz flee from this planet of normality and may I add, restriction. The chargers are fuelled, the panging in the digital dream is blatant, the song comes and goes and we wish the players farewell. A shiny-bright inclusion and I nearly forgot, there is one last track. 'Howl At The Moon' should be a real high-energy closure, fizzed to fuck and moving with outrageous pace - alas we get something a little too mundane and with a repetitious underflow that fails to generate any real jizz of joy. A very jangling jigsaw piece with the end picture lacking any satisfying rhythm. The words are too ambiguous and nebulous, the flow not undulating and contrasting enough - I sign off on a personal duffer. Say what you will, I have had a go and I hope have captured the essence and have been honest and fair. There are moments to inspire, intrigue and of course annoy. There are sincere 'wtf' snippets, episodes that soothe, elements that jangle - it is all par for the course when dealing with experimentalists who care not for the usual. This approach will never be to everyone’s taste, it should never, ever be that way - make of that what you will.
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