FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 1
 
 

ZOO PARTY - SKYLTEN

A good uplifting band here who I have seen only once but have reviewed a many a time. Decent people making a good din and without delusions or subtext - what more can you ask for?  Well how's about 4 good tracks?  I gather the quartet of songs here, play over a few weeks and consider. This EP, by the way, is named after a factory in Linköping, Sweden where this lot used to rehearse - so now you know.  I best crack on.

'I Miss Me' opens with an honest riff and a very spacious and approachable first verse. This is a reflective song, looking back with a weary eye and wishing to get to a better place.  I like the combo that is bittersweet, and both melancholic and hopeful - the group do this stuff mighty well and with good bass foundations, strict and stabilising stick work and the usual clear and effective string strums there is an utter dew glow clarity to the whole orchestrated piece and as per, it will do for me. 'Bad To The Bone' is an unashamed pop song, a song with good zip, recognisable tones and a well-breezed delivery that captures the essence of simple noise making with a feelgood vibe.  After a quick tap the band surge in, stop, press on and repeat.  The strings are strummed with zeal, the vocal arrangement is clear and well-shadowed with the simplicity of the construct making for an opening titbit to enjoy.  Nothing too deep to consider, no unnecessary flamboyances are needed - we have wholesomeness incarnate and it is good to hear.

Flip.

'Fortune Teller' twists and jives and does so with the usual joy de vivre and utter zest in the application.  The methodology is not typically orthodox and just seems to develop as the need dictates with the players keeping things neatly natural and as honest as the day is long.  Anyone looking to dissect and duly disparage the band and what they have to offer will be further confounded here as sweet vibes are played out without pretensions or posing pomposity.  What the band do is accurate and sharp - and I fuckin' like it.

Last one and 'Frontline' is an absolute peach that encapsulates everything good about this ditty designing crew of artistes who just wanna make some fine noise.  From the off we have a simple creation enhanced by careful placement of words and tones with a question asked and a decision made - don't lag behind folks, get down the front and lead the way.  The utter alacrity, sprightliness and just restorative rhythmic essences make this a must on CD and surely a must in the pit.  Hopefully, when I catch this lot again, I can witness this beauty being played out to a welcoming crowd who all get involved and lap up some good tuneful decency - let's have it.

So done and dusted. My Zoo Party T-shirt may have rotted due to wear and tear but my hopes and joys are still alive and kicking thanks to a band who do something just right.  I never listen to this bands produce and come away fed up, there is something very uplifting about what transpires and I am appreciative of it and hope they just keep on rolling.  It ain't a lot to ask is it?

   

MARK AYLING - BLACK DOG

One man plucking whilst too many are fucking (about).  Mark Ayling is a lone wolf here and doing what needs to be done with quite convincing authority. I always have time to spare for people like this.

'Why Do We Put Up With This' is what I would expect - great throw backward, throw forward poetical weaving done with a natural outpouring of genuine emotion and consideration.  No formula is used, just the chance taken to strum and sing whilst striving to get a message across both personal and universal. The inflamed anger rises, borne it seems, since day dot, a rage that has led to no answers and no change as apathy dictates and the world rolls downhill.  The rich get richer, the poor get conned and irritation rises within those observant.  A cracking fiery upchuck this with clarity within the rage being a crucial component.

The second track and the melancholic honesty of 'Death Of The High Street' has a certain Banshee-esque wire manipulation with the artistes familiar oral work providing an ideal contrast.  There is good pep in the opening sequence here as the words reveal the state of play in the barren wastelands of retail. Shopping is now a form of slavery with shit shovelled in heaps and swallowed up by the sucked in masses.  The same old resonations get the victims spirit raised with a disgust apparent at the holistic takeover of big business devastation.  The open-hearted passion, the fine cable work and the general flow all keep one intrigued to the observant docu-style commentary tune that hits a certain spot in our aging carcasses.

'From The Outside (Looking In)' quietly enters, strides with purpose and deliberately states its verbal case and loses all hope in the process.  An external peek witnesses a disaster, a situation that can never be changed.  The emotive way the player delivers the ditty is both consummate, sharp and of opposing styles that come together and bring about a quite admirable level of success.  From the nailed to the flowing, the stamped to the caressed the song works with a steady persuasion and the more I play the more I feel in tune with the tonal activity.

'Black Dog' creeps up on the blind side, shadows our every move and rides along with certainty.  An escape is had into the night, a motorway excursion into a world lit by falsehoods and synthetic promises.  Phantoms appear, head worry visions are forever in the rear-view mirror.  The player exposes an inner turmoil and a seeming need to flee into the awaiting night yet all the while is haunted and in need of comfort.  The atmosphere created is exact, the pictures summoned within the listener's belfry are tangible, I rate this as another specimen of sonic one-man excellence.  'Walls Come Closing In' begins with perky skin skips, strums and unfolds into another insightful piece of a world that is utterly self-absorbed and zoned it to utter meaningless shittery. Slaves switched on and yet so switched off the big squeeze continues and many already suffocated are joined everyday by more and more beaten deadheads.  The irritation puked our way reeks of thoughtfulness and a true horror at the way the masters take control and the targeted so easily submit.  The emotion rises as the walls close in and the chance to escape is no longer an option.  The song is driven primarily by fear and this is what gives the whole construction its true and unforgettable source of life.    

Into the final four we go with 'The Last Visit' a glimpse into a place shrouded and lost, a place banished to the midst of time with all hope of a return to how things were... gone.  Sadness and a certain weariness pervade, the panging need to be somewhere unattainable seems to be all-consuming and the admittance that change and loss is just a fact of life is a bitter-pill to swallow.  The music is spartan, almost too tired to make the effort, too beaten to offer any resistance.  I find this concoction accomplished but not a style of sonica that I want to overdose on - it is moody music that needs to be listened to when in a positive frame of mind.  'Fake' is a very acidic song that deals with the many fraudsters out there who wanna play a role and be one of the so called 'in crowd'.  I have many sussed but many more crawl from the woodwork and weave their devious route.  One cunt with a front and then another with tolerance and patience wearing thin, an anger rising at a shit-stain playing class games. Again Mr Ayling wastes no time and gets the point across in his own gratifying and eagle-eyed way with a certain transparency and earthiness to the wire weavings that keeps things grounded and relatable.  

'Again And Again' has good pep and inner grumble rumble before whisperings come with an almost bated-breath threat and bewildered words flow.  The aim seems to be at the sell-outs and the shapeshifters (I may be wrong) who change tack when chance comes and all ethics are sold down the stinking, overflowing river.  The bandwagon jumpers dilute the flow and what we get is imbalance and utter laughable fuckwittery.  Here, the poetical gobbage is spat forth with the greatest level of disgust and has a certain off-the-cuff feel - is this a good thing, I think it could well be!

Closure and we get the very apt and utterly relevant 'Why Is Nobody Angry Anymore'.  A number that concurs with a question that I have asked numerous times over the years, a question tossed into an ocean of cerebrally apathetic and overfed idlers.  The rise rumbles, a situation stated and the inactive nailed.  This is a brave statement that may cut a few ties and upset those guilty of being drained of spirit and are now mere husks just out to party, get what they can and take the easy route.  The rulers are winning, those given plenty will not rebel, those sold the shit by the media who have all the trimmings and follow the guidelines will cause little fuss, complacency it seems is a dish the masses can't get enough of.  I love the attitude and stance taken here, a fine way to sign off.

What we have here is a guy doing what he does with thought, style and a sanguinity to not shy away from observations that need sharing.  I am hoping I can showcase this gent once more, get him 'out there' and get the word spread - oh and keep him enthused.

   

THE WEBB - NEGATIVE EP

A time of reflection and utter fuckin' madness has past, many noise-making units are moving their arses again, from the creaking woodwork of warped time a couple of sonic spiders emerge and brandish their spinnerets.  They wander and weave and I await the final construction.  The cast forth cables are trembled - the resultant vibrations that come my way sound something like this (well, according to the Fungalised DIY bastard that is).

Matters open with 'Murder On C. C. T. V.' an escapade that begins with a defragmented horror clap from skeletal hands that soon makes way for a rather cold and distant opening verse that does indeed leave me a trifle frosted.  Things seem a little too stated for their own good and rather overly arranged but salvation comes with a techno-breeze that blows things open and gives the construction a feeling of something more relaxed.  The duo do what they do without apology, but they just need to watch their step and not get bogged down with their own trappings.  Here I am left a tad disappointed but the meritorious points are many with a clean and futuristic sound captured and a dystopian atmosphere exact.  Those highly zested moments do raise a few goosebumps too.

'Fucked Up' has more texture and a more warped musical mode that is enhanced by the joys of celebrating the brilliance of not being right.  The opening 4 count is completely out of place and throws me off kilter but thankfully the creamy, dreamy pantomime of crazed music making takes the reins and leads me down a labyrinthine rabbit hole of inescapable mesmerism.  Something both disturbing and soothing exudes from this blemish of orchestration. I find myself drawn further in than I like to be, the sensation of being escorted into a realm of the untrustworthy is rather charming, the band do this kind of sonic shizzle mighty well.  I replay over and over - I may be some time.

'You're The Reason' tip-taps in with space age shooting stars and palpitating intergalactic pulses before a melancholic doomsday delivery unfolds and takes us by the hand into realms of mausoleum meandering.  The examination of an inner soul self-absorbed is revealing. We are shown that too many are culpable and not making a difference.  A creeping disease of decadent disquiet I consider this song, one that sidles in, grooms and shiftily moves back into the recesses of your mind - now where is the freedom now?

'Negativity City' opens with a good impetus before becoming a song of multifaceted electro angles and a persistent warning.  Icy in parts, pulsed and thermally heated in others with a certain unpredictability this is a curio to contemplate over several rotations.  The gothic and cavernous vocal work is backed by shadow suggestions and animated key work with a flow and fidget composite working well and taking us to the end warning from a resident of Skaro.  A growing tune this if ever I heard one, bring it on 'live' I say. 'Alien Invasion' is chaos incarnate, a hotch-potch of protrusions and tangents all thrown into a snowstorm of bewildering tonality borne from an attack of the vapours perhaps.  Madness, panic and upheaval all strive to dictate the direction of the dinnage thus leaving the listener both tossed about and tossed off.  This is not one for the nerve-riddled, not one for those seeking regularity of rhythm or something quite orthodox.  This is a mere techno twatting of zoned-in experimentalisation created by noggins immersed and loving it.  I suggest this is another track for an 'in the flesh' encounter, but one that very much needs laser-show assistance - it could be quite a sensation.

The final trio and 'Don't Trust You' electro-horrifies like a phantom with a plugged in posterior before a regulated and highly stated sonic instalment comes with great emphasis on each verbal utterance and keyed manipulation.  The tilted tonality of wire-wanked gothika is both strange, shady and quite typical of what these two dabbling imps get up to.  There is great comfort in  the familiarity of tones and I find The Webb as appealing as ever but, a bit of pace injection always seems to emphasis and improve the impression they make - well, according to my personal lugs anyway.  I move on though pleased with events so far and uncover the unexpectedly entitled 'Dead Cities (Love Song)' - a rehash of a cover and this time done with a tenderness in the tonality.  There is no way on earth that this should work but, it is a quirky treat that operates with great success and just when you are getting used to the capricious cacophony the two tampering tinkers veer off into realms of The Damned and play out an inner burst with appealing and smile-inducing joy.  We soon go back to all things Exploited and the song wraps itself up - what a lovely surprise, akin almost to a jack-plugged Jive Bunny having gone over to the dark side - and why the Hell not?  I reckon another double-ended cover would be a delight on the next offering too - challenge set.

We flick the final switch and sign off with 'In A Darker Place' - a sickly sweet fun-fair toss-about in a Frankensteinian lab left in the hands of a  twisted hunchback.  We are strapped in, strapped down in fact, the levers are pulled and the sparks fly as a we thrown all ways during a musical jaunt that is the most joyous of the lot.  Pertinent points are made, sad sac members of a dullard society are told to wake up and the energy, buoyancy and all-consuming impact fill me with eager enthusiasm to check this band out again very soon.  This is the way to sign off a CD, splashing spirited sparks and functioning with fizzing fervour - smashing stuff.

So - what could any DIY enthusiast ever ask for except decent people, cracking on and making tunes their way and not falling into the trap of generic dictates and all that codswallop.  Here we get just that and I am ruddy thankful for it.  I still don't think The Webb have tapped their true potential, they are trespassing within a real sonic forest of bewildering fuckery here, laden with tangents and offshoots to explore further and to duly disentangle.  I am pushing for more, it is what I do. 

   

SUPER HIT - SUPER HIT

Bedroom punk laden with scuzziness were the initial descriptions to fall upon my peepers when receiving a request to do another review.  I am not one to shy away from much (well except jazz and racist noise and of course country and western - ooh heck) so in for a penny, in for a pound I go dealing with a new project by Kyle Handley (ex-White Fang).  We are in the bargain basement again, it is a place I love and am always happy to peruse - I best get cracking here, I have 18 tracks to digest - cor blimey, me guts!

'That's Life' is a crisply glistened cascade escapade that carefully greets the listener and welcomes them to this initial release.  Lo-fi, wound down, reality sodden pop punkery done in a style that is deliberately undercooked and understated.  As a result a certain character is given as well as a melancholic edge that is lifted by the merest encouragement.  I find the shimmery touches and the clean, unprocessed guitar manipulations both relatable and within touching distance of a DIY dabbler - this matters and gives the song a material relevance.  'Your Reality' starts and continues like a tired old steam train looking for destination 'Snooze'.  The languid chuff, the easy peregrination along lazy meandering tracks and the general feeling of wanting to trundle away all make for an unflustered sojourn into pastures limitless and lounging.  The way to take this one is in a position of 'reclined' - a chance to switch off and at the same time, absorb something lovely.

The next couplet with 'Fast Times and 'New Day' a very complimentary musical marriage.  The former is scuffed in, has an almost independent alternativeness as well as something gently rocked and rolled.  Subsonic-esque persuasions come while a certain minimalism vies for attention.  The lick in the gist holds fort though and what we end up with is short tonal trinket not to be deterred by.  The latter is an ideal soundtrack for summertime cavorting through pastures free and liberating.  The idling strums, the somewhat sun-sozzled serenading and the unflustered stickwork all make for something semi-soporific but at the same time... encouraging.  A sweet mix indeed.

The third duo and a snippet of instrumentalisation via 'Super Hit' that has me initially thinking of something 'Elvis-ised' before the soothing pop tones take the helm and simplicity is the order of the day.  The easy lick and orchestration has sunshine touches but an eclipsing shadow is never far away and so makes for something a little deeper than first thought.  Short, to the point and so easy to pick up and swallow, I love these under-the-radar trinkets that drop my way - it is a shame so many receive so little acknowledgement.  'Lately Baby' is a beautiful droplet of sound that falls onto my attentive antennae and proves itself to be a real gratifying acoustic cascade of refreshing goodness that allows me to soak up something rather invigorating.  Petal-flimsy artistry with a resilience almost indescribable - I am in a good place here.

'Hold on' is fresh but too composed and so rather than add a perk in the step it kind of just drags one along in a suspension of emotions without any excessive sensations.  A somewhat soporific effort reliant on minimalist touches that somehow just doesn’t cut it with my attentive earholes.  It is a tender application of acoustic dabbling but fails to meet its potential.  'It Ain't Easy' drops down to another level of slumbering spillage with an utterly lackadaisical and lethargic pseudo-dirge that just flows outward into a slumberland ocean of switched-off casualness that at times, teeters on the brink of being lost forever.  The application of such delicacy is a dangerous game to play and I feel here the player just scrapes by due to making sure the drift and melody are in unison - it is a close shave nonetheless. 

Another coupling and 'Cut Loose' keeps it nifty whilst combining the slightly frisky with the more serious.  The verse and chorus cuts are melded together but have enough individuality to make their own individual mark.  I class this as another example of moody poppism borne from a thoughtful minds and a hazy outlook.  The conundrum of life brings uncertainty, the artiste finds a way through and make his own ripples.  'You Know?' hesitantly moves in, slots into a smooth and fuss-free groove and is merely a hammock-swinging respite where one can almost disappear into one's own mulling meditations.  This style of daydream detachment is perhaps where the plucker finds his true niche in the noisy ghettos and to be fair, away from much clatter that doth batter, it is an appreciated intrusion.

I crack on along the back stretch and grab another brace.  'Lose My Mind' has a delicious repeat-wavelet rippling away whilst all extra tonal additions are kept spartan and tepid.  The comfort of the song is ideal, the refusal to over-elaborate is greeted with applause - perhaps I am listening to the best track of the lot here.  'Song To Play' combines the chipper with the morose and comes across as a quite confused song.  The creator sticks to the methodology and I reckon this one is ideal for an early wake-up call done in the tenderest way imaginable.  I play early doors to test my theory and it works mighty well, a nudge into the forthcoming day is had and this tune is thoroughly enjoyed.

Down into the closing sextet with the dreary meander of 'Waiting For You' really not being my thing.  I find this too close to being a bastardised country and western failure and the whole shebang a trifle testing on the 'happy neurones'.  The limp and lazy lilt of the song may appeal to those in need of a full-on switch off, at this late stage I find it too dawdling for its own good.  For 'Babu' I could apply the previous text or even just go for a terse 'Ditto' but the lack of C&W elements, the pseudo-garage aspect and the utter float away into lands of slumber defy a double-up nailing of negativity and so I label this a purist dozer that those in a reclined state will absorb and use as an excuse to stay prostrate - lazy bastards.

Darkened tones begin 'Close To Me' before chinks of light invade, albeit in the most timid way possible.  An instrumental seems to be about to unfold until the vocalist intrudes and caresses the soundscape with his familiar sub-warblings.  The set-scene is too lackadaisical and overly languid and with the repetitive motif I find myself losing interest.  'Mr Tough Guy' drops back to the dungaree-wearing contemplation borne from sun-kissed verandas were a meathead and his problems are mulled over.  At 1 minute 20 seconds the song is hardly worth the inclusion and yet, I can't help thinking if all offerings on this CD were trimmed to such a terse level the impact may have been better - now that is a paradox.

The last two and no change is had.  'Take A Look At Me' relies on glitter wire gratifications whilst the sombre oral tones do what they do.  A subtext of feeling good pervades, a positivity counteracts against the slow drift and strait-jacketed gobwork, I kinda like this without getting too excited.  I feel as though this is good background music best left to slowly creep beneath the skin, the gentle way is the only way.  We close this 18 track offering with the kiss goodbye of 'The Tunes' - a pseudo-spaced piece that remains lost in a reverie of absorbing comfort.  For a closure, to that which has been, this is perfect, as a stand-alone track I find this fluffy fuck drifting not to my taste.  I sign off disappointed by this punctuation mark and in need of something more raucous.

Well I have done my bit, have come out of the other end of the tuneful tunnel with my assessing titfer askew and my opinions divided.  Small snippets work in part and at times something genuinely pleasing resonates within my receptors but, as a full album, I find this way too much of the same thing and by the latter end feel my patience waning.  Some may love it, I know a few who will and if I could pick out the best 7 tracks I reckon a fine EP could be produced.  Alas I sign off a trifle frustrated.

   

LITTLE BOHEMIA - BEHIND THE DISNEY PARADE

Hailing from Plymouth we have a band who deal with reality and don't shy away from the shitty side of things.  The music is thought out, delivered without belonging to any sub-niches and comes as natural as one could wish for.  I spin several times (it is what I do) and carve out thoughts that go like this:-

'Soylent Green' deals with a dystopian nightmare, a society gone wrong, a step taken too far by the human mush.  A holler from the famed film comes, a solid guitar invasion follows before sticks and bass add weight and warnings and comparisons are issued.  The opening verse is naked, stark and utterly portentous and is quickly reinforced by a rigorous and impacting chorus that gives proceedings a certain completeness.  All the while, my ears are entertained by some resonating rhythm and quality music making with the band setting a ruddy high standard here.  When the strings are off the leash and allowed to express themselves, the movement is elevated and extra bollocks are bared. This is an opening pearler of considered cacophony - the message, fuck slavery, get yer heads screwed on and rethink your situation. 

'Skaigh Valley Booze' slowly generates its own impetus without being in any great rush and unfolds into a creeping creation that slowly nibbles at the resistance and gets one thinking.  All areas are balanced and room is given for each component to expose the worthy contribution that it is making.  A boa-constricting piece this, not one that is instantly pleasurable but as the squeeze continues the response that is shat forth has a certain smell of something positive.  I indulge my time and rotate over and over, a troubled soul rises from the burning dinnage, the emotive know-how works - it is music for the waster to use as a tool to run free.

Track 3 and 'Magnificent' pounds away, hollers and then metallically grooves like a self-indulgent cock rooster on pluck and fuck acid.  The bumbling verse that comes is uncomfortable at first but with a bit of patience a certain accustomed stance can be had and one can relate to the groove, grind and hard-gritted clobber out.  A precipice is being walked, bleak thoughts and recklessness are just about kept in check as the heavy music bounds along with bass-driven funk and hunk that finally breaks down into a scatter-gun finish - I reckon the job is decent enough. The follow-up of 'Safe Words' is a semi-exotic sidewind of striving sonica, a straining nagger that refuses to up the ante or lessen the grip.  This is one of those tunes that persists in the cranial gunk long after the disc has stop turning and really refuses to piss off out of it.  After many spins and many cerebral echoes I find this mechanical song assesses, leaves one pondering and worryingly - reaching for the replay button.

'Dust And Bones' contemplates this idiotic existence and the futility of much behaviour out there, behaviours that ultimately lead... nowhere.  I love this tepid and yet tangible touch of consideration that sums up life and the lunacy involved.  As I eavesdrop to this lullaby caress I concur with the drift and see so many out there who learn nothing and progress only one way... backwards.  The head in the sand moments, the drive along a pre-destined route from which there is no respite all unfolds with warning signs aplenty, and turn-offs sometimes taken, many times avoided.  The poetical slant, the pleasing tonality and the just general beauty make for a real treat.  'Why' has a sense of despondency and hopelessness with the opening verse nakedly transparent and acceptant of a situation just getting worse.  There is no answer, things are the way they are simply 'because' - like it or lump it.  The drift of this tune is uplifting despite the matter-of-fact reality of the thinking and the musicianship is neatly timed and is made up of clashing and complimentary facets.  There seems to be a real ease to the output, a certain 'professionalism' which is a word I usually use as an insult (I hope though you get my drift).

'My Enemy' appears from storybook time-scapes and worlds beyond.  A groove is adopted, a drive forced.  Much muscle is flexed, flashlights glare and gritty intrusions come.  Semi-schizo problems arise from the malevolent self-destruct situation with one half pulling the right way, the other half pulling in the opposite direction.  The brooding accents and the acceptance of states of play leads to an inner turmoil displayed by a midway tumbling.  A recovery is made, the split personality is exposed and the finale explodes with great untamed emotion making for a quite complete song.

Next two and 'Granite Club' ploughs in with a mean furrowed brow focus and something akin to a brief holiday in Cambodia. A superb bumble-bass drive takes us into the affray proper with a fine tympanic skip helping us travel deeper into the depths of death dealing.  The six-strung serpent of sonica dribbles venom whilst the acidic gobwork rounds off a very impacting song with varied angles and a resonating impetus.  A threat, a promise, a guarantee - a good fuckin' song.  Quick pulses, quirked wire wanks and a sinister underflow brings 'Crimson Rain' to the fore of my attention next.  What develops is an analysis of disaster with observations aplenty and subtle irritation abundant.  The weather beaten world disappears beneath concrete and footfall as all the while, the end gets closer.  There is a cool draught blowing through this thermally heated number with a persistent cymbalised rainfall helping to chill matters further. The temperature throughout remains consistent but one can't help feeling a trifle scorched by the activity of the output - this is a good thing!

The final brace and 'Pandora' and 'Never Mind' come and leave one with yet more diversity to deal with.  'Pandora' starts out as an acoustic drift that has many 'Beatle-ised' touches to throw a semi-curveball into the mix.  A man unable to cope with demands and desires opens up his personal confessional box and lets us all peer inside.  Hope is just hanging on in there but this is by a mere thread it seems.  The sparse commencement works mighty well and the move into things more weighted is done with aplomb.  My only gripe here is the song lasts too long and has a lack of immediate bite but other than these personal (and perhaps pedantic) gripes all is still good.  'Never Mind' reggaefies, requests one 'fucks off' and delivers a smooth treat that I am thoroughly in tune with.  Impending danger looms, a sword is brandished and the CD leaves us on a precipice.  I like this closure, it has depth, makes one consider the lunatic world and moves with a certain luxurious coolness that draws one in, embraces and strangleholds.  The job here is solid, I sign off sanguine with my assumptions and assessments.

Little Bohemia are sliding beneath many radars and that is another pending tragedy that needs halting.  I have listened in, hopefully made a case for checking this band out further, all I can do now is hope a few curious cats are provoked into taking a chance (they do have nine lives after all).

   

THE UNDEAD CONSPIRACY - CASE FILE ONE

A quite lovely fellow called John Jacko Smith requested me to give his latest dabblings a listen as he is now part of a unit called The Undead Conspiracy - and of course I said I would indulge, review and give the usual honest feedback.  A response of 'bring it on' came, and I knew full well no matter what verdict I gave John would take it one the chin like a trooper and not send me packages of razorblade filled dogshit to pay me back for any critique I cared to proffer.  As for the rest of the band - ooh heck, such is the dangerous game I play.  The noise donated was horror-based, a genre I adore and one I really can't get enough of.  So, with 15 tracks delivered in admirable, quality-soaked DIY packaging, I delved and delivered and came up with the following:-

The opening batch of three commences with the warning of 'Dance With The Devil'.  A tale of taking the cloven one by the hand and taking a chance - cripes.  A good skin skip, fair fuzzery and some active bass are all helped along by an eager shout of 'come on' and a solid first verse and easy chorus.  This opening track sets a solid standard without going overboard.  The players are in unison, the vocal style is slightly shadowy with a gentle tint of something gothic whilst the inner guitar splat is nicely timed and of impacting resonance.  More gushings come and a final electro showcase that gives the whole cacophony a great final flush of life is had.  Having listened several times over the whole effort feels more and more accomplished - I like it.  'House Of The Dead' is a place we enter with great careless sanguinity and are greeted by an equally confident noise that is just a breeze to ride along with.  From recesses and niches many dubious eyes may be peeping but this aspect fails to disturb my joy in being surrounding by such easy and embracing vibrations.  Strings are in cahoots, the sticks are reactive and flow with lucid and regulating certainty whilst extra wire-work from the six-strung victim adorns all and adds a certain special something.  A maelstrom is uncovered within the mix as skids and scratches haunt whilst we are repetitively beckoned to enter the abode of the deceased - beware the offer of stepping across the threshold, you have been warned! 'N. W. O' completes the opening threesome and is perhaps the most spiky song of the lot with a straight forward verse/chorus route taken.  Good power and pace combine to make this 2.29 minute song a rapid-fire effort that comes, goes and leaves one with no gripes.  All components have space to operate and exhibit, the mix has been done with plenty of TLC and I reckon this first flush of three has set a mean standard for the rest of the CD to live up to - ooh what silly gits these musicians can be!

The chasing trio begins with 'Scarecrow', a liquid inclusion that moves along with slick precision and a somewhat spartan first verse .  From here the moves between compartments are as liquid as ever, the rise and fall of the tonal packaging is perfectly complimentary and the chiaroscuro content is balanced and making for an end sonic portrait that works mighty well.  After listening over and over I find myself with deep-rooted trepidations and dare not walk through a moonlight kissed cornfield - the murdering mockery of man is not just there to scare the birds it seems.  Note must be made here of some neat bass cement that holds the whole orchestration together and the end flickerlight pulsations – nice work indeed.  'Padded Cell' comes next, places a platform, eagerly insists we join the fold and then flies along with fluid impetus that is easy to digest and fall in line with.  The appointed madman is wired up and locked away with this kick-back tune doing the business in a quite tidy fashion.  An early sneaker that should not be overlooked - take note people, this gets better by the spin.

'I'll Wear Your Skin' stick stumbles and gains order before a neat twist of the cabling comes.  The initial ponderings have me considering a song simply tuneful without being overly ornate and unnecessarily flash.  Efficiency is the key as we investigate the mind of a flesh wearing fiend who likes to cavort in the skin of the slaughtered.  The morbid delight in this situation is delivered well and I am easily persuaded into having a jig myself.  Not a bad do at all - I wonder if any of Ed Gein's relatives are interested?  'Into The Light' comes from a different rhythmic recess, shakes of the angle of conspiracy and pays homage to a sister loved and lost.  There is an anger and a frustration running through the main vein of the song with a heart-wrenching essence held in check.... just!  The song is worthy of its place here and rises above all for the simple reason in that it is done for truly touching reasons.

The next brace and 'The Beast' skips in, skids and fucks around in the mire.  The tale unfolds, graveyard desecrations occur and a relish in evil molestation is taken.  The verses of the song leave me corpse-like cold but as matters progress the listener's attention is piqued and the extra flamboyance and eagerness poured in by the band starts to warm the framework.  Visions of prowling perverts with a taste for brains and bowels come to the fore, the immersion into the dabblings catches on and as mere listener's we become infected.   'Population Control' begins with a bog-standard chant and continues in a style perhaps best described as 'most punky'.  It is orthodox hammering concerning another conspiracy, another angle on the way things are dealt out.  The crew clatter on and I ponder the worth of this song - my opinion is that it alters the course of things nicely and will be a 'live' treat for those with regular spiky tastes.

'Don't Take Me' and 'The Darkness' come next with the former a personal song from a man on the precipice and pleading for all his worth.  The scythe bearing phantom with a desire to extinguish all hope and positivity appears, the fear strikes a chord and a tune is borne - a tune of value and one to take heed of methinks.  Don't be a cocky prick, don't be dishonest and a timewaster, just be good, get on and do something positive.  I think the message here overrides the tuneage, that is never a bad thing.  The latter song wastes no time in getting going and soon adopts the strain set, this time dealing with the omnipresent sable shroud that is looking to drive one off-track and make one commit deeds against decency.  The stability and solidity of the construct is not to be questioned here but I do get the feeling the band are overdoing a certain style and are in need of a severe capricious outburst.  The inner stagger only hinders matters and having listened to this several times over I rate it as an average offering.

'The Grove' has an early punky feel, bounces along and exudes a good zip.  Something almost Ramone-esque nibbles at my senses with tints of pop-punk never far away.  The ditty slips in to the CD's route of rhythm without flaw and the band do what they do with concentrated focus.  The content matter deals with things abhorrent and underhand with a secret society highlighted along with all manner of untoward goings on.  Despite the dubious leanings the song distracts us with eager pep and a ping-inducing reliability - thank goodness.  The chasing track known as 'Punk Rock And Severed Heads' is a straight ahead delving into honest din making - without ornaments and tassels, and of course, affect.  There are no reasons to pick fault here, no reasons to jump up and have a eureka moment and certainly no reasons to scrape away profound layers and find something outrageous - what you have is a very stable song that is cemented in place and does what it has to do.  At this late stage do we need anything more?

Two left - 'The Axeman' has a fine flashing blade of emergency that takes us forth with great anticipation.  The opening verse falls back into the routine of that which has been and I feel a trifle deflated. The chorus is heightened by the blue-light resonations and acute string tones, I am picked up again.  Again we delve into darkened recesses where thoughts dwell on the deviant - the band keep it tight and well-rehearsed, I would be a fool to expect anything less.   We bring down the closing curtain via 'Gillette Baby' - a tonal tale of a goth girl with a penchant to seduce and slash.  The content brings goosebumps to certain areas best left tucked away and The Undead Conspiracy sign off in the now expected and somewhat safe style.  I would have like a full-on blow-out, I am the eternal nagger of noise agents I suppose, but this is a fair finish and very much par for the bloodstained course.

And so to the final thoughts.  This is an above average release, well planned out, laden with decent ditties and done with an adhesion to what the guys like to do.  I think the crew have offered too much in one go though and not thrown in any curveballs of acoustically testing challenges for both the players and the listeners.  I hope the band release an EP next with the same thoughts used and a few surprises had, it would be reet grand to see them 'live' too - we shall have to see what transpires. In the meantime - turn down the lights, light a candle or two, play loud and... shiver! 

   

LEGLESS TRIALS - LEGLESS ON MAIN STREET

The band under Fungalised scrutiny claim to be, and I quote 'The best Anglo-American team up since Spiderman and Captain Britain' - I think they forget the time when Sammy Davies Jr teamed up Lionel Blair and gave rise to the 'Dynamic Dance Duo'.  Alas, things ended badly when the exceptional dong of Mr Davis got in the way of Mr Blair's tap-dancing routine - hey ho, such are the hazards of hefty members and choreography. Anyway, and away from this slight digression, and what I have before me are 9 tracks of angular accents and honest belief.  There is no bullshit or shying away from what is - therein is a good ethos to applaud.  

'Junior Sales Club Of America' has a soiled and sincere Berry-fied rock and roll groove that gets the listener immediately involved. The sub-shoddy accents and somewhat low-slung dog-style will appeal to many lovers of things garaged and grotty and the shadowy she-snippets that are a complimentary apparition in a haunted house of shady goings on just add to the many layers that are left to slowly bubble and gnaw at the listeners resistance. The work involved creates a condensed and crowded sonic situation with no room to breathe and manoeuvre which at times becomes a trifle too cloying for its own good.  This opening concoction though has many meritorious facets and sets the stage well, I move on with the hooter twitching.  

The next tune is entitled 'I Sobered Up'. Matters are scuttled outward and left to massage our sensors with a backstreet cultural manipulation. The grimy delivery and the need for help is a copulating scenario that reeks of realism and unadulterated raw-assed DIY interference. The taste for the brew sends a life askew and a battle is had to beat the desires.  The challenge is surmounted and a man is now counted - amongst the few to come out on the right side. This is gritty reward and the tune deals with matters adequately. 'Flower Freak' is way down and groovy man and is a semi-psychedelic saunter through tonal pastures of almost oily colorisation.  An impressionist piece crudely smudged across the canvas with the bands own brand of sonic-scrawling highly evident.  The players are heavily reclined here and playing languid tunes for those who like to take it easy and contemplate.  I reckon this one, come summertime, would be a fine escort for when doing a spot of gardening.  PS - flowers are fuckin' ace!  

The words of 'Singer' seems to deal with a miscreant who is a veritable shit and not a hero.  The tonal standard of the song is more than adequate with a very underground feel prevalent.  The running time is perhaps longer than it should be and the country-fied tones are really not my thing but there is something here that helps the delivery stick within the fuzz of the grey gunk.  There is something familiar about the lick of this song, something that resonates within, I can't pinpoint matters but I do have a soft spot for this offering.  'Fool' moves with metallic industry in the grimiest way possible.  A straightforward drive that bucket-tumbles with mid-paced affect and sticks to a flat-line track albeit in a rewardingly ramshackle away.  The wind-down to the final silence misses the chance at speeding things up and going for something capricious and unexpected and so, as a result, I come away a trifle deflated and frustrated.  I listen several times more, there is plenty going on, but that spark of uncertainty is lacking and the song just leaves me... wanting!  

'Right Wing Coup' has a steady approach built on very old-school tremblings that are almost of Talking Heads essences.  The vocals are, as ever, cavernous and shadowy and deal with the mentally warped wankers who are leaning all the wrong way and living lives built on nothing but hate and spite.  The plucker gets worked up, becomes emotionally wired by the shady goings-on and delivers something well-meant.  This operational methodology creates something utterly natural and I am, of course, drawn in.  I suspect this will be a real winner when played 'in the flesh' - I can see the unified crowd having it... and why not indeed. Things cool down next with the groovy lilt of 'Adult Child Charlamagne', more hillbilly acoustica with a baccy-chewing twist borne from hay-baled laden barns and dungaree drying outhouses.  The languid and laidback flow is easily digested and the simplified outpouring poses no problems to the lugs and the scribbling assessor.  I rate this as 'unfussed pondering' - is this a bad thing?

The last two with 'Change' having touching reflective tones and a somewhat melancholic tainting borne from too much time busking and burrowing deep into the cranial cavities. There is something soothing about the tonal quality of this song, something that almost dips into nostalgic soaked recesses and wins a favour - I am clueless as to what this 'something' is though. Meanderings from a metropolis with the melody restrained and the modus operandi to stay cool and observant - I like it.  Finally and 'The World Made Red' drifts, makes many points, has ideas and ideals and lets them drop forth with many anarchic leanings.  Rip it up and star again aims at creating a total rethink and a change of direction that may be the only route left to take.  A very formal structure comes with inclusions of ad hoc contrasts that add to the balance.  The creator is no rush to get matters done and happy to preach his chosen word - is this a bad thing and poison to my wham bam punky soul? I am utterly unsure but the essence and intent are spot on.

Interesting stuff here that is obviously an acquired taste and of a certain ilk that some will tune into, some won't - hey, that's music after all.  The are many positives here and I reckon as long as things are dealt in small doses and angles are thrown in there are some promising prospects in store - we shall see. 

   

CRASH INDUCTION - THE SECOND COMING

A band from Northampton/Milton Keynes who are always willing to do their bit and pick up the shitty end of the DIY stick.  Sometimes serious, sometimes not so, the acoustic offal vomited forth is what it is and has very many hallmarks of yesteryear with some trimmings from the here and now.  I know one thing, the last time they played a Fungal gig they were ruddy enjoyable - fingers crossed for this CD then.

First up and 'Anti Establishment' rusts along with pure unaffected honesty.  A good shuffling of the strings and a bouncy fun-time inclusion all make for something animated and appealing to my senses with the conundrum posed one I find myself out of sync with as most compromising situations I piss on and then carry on in my own way.  It may cost me money and that awful con called 'a career' but I pootle on and try as best as I can to maintain some consistency. We all fail, but better to try then capitulate.  I like the sound here and the questions summoned, this is good earthy racketeering without being vulgar or over the top.  The blend of components work and the feeling of something melodic and yet biting is achieved.  'Pineapple On My Pizza' is the follow-up, and if the truth be told (which it should) then I am not keen on this one.  A comedic song that is just too repetitious for its own good, a repetition that takes off the edge of some decent music and catchy guitar dabbling.  I don’t let these early blip hinder my enthusiasm.

'Jobshite' is more like it - fiery, worked up and fuzzing away with relished zeal.  A verse built of nasty noise and irritation, a chorus that hollers without complication and there you have it.  Within the gut of any DIY dabbling deviant there is a place for rackets like this - it is a place that gets activated by good lively noise belted out with a sheer love for the task at hand.  I find, that over many years, I am losing the ability to actually nail what this trigger point is, but I care not - this song hits the spot and I am happy with that!  'Delete My Browsing History' is a lovely listen and sagacious advice that I reckon many would care to partake of. The web-weaving wankers who like to indulge in a techno-tug will, if suddenly brought down with a life-ending curse, find themselves in a panic-stricken situation with a catalogue of corruption desperately in need of permanent erasure. The fact that the guys here have constructed a song about on-line ogling and wired-up willy wobbling says a whole lot about the creators and the world out there.  The deliver is utterly fluent and sing-a-long and is a ruddy good inclusion.  The playscape is washed through with breezy easy tunefulness and has a certain glint in the eye that I adore - nice one chaps.

'Dances With Wasps' is a fine bouncing track that deals with some feisty friends of mine who take no shit.  I like the verse moments here - utterly fresh and jig-inducing but oh those vulgar chorus chunks that deny the beauty of the sting-laden gits - what is all that about?  Ideal for upping the pinging tempo but please remember, wasps are fuckin' beautiful and a great part of the natural world - I love em'. If insects were followers of generic styles then surely the stripy, spiky bastards under the spotlight here would be punks.  Despite the conflict with my entomological love, I play this one several times over and let the boiled eggs (legs) do their thing!  'Waiting For Bono' has a good strong sense of rhythm, states its situation and drives forth with a good, crisp direction that deals with the U2 tossbag and what seems, an imaginary meeting.  Utter idiocy in its thinking, very effective in its delivery - the grabbing strums, the hot-hopping skin work and the usual lucid larynx donations all make for some sonic goodness without complication and profound codswallop - sometimes we need this kind of noisy nonsense.

Into the meat of the music proper and 'Fitbit Nitwit' titters and flows.  There is no fuss, no over-flexing of the muscles, just a slagging of those trying to keep in trim and look after themselves (and why not).  The fact that many charge up and do fuck all to stay on the right side of healthy is utterly laughable.  It is another obsession that the band deem fit to deal with and do so in perhaps the most uncomplicated way possible.  This song I feel lacks depth and could have been something more - I feel a trifle let down, oh bugger.  'In Your Pocket' immediately puts a bounce back in my balls with a crackpot song about the owners of man's best friend and the packet of turds they carry around with them.  The emanating cur draggers are on the increase – this is no bad thing as long as they keep their mutts away from wildlife sensitive areas and keep bagging the brownies.  Some will, some cunts won’t – they need to listen to this and crack on.

The back 5, 'Everybody Hates Drummers' is a whipping song that highlights a vindictive victimisation on a skin slapping bugger who I am sure doesn't deserve such a rough deal ha, ha.  The band have a right old pop at the man in the rear, a real dig at the stick wielding component and by heck, it is just as well I don't take this effort too seriously.  The song is quick, liable to raise a titter when played 'live' and will no doubt encourage a bit more abuse to rain down on the drummers bonce.  I don't mind this one at all and all the rusty elements and no-nonsense facets make it easy to get into.  'Wankbadger' is a holler out to the isolated spunk spillers locked away and tugging like highly aroused dick demons.  Personally I felt that the recent rules were there to be broken so rather than stop in and tug, I fucked off out and avoided the rivers of seeds.  I am sure many will be able to relate to this song and maybe will be happy to play loud and throw one off the wrist for old times sake. Tuneful tomfoolery is the bands modus operandi and they do what they do with good zest and zipping vigour.  Again the crew do not fuck about and make sure all areas get room to breathe and gain note.  Another easy ditty to couple up with - I am now awaiting a curveball, it is long overdue.

'OAP' celebrates the joys of getting on in years and falling to fuckin' bits - great isn't it!  The band waste no time in getting the many problematic points across with duff eyes, dodgy bladders and knackered hips - just a few niggles noted by players who are far from spring chickens.  Unlike the decrepit gits relaying the rhythms this song has good pep, an upright stance and plenty of vigour, although it is too similar to that which has been and I am still left crying out for something off kilter.  What I do like here is the admittance of being outdated, on the decline and lacking relevance - it is a wake-up call for many 'punks' baby!  'Life's Better When You Share' has sinister undertones, I am sure makes some dubious suggestions, but is a good hoppity-skippity swinger nonetheless.  I like the smooth drift, the easily accessible sound and the way it comes, goes and leaves one humming.  The curtains of cacophony are parted, we peep inside, are we witnessing confessions from the dark side - ooh heck, the next time these guys play for me I am putting a plaster on me arse but I will leave me lugs uncovered (sometimes sharing has to be limited).  Eventually we hit the finale with 'No Refund' - a closure that starts with a footy chant, a rusty push and then a blatantly honest (but tongue-in-cheek) escapade that kind of rubberstamps the way this band approach matters and how they feel about what they do. This is a good shut-down number, ideal for full-stopping the silver circle and I suspect, a 'live' set.  Don't worry though folks, the next time these guys play for me it will be free entry so if they are as shit as they suggest they are, you won't feel diddled.

Crash Induction I have seen once and I have now been subjected to a bout of recorded material.  My thoughts are these - the band are not in it to change the world, they are self-effacing and enjoying what they do and they are happy to crack on, chip in when required and have no delusion of grandeur.  The DIY spits out units like this on a regular basis - I am fuckin' glad it does.

   

CRYOGENICS - DON'T GIVE A FUCK

Cryogenics have been mooching around the music scene for quite a while, the genre in which they reside as seen them end up as rough and ready rockers not willing to compromise and sticking to what they love.  For me, the band spill street conscious cacophony with a raw-boned feel and without any need for unnecessary ornamentation of flash-arsing fuck-wittery.  The bakers shop of noise has many items for sale that are all sugary sweet but of no substance. What we get here is a thick-sliced loaf off the bottom shelf laden with a bit of worn in mold.

'No Escape' drags itself inwards and drives with solid intent.  The gruff and abrasive vocals are zoned in and growl and grumble with aged affect.  Restless and utterly fucked-off, a scene is set with the saw-bone lead guitar cutting at the attention, the bass supplying robust foundations and good rhythm whilst the stick work is quick, nimble and up for the game.  A temporary swing of the rhythm in slower fashion comes just before the closure - job done.  Mr Whippy pays a visit to the sonic street with ice and ices to sell as well as a few dubious items to get the kids hammered.  'You're Sick' takes no nonsense as it dishes the dirt on the drug-dealing deviant who puts a flake in a cone and drops an ecstasy tab in yer tub.  A real fuckwit is exposed by a band not looking to create anything new but to just indulge in some healthy clobberin' time and bugger ones senses with a clouting tune and a tale about a right twat.  Air-tight, incessant and sinewy - I think I may just order a Cannabis Cornet just to help me to stay calm.

'Ungreat Britain' spells matters out as regards a country that has turned to shit.  Quick and razor-bladed with unyielding assaults, this effort refuses to be halted and has the players perspiring and straining muscles I suspect they forgot they had.  The lightning lead-up to the rapid and rabid verse is bang on and has me foaming for a 'live' viewing - thankfully I have got these fuckers booked to play a gig very soon.  Onwards and 'Prostitute' is an explicit confession that pulses and pauses before revealing the extent of the damage done and the disease acquired.  Alas if one cares to dip ones dick in places unchecked and prod at privates unclean then what comes is what one deserves.  The regrets are tangible, the itch down below equally so - this is a decent ditty but I do hope the clap-doctor gave the creator of the crime real fuckin' hell ha, ha.

Another fast attack as the plastic and power-hungry US comes under fire.  'America's War' comes, goes and leaves one bewildered.  Several plays over the norm are needed, what we have is a savage attack played out in an uncompromising and watertight fashion with the crew relying on fury and inner gumption to get them through - they do just fine although the new arse-hole they have torn me is a trifle unfair I feel.  Next and 'Suicide Bomber' is a good mix of the flamboyant, the orthodox and the complimentary with tones, tempo and tetchiness all combining to make for a song that drills deep and makes sure this CD loses non of its impact.  Pure piss-soaked sonic sawdust kicked up with great deliberateness and toxicity - the methodology is now obvious, the content of the song pertinent in these dubious times.

The last batch of songs are upon me in double-quick time, with 'Deadhead' a raging interruption that flies in and flies out and stands its ground as a mere flashpoint. 'Police Brutality' flexes its flesh next and deals out some stark opinions of the Boys in Blue.  A superb sing-a-long song for those with a hate of the abusive uniformed idiots who take things a step too far and use their authority to bully the weak.  I love the song, of course recognise the need for good coppers in this wretched society but have no time for the macho wankers who throw their weight around.  Whilst playing this my grey gunk is focused on that filth, I love the tension relieving nastiness.

'Don't Give A Fuck' begins with swift rolling sticks and a Motorhead-esque feel before ploughing forth with irritation and a need to get on the outside of this rotten society.  A 'fuck-free' raving is spat forth with total conviction whilst all the while the gears grind and one is reminded of an ANL vibe and, may it be said, much simplicity.  Again, the spirit is bare-arsed, blatant and unapologetic - it is what it is and is music well drilled into this buggers noise-juddering carcass.  'Monsters' rises from the thermal ashes of the previous blow-out and then begins to prowl with purpose.  Sable and sinister tones flourish into a blossoming chorus that penetrates without piss-arsing about.  The collision of styles pays dividends as the song packs a weighty punch and unsettles and invigorates.  The ascending chorus spiral is again far from rocket science but it does the job and leaves one salivating. A firm-handed full stop.

For me, the Cryogenics have upped their game here and produced a really solid spiked and salted CD with much earthy and honest spillage that gratifies my neurons and scabbed up receptors.  This is music tattooed into my soul and no matter how clever I could try and be or how fuckin' advanced I could profess, this is music I can’t help but fuckin' adore.  If they match this CD when they play the forthcoming Fungalised gig I shall be one happy twat - bring it on.

   

SYSTEM RESET - MANY HANDS MAKE LIES WORK

Like a soiled nappy of noise with many emanations hitting the sensitive areas this expulsion from a Welsh-based band is stinking and as natural as it can be.  The Valley Boys are throwing their shit as per and I am happy to partake of a whiff and see what the fucked off buggers are up too.

Track the very first and 'March' tympanically skips in before a grubby gob off comes over the top of some feisty wire work and more skin slamming.  The feel is a combination of things old and things new with a harsh exterior seemingly hiding something smoother within.  Like a Milk Tray Strawberry Crème rolled in a nut-filled dog turd in fact - matters look worrying but if one is brave enough to partake of the taste, then it will be realized that things ain't half bad.  'Cut The Ties' turns me on a little more though, a real nut-filled treat liable to bust a few teeth and have one's arse bleeding if the inner contents are not fully digested.  Good anger, a wonderful bubble to the bass-line and a throat puke that is born of too many beers and too much shouting.  The rage is contained, but very real, with no polished edge making for something ineffective.  This opening brace has me salivating for an initial viewing of the crew, a viewing that will take place on a Fungalised gig don't ya know.

'Anxiety' comes next, is a fuckin' emotion I know all about.  It is a mental state that usually arrives with its partner in crime, namely 'Dick Von Depression' a pesky fucker that can send the head askew.  Here it seems we have a man in turmoil, in love, in a state of fuck-flux with no escape.  The tones given are still coruscated and very much home-made.  The pace is slower than the previous gush but the open-honesty of the delivery wins through and with the odd 'whoa hoa' and string skid thrown in I have no gripes.

'Crack My Head' batters away like a bonce against a brick wall.  The verse refuses to compromise the style whilst the sib-chorus rolls and rattles with a grimy inflection dictating.  The inner break is clattered and gives a chance for the string manipulators to masturbate their wired arms - this is head-peck escapism and a kick-back with much inner turmoil banished.  We all need moments like this and we all need to move on – and so I do!

'Dead On Your Feet' explodes from a background scuffle and assumes a good driving posture that is in keeping with all that has transpired.  The energy is reflective of a band having it and in no mood to give in.  The spirit flows with ease despite the bastards striving to take every last ounce of ones soul.  The hamster-wheel is turned, realisation leads to bewilderment which in turn leads to hollering anger as shown here - nice.

'Failsafe' arises from the background, fuzzes and fumbles before tumbling with an unwavering focus and a quite smoked-scorched affect.  From sonic smog comes a rhythm, a question, a creative force striving to gain attention and credit.  This is the tamest song in the pack so far with no real snag or immediate highpoint.  I reserve judgment on this one despite it being delivered in a tight-fashion and having a fine impetus - I shall await a 'live' viewing.  We finalised proceedings with 'Big Business',  The closure fights its way to the fore, splashes and crashes before ramming home its point and the fact that we are destined to get sucked into one all-consuming void of corporations and frustrations.  The throat worked here is at its rawest, the disgruntlement is blatant and the swing in the strings and slap-heavy tympanics all combine to sign off with a healthy wallop.  A real moving and grooving rodent of rhythm gnawing at your resistant privates and bringing something akin to a sensation - I duly lower my trousers and let the full force of the ravaging tingle my undercarriage.

Not a bad do this and whetting my appetite for a 'live' appointment with the band in a few weeks time, a date I am very much looking forward too.  Please check out this crew, there are no delusions of grandeur, ponsed up plucking or attempts at trying to break new ground - it is spit and sawdust doofing and that always does it for me.

   
Page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20,
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30
31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40
41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50
51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60
61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70
71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80