Having reviewed many offerings from Metal Postcards Records and one previous delivery from Jean Mignon I was looking forward to this 7 track slam-dunk from a player who left me previously enthused.  I jump headlong into the 'fuck free flow' and make sure I get fully immersed in the rock and rough up vibes.  The initial speed freak fuckery is a joy - here are my thoughts on all matters.

'Cause I'm Scared' offers up a 'No Thanks' before belting along with a fuckin' dynamite dirt-fest that pounds, punishes and ultimately pleases.  The heavy beat and thumping accents all whizz  along whilst the muffled mouthwork adds the finishing touch to a beautifully bubble-bursting explosion of alive and kicking acoustica laden with a thirst to get the groove happening and pulsing through your veins - dirty man, dirty.

'Me No Happy' pounds, grunts, thumbscrews with ardent relish.  A lick, a super-sizzle focus and a great guitar break prior to the first gobbings is a real treat and the follow-on speed-rush of mania is the kind of shit that shoots me up and gets me fuzzing and buzzing.  The recklessness combined with the quick gear shifts and incessant turmoil all make for a car crash waiting to happen.  Thankfully the player at the wheel is in-tune and knows his own rhythmic roads - splendid' 'You Right Da Whole time Actually' is a supersonic head-melt of feisty fuckery with the pace set passionate and epileptic whilst any essence of sanity is lost in a gale-whipping maelstrom of cruel confusion.  This is the trickiest tune to stay with thus far but the life, the action and the spit-spray are worth the draining effort.

'Well Fed Hog (Me)' is a mush of self-pleasure that fun-fucks with a porno vulgarity not to be shied away from. The acoustic hips grind out a strong reactive pleasure trip whilst the inner organs of sound are screwed and vibrated with hard-on efficiency.  The song has a deep rhythm, the erogenous zones are slowly bruised, used and abused and all we can do is keep coming back for more.  The end result is a hurtful eruption.

'Unsending An Apology' is my favourite blister creator with its wild and unleashed properties wonderfully combined with an adherence to a mentalised methodology that just works a treat. Snotty and sub-arrogant mouth work salts matters up whilst the pepper is added via a spazz-jazz spray of unpredictable fortune.  To play this loud, to lose the mind and to end up in a raped and ravaged heap is a fuckin' pleasure - have it up yer arse fuckers.

The final two with 'Sweet Burning Hog' the most psychotically stable and almost resembling something almost acceptable.  This doesn't take away anything from the end result with the pseudo country-fied mock, and well wanked cacophonic cock, all adding elements to ponder further.  The condensed noise, the overall weight and the trimmings that offer further options all bring a certain change in tack although the glammy slag rock hints make sure we know who we are dealing with.  'Fat Kid Rope Swing' comes with a ruddy hot-assed groove without following its predecessors and going at matters in a suicidal style.  Bouts of composure are interspersed with temptations to veer off track and smash headlong into a sonic bollard just for the hell of it.  The song juices up, the accelerator is only lightly touched and we continue in an almost orthodox manner before a grunt, a strum and an abrupt skid into silence.

Having dealt with a previous EP by this dude I can honestly say that I reckon the formula used here is bang on and the general spirit and spunk exposed is all fine sonic fodder to chomp on over and over again.  The life imbuing properties, the ravaging scatter-clatter and the vigorous injections of pace all have me applauding a fine 7 track treat - tis unwashed, unprocessed and unapologetic.



Well, seeing I had reviewed the first 6 of these fine releases I thought that I may as well assess this latest offering from the DIY stalwarts at Punk 4th Homeless.  They do what they do, make great progress, mix and match and change a few lives – this is all good stuff.  What is a label without an ethos, what is an ethos without action, and what is the point of a label anyway? Crack on folks.

We open with the billowing abrasion that is 'Step Back' by the wound unit known as Shreds.  The clanky raw guitars, the machine rattle of the tympanics and the head down charge of the first verse welcome us to this latest collection of songs with an appreciable amount of wallop.  This opening gift has good fire in its belly, hollers with earnestness and has touches of something hardcore whilst holding on to the more orthodox aspects of the punky realm - tis a decent do man.  The quick follow-up is beautifully furious and is a fine kick back against much filth and disgruntling disaster.  Kick The Clown move with a dirty and unaffected prowess whilst delivering their upheaval known as 'Redacted'.  The inner switch down that exposes deep pain could be accused of hindering matters but it does indeed add to the overall emotive torture - the final primeval scream only accentuates these thoughts.

Thrash and smash mania comes next via Knife Crime who blaze a mean trail via their brutal assault known  as 'Beat Them'.  This is real sub-scene H/C hammering that certainly has its place and is always a choice addition to any CD.  This kind of music needs to be played well and nailed with passion to be of any value, here the band own the rights to their own victory with a concrete clout donated from bastards with a fine problem.

The Hate are a fuckin' good band, are effective on CD and in the 'live' pit and are decent fuckin' folk too.  A relatively new unit but one I am always happy to support.  Here they knock out their typical brand of tonal toxicity via ‘Tek Em To School’ with great forthright authority and a whipping zest to be caught up by.  Tis' rough and ready spiked noise that some will say offers nothing new, I on the other hand claim it to be fine bread and butter battering that I am always ready to chomp on.

'See You When I See You' contrasts with the previous song as it comes from the more melodic and new school side of things.  Hummer are of this ilk, it is an area I am happy to dip in now and again but not somewhere I would permanently rest my ass and wallow.  The trimmings here are reminiscent of the sub-genre and many similar offerings have crossed my lugholes over many years.  Hummer have great articulation, a smooth flow going on here and will meet the needs of many new-skool (old hat now I know) listeners.  Army Of Skanks pop up next with a well-crafted tonal titbit that begins with a sinister utterance, a solid drum beat and some quirky vocals that have me thinking of something highly Benthamised.  A very sanguine and bouncy track this with a deeper under-grumble to add to the overall depth.  The political intrigue of 'Mind Control' is as it suggests and the brief but aerated chorus adds a sweet contrast to matters but doesn't let us forget the head is the target zone for the bastards in power.

The remarkable Rites of Hadda swing into the fray next with the quite delicious '9 Of Swords' – a sensual blend of acidic music, sinuous sonica and something that has that elusive 'X' factor that makes this a force to be reckoned with.  The dark side is trespassed, the suggestion of things other worldly and the cohesive musicianship all make for a choice moment from a band who never fail to delight - a real pinnacle. Fyzz Wallace Band have the awkward position of following such an accomplished moment and do so with their offering known as 'The Week After I Bleed'.  This is a recognisable girly pop punk piece with some textures obvious, emotions well-posted and the general drift honest and open.  There is a great freshness here and a certain strength that pisses on the aforementioned 'girly' tag.  I hate the term, but the use I hope (and the following golden shower) all helps to accentuate what is going on here. A real good exposure of the trouble of being a victim to the 'cycle'.  Poorly Trained Radicals contribute a neat little snippet next with the trancey and testing 'Truth Decay'  This is a fine patchwork of sounds that seems to go with its own flow and react when and where necessary.  Some good 'off the cuff' thinking seems to be the outcome here with a whole heap of creative and unrestrictive goodness flowing through every vein of the vibrating beast - a real surprising winner.  The skanky essences are spot on too.

'The Dirt' by The Missing Persons List is a fuckin' first class episode of DIY noise that is raw, unwashed and fuckin' proud to be the grubby element in your oh so hygienic, processed and quite unnatural situation.  This is a celebration for all the outsiders, one's who don't want to play games, dress up and fall into each acceptable line of every niche - a smashing inclusion.  Bat Flattery come with something utterly honest and yet well disguised under a cloak of 'outside the circle' acoustica that does take a little adjusting too.  There is good value during 'Clap City' though and the effort to get into the drift is worth it - I like these growers and I like bands that don't opt for the routine rhythms that really are flogged to buggery - good work indeed methinks, the blend between the new, the old, the gentle and the more forceful, is effective.

A 'live' offering next via A Kick In The Bits (featuring The Waltham Forest Brass Band).  'Tory' is what it is, has a subtle anarcho suggestion and something more street-based with its politico kick back against the blue-clad thieves who have taken the piss for far too long. There is a certain cacophony here that gives a feeling of two clashing counterpunches coming together and making for something of a joyous fracas.  It is wholesome DIY spitting done in a primitive but cute way - and the message is quite clear - bastards hey!  Gestalt blow out some different valves via their persuasive sub-ambient/sub trancey mix of liquid cum space-age noise that deals with 'Another Love Song'. There is a self-assured manner with all areas well-throbbed and in cahoots.  The end result is an 'E' up mix with a potency not to be underestimated.  It may not be my everyday choice of tonal cha' but I am more than happy to take a sip here and there.

Steam Kittens take us into the final few flings with the highly saturated soundscape of 'Save The World'.  The underscore of noise gallops along, the verbal deliverer keeps pace, the zest is enhanced by some harmonica hard-ticklings and just a tympanic incessancy that refuses to let the flow meet any impediment.  A rousing piece to play when getting out of bed just to get one in the perfect frame of mind.  A real arse blower this and moving us into the more simplistic tune of 'Free Palestine (Occupation No More)' by the evergreen Rabies Babies.  This is perhaps the most basic tune of the lot but stamps its authority with a strong 'flag nailing' message that many will be in line with.  There are no rich textures here, no intricate qualities or subliminal extrovert touches - it is DIY music with a point to make and has some real reminiscences of old-school vibes that I pick out of my collection now and again and ruddy well enjoy.  The pompous may find areas to critique - they overlook that it is about people having a go and saying what they feel.

One of the best tracks on show here is the poetically articulate gem that is given a neat twist via the skilful creators known as The Star Botherers.  This tuneful folky bitter-kick against the parliamentary halfwits who cruelly piss on the plight of the many is a real loquacious lilt with great emotive control and wonderous word-smithery.  It covers the whole gamut of corruption that we have all witnessed over many years - how long this can go on is anyone's guess, I suspect no matter which fucker is in power it would be the same, but these Conservative fuckers need outing - listen, take heed, get on it.  We close with the mindless demon-kicking hell-shower known as 'Fayan (1000 Cigs)' by the mentally crippled Fetus Destruction.  This is a harsh acid-storm borne from a bunch of Birmingham-Based brutalists who have no reason to know any better. A complete saturation shut-down done with a keen razor eye and ear for such worthy discordance.  It signs off the CD in an unexpected, unorthodox and unapologetic way - what a way to go.

Volume 7 done, verbally vandalised by this honest bastard and I hope duly appreciated for what it is.  This is another example of how we are overrun with quality and beauty in the DIY scene and how, too many are side-tracked into matters more polished, more affected and more deliberately processed.  We need to keep these folks encouraged, doing and creating - I do my small humble bit, the question I leave you with is 'do you do yours'?



More weird and warped angularity from the lo-fi electric folk forayer who isn't afraid to wander into territory forbidden.  We have 3 tickles here, once again on the Metal Postcard Records label, a label that likes to give people a journey into the unknown and hopefully stretch their sonic imaginations beyond the norm.  

'Propaganda' has a soft and tender dreamy soundscape whilst the sub-spoken/sub-sung verbals come, flow with Iggy-esque lilts and an ambiguous poetical drift I have yet to fully grasp.  Again, the OC creator does what is needed in a quite non-conformist and dis-musical way that has the ability to create a certain fascination.  We have a brief glimpse of a productive force that needs to declutter the cranium, banish a few niggling needs and just do - it is all very odd and disarming, it is for the awkward sod who likes things befuddling and charming.

50 seconds of decadence next with a sweet tune overlain with musings from a man with a beer, a seeming wannabe hard-on and a pressing need to expose one's inner passions.  Quick, off-the point, laden with with a deep-rooted frustration methinks and not the finished article.  Akin to half a wank, we want more, we want a final buzz, we get a tease that is a tickling torture.

'Health Risk' perhaps continues the theme set, it is a culmination of a triptych of angular artistry that may be best left unfolded.  Of course there are perverts who feel the need to examine and read into matters things that are just not there.  I listen several times over, I am only getting the usual sensations, there is talent, it is left untapped, is this a deliberate ploy? I am frazzled.

I may not be taken here, not fully swung over to the experimental, demon-banishing meddlings but I am in no way against this kind of shizzle.  We must have things outside the norm, on the cusp and leaving one think 'what the absolute fuck' - I am now wandering into opposing realms.



A band with a name that could have a sell-by-date but a band with a name with great pertinence.  It would be oh so easy to overlook the fiasco of the virus when people were easily backed into a corner, gently nudged towards indulging in some despicable and laughable behaviour whilst all the while many services were left to go to pot and the system was rearranged and the public left floundering.  The Facebook page tells me the band are 'a result of a lockdown experiment in 2021 - covering animal rights, property developers, politics...' - I like the sound of this and so have the band booked for a gig already.  Here is a 5 track tickler and here, of course, are my thoughts.

'NHS Mess' opens with an annoyance we are all too familiar with before a quick 4-tap and the opening verse is upon us.  A she-snarl comes with great frustration spilling over.  The fuckers have had their plans, they have had us all over, the masses take the easy flow and we are left with a disaster.  The privatisation plan is taking hold and bearing bent fruit - have it or die. The initial spilling here is acute and very effective, the composition moves with fluent and acidic spite, the overall end tune makes a good impact and has me slightly salivating for another acoustic ‘hit’.

'Puppy Killers' bounces along before gobbage comes.  The opening account states a case, a situation where cash creates killing whilst animals are once again the brunt of many useless needs.  The word needs to be spread, the band do so with a great retro ALF-style that has many winning assets, most notably the DIY accents, the raw basics used so well and the anarcho lilt of matters that really works a treat.  There is something honest and passionate here, many will be aloof and not give a toss (such is life) but some will use this a fuel to keep the fires of resistance stoked - and so they should.

The shortest song of the fivesome looks at the damning destruction and the overall dilution that sees a country turn to monochrome shit and grey slabs of depression.  The coin dictates with the few taking away a pocketful of cash so as to buy the same old shallow shit and try and make themselves look good in the eyes of the vacuous - ooh the silly cunts.  I like the impetus here, the terse running time which makes the point more impacting and of course, more appealing to my attention span.  A very worthwhile jaunt and rather than stay 'Under The Jackhammer' I suggest you fuckin' kick back big time.

The final tonal twins - the first sonic sprog to drop into my aural lap is the elongated imp known as 'Trigger Happy PC'.  This one deals with the corrupt coppers who are stained with idiocy, racist leanings and a certain unhinged quality that makes them unfit for service.  I am sure the ACAB brigade will love this one but it must be stated, many bad eggs doesn't make for an addled whole - we must be fair but... those fuckers taking advantage of their position need outing and those contributing to racial tensions (on all sides) need fuckin' halting in their tracks.  This is a pertinent, cultured and quite powerful piece, with reggae-skank tones, good street-wise vibes and some sound acidic sniping.  One to absorb over many sittings with the smoother more controlled moments neatly intercut with temperamental surges and spittle soaked savage attacks - ruddy smashing.

The finale comes, it has an eager start, comes under the tag of 'Murder Burger' and has a real retro scuzz vibe with stated verbals that rattle out facts some may be shocked by.  This is more vegan vitriol against the cruel animal for food industry that is run for profit and nothing more.  Education is the key, and of course making a little effort. This is a real vicious episode of sub-music and full-on resistance that some may be utterly turned off by. Of course the subject matter is divisive, it shouldn't be but one knows the responses that will come in some areas. This kind of output is always valid, agree, disagree - I respect it.

And so we have a very acidic, passionate and slam-dunking quintet of quarrelsome noise that some people will adore, some will find hit and miss and a few (as there always is) will be offended by.  I suspect those jabbed up, chomping on a burger and following the flow will be mighty miffed, I am just glad I have these booked in for a gig as I am sure it will be a joy to witness and will keep folks on their toes - yes!  End result for me - a darn decent opening din.



Released on Suicide Records what we get here is a savage and unapologetic white-hot meteor shower of Swedish-borne hardcore that refuses to compromise the output.  This is bleak, somewhat nihilistic noise-fest that many on the peripheries may get sucked in by whilst those already in the midst of the mayhem will be duly sucked off by.  I ping from sonic situation to sonic situation, I have dealt with many similar shit-splats and here I go in again, bare-handed and with honesty as my only protection.

The summing up of the despair and hopeless desolation may be at its starkest during the opening number known as 'Shitefeist' - a number built on an initial drum thunder, raw warnings and then a meteor storm of searing malevolence.  This opening salvo captures the attention, leads us into a fiery chorus that has a slightly more aerated effect before a brief respite is taken and then the serious chorus-based beating is issued.  There is a blue-light warning within the weave, great snarling disgust and, at times, a skittering sensation to the string work that adds a crucial extra life.  This song doesn't hang about, at 2 minutes and 33 seconds it is perfectly timed - anything shorter would be insulting to the listener, anything longer would dilute the impact - a fuckin' fine opener.

'Mass Crowning' jabs, twists, jabs again and makes mincemeat of the listener's aural passage.  This is gangrenous brutality that aims to cause great distress with its tight and accurate incessancy.  More time is needed to capture the full gist of this terse tornado of tonal hate - when you do actually get to grips with matters make sure you wear thick gloves and ear defenders - wow baby, these fuckers are in no mood to play it easy.

Track 3, 'Tin Foil Party People' pronounces with great stature before a fearsome buzz-screw penetrates deep and sets the stage for a wonderfully horrific hate-fest that has a dazzling magma glow to take heed of.  The intensity of the piece and the dark and shatterproof presence are the key factors here as well, of course, as the watertight musicianship that is played with tamed ferocity that makes for something quite stunning.  As per, this is not everyone's chosen cha but by heck, it tastes good and burns without apology.  'Time Island' is more traditional walloping and has me making comparison to many similar belt-outs I have come across over many years of head wanking violence.  In part matters are more shackled, in others they are left to run wild, the mix is potent and will meet the burning needs of many who reside in this uproarious pit - ooh the decadent bastards.

'I Will Refuse' features David Sandstrom (a man with sticks to sear the senses) and begins with a sound bass grumble and persistent beat. The escapade here is replete with fiery defiance and what is, a non-compliance.  The build-up prepares, we know what to expect.  The unleashing of the ill-temper and upchuck of virulence is a fine escort if one needs a musical kick up the jacksie.  The balance of all components is exact, the band know their style and are certainly adept at getting the best from their product. The follow-up to this effective outburst is 'Golden Chasms' - a nightmare of abuse that fuck-tumbles with stagger-inducing violence and a breathless tautness that really does knock the senses for six.  Eventually we have a somewhat off-the-cuff volcanic reaction that kicks, spurts, runs wild and orgasms.  The fury is magnetic, the holistic completeness of the soundscape awash of intertwining hammering that makes for another air-free strangler - smashing.

With a more subdued commencement and may I say, something more orthodox 'Creative Weapons Of Killing' seems to be heading for the most 'commercially clean' offering of the lot.  I am duped and although this song has more melody and restraint it is still a noxious mix many delicate poppists and tune chasers will be choked by - this is not a flaw.  I think this is a fine offering with a good underlay of attractive tonality that contrasts well with the tonsil-tearing tirade that is par for the course.  As I consider further, maybe we have the best song of the lot.  'Shame, Smite, Subside' is a real gristle-tearing number that is not one of my faves.  Evil machinations play out a nightmare and cultivate horror visions of mechanical mayhem gone awry.  The turn of the crushing cogs, the interplays of snarled up debris and the attempt at contrast all bring about a beefy end product that, for me at least, just lacks that snag factor.  I think this is one for the dedicated hardcore nutjobs who are immersed in the intricacies of the aural offal - nasty swines they be.

3 to go, 'Glowing Kids' clubs away with a great repeat-fuck passion before matters unfold and a stinking sonic spew flows.  The band are zoned in, encased in a crypt of all-consuming creative pandemonium.  The heat rises, when the unit surges we have a zenith attained, in the midst of the ball-stamping bombardment we have moments of a paradoxical cruel-respite and some severely excellent musicianship that shows a band always looking to drive home the crux of matters with the utmost precision.  This is a real mammoth that just grows in stature.  The last but one track and 'Welfare Collapse' unforgivingly pounds and pummels with help from the frontman of Skitsystem, that unapologetic Swedish hardcore band.  This is a quick fist fuck that blinds the listener with the intensity of a cranial orgasm and leaves one in a panting heap.  Again, all areas are exact, efficient and played by hands of molesting malevolence.  The terse timing is adequate and perfectly enhances the fist slam that really does bruise the flesh.  

The closure comes via 'Swiper', a vile incantation borne from hardcorian chasms where only the most enslaved reside. This is a blood-letting feast for the vampires of slow, sonic violence with a crawling desire to drag things out and prolong the perversion.  As an occasional visitor (over many year) to this darker side, I know my preferences are for this kind of music to be played fast and hard over a short running time, I can still acknowledge the need for contrast though and how well this final song is executed.

You see, even those on the outside of certain niches can still show a good appreciation of solid music and still venture into the realms of positivity without claiming to be an ardent fan.  I like what this lot do and know for sure they will win many plaudits and fans.  The generic pool in which they dwell doesn't suffer fools or slack-wristed strummers not fully immersed in the artform. Child have more than enough to swim with the best of them and duly deserve a Fungal thumbs up here - I am not willing though to take a headlong plunge into this head wanking world yet - this punk likes it varied.



Grow Your Own Records occasionally pop up in my e-mail inbox and gently hint at requesting a review. I am an acoustically idiotic man who does too much as it is but I like what transpires here and am happy to scribble the odd assessment. Under the spotlight here is a band I am not familiar with, they sound like they may give one the 'tonal itch' and have 5 tracks here to start off a rhythmic rash that I may regret.  Info is scarce online, they appear to be a 3-piece and have a good angular output, an output that instantly snagged the attention of this old cacophonic cunt that is for sure.

'Heart Breaker' opens with a superb rust on the crust with the vocals alive, happening and hungry.  This quick acidic she-shout is a great energetic piece of face-slapping and done with a gusto I am easily drawn toward. After a life of listening to many flavours of noise I am still stricken when the offering is terse, tonally active and laden with zest - here we have such a piece and at 1 minute 22 seconds I find the timing utterly exact.  There is a great snotty retro-vibe going on with some revitalising youthfulness that we must encourage – it is all fuckin’ joyous despite the acidic verbals.  'Selling Out' could be about many of the bands I have seen dilute their output and chase the coin whilst many new breed outsiders get a duff deal. Being close to the ground reveals all kinds of insincere shittery taking place but I am happy to throw the frauds to one side and move on with the fresh faced fuckers whose beliefs are not blemished.  This punchy number opens with great bounce and pertinent questions whilst having a manic feel throughout.  The vocals are honest and lucid, the squirming fakes who have sold their arse to the Devil can almost be seen, and the incessant rumble-grumble is all the more effective due to the lucid lead lass being so fresh and fruity in her approach.  A cracking snippet borne form yore, given a kick to the fore.

'Riot' is typical spiky fodder that I have heard a million times before. This doesn't detract from the fact that the boisterous brick thrown our way has sound aim, many nasty edges and a great degree of life affirming wallop.  There is a fine holler surfing on the scuzz whilst the sticks make sure all areas keep foamed and frothed and the destination unsure. A midway change in tack sees matters ascend to the effervescent situation that leads to the final wipe-out silence.  The speedburst is a rewarding moment and takes into the regular sounding 'What's Your Problem' - a ditty built of orthodox verse and chorus trademarks with the usual verbals questioning the cunts in control.  I love it, the sing-a-long snatch consumes my resistance, the street-edged reality and the earthiness are what make this bastards wheels turn.  DIY can be, and usually is, a marvellous thing - here I feel, we have a prime example. I need not pontificate or over-elaborate anymore - the proof is in the pudding - brilliant, and with added saxiness.

'Nothing You Can Do' closes this fine penta-punk package with a deep mean growl, an open and fresh spouting with a real fine trash and smash quality brought to life by each and every component that are individually brash, unprocessed and noisily natural.  There is much snot snorted forth, a fuckin’ robust defiance and, as said, a real purity of sound that has not been screwed through via the processing department.  Smashing stuff and one with a final crawl that will hopefully open the next EP and bring some delicious continuation and more of the same please.

Well, I find this a well-aerated, soul-lifting and healthy clobbering burst of proper streetpunk that is played for the lad/lass in the thoroughfare who needs a kick up the arse and a spring in their step.  I am impressed and just hope the band keep it as raw and as energetic as this and keep away for the lure of making music for others instead of themselves. Cracking.



Andy Goz is a creative force who will not bend or buckle under the idiot demands of conformist music making and all that processed and prick-kissing nonsense that goes with it.  He creates, shrugs and does what he does.  I have reviewed many examples of his acoustic overspills, I am keen to always help the DIY doofers and here goes another punt at... maybe something, maybe nothing, the art is in the doing don't ya know.

'Ghost Of First Responders' begins matters with a lively momentum and some resounding clashes of many animated elements.  The vocal addition is slaggy and cool, the underflow of bubbling bass larva gives the whole operation an extra authority and what we have here is the old mixed with the new, the cacophonic shot through with the crude whilst all the while the creators know what they are doing and are making for a rewarding bout of maladjusted musical mayhem that is just kept within the rubber room of decency.  'Been Asleep And Can't Wake Up' is a sludgy splodge of moving music that doesn't have an immediate impact but is a number that slowly invades the epidermal layer and wins a certain level of conviction.  The whole mush of masturbated pseudo-melodic molestation slowly seeps through the outer flesh, pervades with a shifty know-how and, surprise, surprise, has the misfit inside tapping its digits to the buggered beat of ill-intent.  A strange piece for sure but that is how the limbless ones operate - I remain unsurprised.

'I Got Shoes' is a devious little bastard with decadent designs. An early groove is tattooed deep with fuzz-radio gobbage and the atypical LT languid lilts.  A sloppy sneer and a threat to disgrace the holy substrates of the afterlife and the true underhand sinisterism of the song is exposed.  As matters progress a greater gratification in the promised misdeed is blatantly brandished - I shudder and smile with secret passions.  I have reviewed 'Huffin' on my site already - it is an exciting tune that the old glue-sniffers will be able to relate to as the 'Wah, Wah Monster' arises from the depths of the mind and the aromas of the chemical head-fuck invade the nasal passages.  I like it!  I also like the upbeat rhythm of 'Somebody's Getting Paid' - a real fractured wire wank travels in a rickety rock and roll way whilst the tympanic passenger maintains balance and the snotted hollerer states an obvious case where bass controls in front of and behind the scenes at all times.  When shit hits the fan, all goes seemingly well - dosh is exchanging hands and some fucker is on the make - bah.  A good mover and groover this with plenty of upheaval in the mix.

Further into the realms of the rabid restlessness and 'The Girls' is a real mean fucker with a fully-focused zoning in that is rudely interrupted by some head-jarring mania and a few spoken disbeliefs from lasses bewildered.  The opening segment is a marvellous moment and one the band should grab by the gonads and manipulate into a new darker construct with full emphasis lain on this riffing accent - tis nasty stuff ma'an.  'Don’t Fall Down And Hurt Yourself' travels with a strait-jacketed focus on tracks lain out in a perfect straight line with no transgressions into nearby cacophonic realms allowed.  The bass is the main driver and stands on the footplate of the acoustic train and keeps all fires stoked and the steam rising.  The plumes that are left behind pollute ones senses and has them appreciating a good old blow-out done with a certain degree of control. 

Further into the disjointed carcass of sound we probe with the spasm-retch of 'A Sincere Apology' dished out with energetic wide-eyed infatuation for all things flurried and whipped up.  This is a maelstrom of delirium borne from a monomaniac with one sole intention - to avoid the routine.  The breathless and almost anxious mania culminates in an overflow of almost catastrophic disjointed discordance - somehow matters are just kept on the right site of decent.  'Big Ones' is a real dirty groomer that strolls with an almost arrogant insouciance that gives the song a real cock-sure swagger.  The compression of the multifaceted music and the eventual nag-effect all make for a song that comes forth like an enveloping melodic mist one is unapologetically enshrouded by.  Short, strangulating, supremely saturated - if you play this one loud you need to be very careful - your inner giblets will turn to juice and your rectum may prolapse - please, do not blame me.

'The Destroyer' seems to hybridise the dark gothic tones and moody temperament of Joy Division with the oral tones of Lou Reed.  Throw into the mix the creators own DIY accents and what we get is an interesting sprawl-drawl that drags one back to times of then before giving one a prod up the jacksie to get them back to the here and now.  Again, we have a tuneful biscuit to dip carefully in your assessing tea which I suggest you suck on its very slowly so as to appreciate all flavours and avoid a fleeting flop. 'Sunny' has great energy and solar-glinting accents that gradually becoming less dazzling whilst the vocal virus grows in its potency.  The underscore of the song relies on a grubby and highly magnetic bassline as well as some skittering sticks that help with the overall nervous energy of the piece.  The passion overflows, the ending comes out of the blue - I am intrigued.

The finale is a crass drawl sprawl that I am not keen on at all.  'If I Knew Her Name' is shag and tell deviancy dragged out over too long of a course with no real highs and no real lows.  The content is not my thing and the lack of overall expression and nob-tingling zeniths is a faux pas for a final track.  It is a real shame to end on a duff dabble - sometimes that is just the way the boisterous biscuits crumbles.  

The tangents, the barbs, the misdirections, the acoustic erections have all been negotiated yet again and I end up as puzzled, piqued and pleasantly tickled by another unpredictable cum predictable paradox that is what it is.  If you are in the loop, or read my musical meanderings, you will know what has just transpired, if not, jump on it!



My 6th venture into the silver-circle donations proffered by this 3 piece from Teesside.  I am not one to rush matters and commit a cacophonic crime by throwing down a brief assessment whilst giving a CD minimal time - I may have a backlog and I may have many matters on the go but I believe it is always better to give noise good time, especially with bands like The Inklings who don't stick within distinct generic boundaries.  Here is another slab of Fungalised opinions, on a dozen deliveries of varied flavour.

'Puppet' begins with gentle textures, the opening verse deals with an entrapment, a slave who can't say 'no'.  The authority of the vocal is commanding and the slip into the whispered chorus is ideal. This damning cutlet is ensued by a keyed moment that keeps the listener intrigued and guessing.  The arrangement grows in stature, the band are an knoeledgeable outfit with obvious influences not borne from any specific scene.  The impetus and melody increases and when I rack up the volume, so does my interest and appreciation levels.

'Four Seasons In One Day' is poetical majesty and played out with care, precision and a blatant design that will not be rushed.  An emotive roller-coaster is shackled and kept under tepid tonal blankets whilst the words are delivered over a tender soundscape that is perfect for the job at hand. It could be said the The Inklings spend too much time within the peripheral greys of the spectrum and fail to jump into the multicoloured zones many partake of.  I could agree with this but hey, let us applaud what the band do and how well they do it. This is not everyday music but it has its place and is decent output indeed. 'Welcome TO The Light' promises to dash from the sombre into the sparkling, it begins with a a bold pronouncement and has a good beat to the verse. A few inner poundings, a slick move and an interception of alter rhythm before a repeat and then the sanguine chorus comes and goes with good impact had.  Once again we have a very recognisable track with an overspill of meritorious points to ponder further.  Comfortable indeed.

'Occam’s Razor' has tranquil tones, tiptoes inward, plays it utterly cool, invades like a malevolent mist before man-handling with slightly more authority.  The chorus is too plain methinks and doesn't make for a full-on clash factor and although the evolution of the song is strong and the verbal detail thought provoking, I find that this is an imbalanced affair with the mid-section outcompeting the surrounding sonica.  'Hideaway' is a progressive song that seems as though it was borne several years after the initial punk explosion and was something we would consider as 'light post punkery'. For me it is a delicately played song with no need of any generic slotting, it is a mere lightweight drifter that has to be listened to when the mood is just right, especially if you prefer tones more brutal and muscular.  When I compare to similar offerings from bands given more credit I see this more than holding its own.  Yeah, it may not be my bag but the quality is there to be admired and, now and again, promoted.

'Candlelight' begins with compressed tones, a deliberate beat before plodding forth with exactitude smattered with skin scatters. We open up with an almost pseudo-chorus and then we carry on as per. Matters eventually rise and dramatically alter tack, the result is players tested but not bested with another cultured tune dealt with in decent fashion.  'Promised Out' has a despair, a real pang in the general vibe and yet, at times, oceanic movements give one a strange feeling of hope, a hope it seems that comes against all the odds. This is a motivating track if used as fuel for the defiant fire.  Many will fold, even worse they will take the easy route and try and pinch a life, that is a fuckin' piss-take and I suggest you play this loud, accept the shittery and fucking fight back.  I like this one a lot, the louder the better, please do not overlook it.

'Take It From Me' is a fruity devil that mixes the groovy, the semi-funky and the serious. The tonal elements gracefully move from the semi-clad into the fully garbed with the fluency of the drift consistent and effective.  For long-term fans of the band all the trinkets of recognisability are still there, deeply tattooed into the flesh of the sounds exported from disc to eardrum. A cool track in part, a trifle more heated in others - it does the business.

'Who They Gonna Make You Blame Today' is a precise and studious beauty with some very pleasing sonic touches as well as an educated orchestration borne from minds who have a great wealth of musical nouse.  The opening bars are minimal, the words slightly scary, the world exposed as a very frightening place. The key to the content is 'respect', the complete circuitry of the song is well designed and of an unbreakable loop - nice.

The last 3, I refuse to dawdle.  'It's In The City' has a deep bass rumble, a strict rigidity of tone and observes the static scenario of life draining crappery that goes on in the big inner shitty. The band have all their tones well balanced and progress at their own pace, this one leaves me a little flat however, maybe it is the austere regimentation of the arrangement or the content matter.  'Just The Beginning' appears to be an underhand little sidler with the opening throes laden with suspicious accents and spectral tremor-inducers. A groove is eventually found, albeit with the bass commanding matters and the advancement both slow and tepid.  We have a twilight consideration here, an overly controlled opioid that in some way soothes but can, if the mood is out of sync, aggravate.  It is a professional piece but a little too laboured for me.

The finale comes under the tag of ‘The Day Everybody Dies’. A pulsation of comforting essence, vocals that suggest a subtle eagerness, and a solid Inklings effort showcasing all the bands usual trimmings and sophisticated weavings.  Again, the 4-cabled weapon plays a major part whilst the main guitar neatly spruces matters up and the skins are beaten with care and good momentum inducing safety.  A good closure reeking of what the band do well and exposing a concrete and quite clever closing flourish.

Again I have taken my time with a CD that deserves good attention. The Inklings are sticking to their tried and tested tonal route here and why the Hell not?  I would like to see them really stretch themselves on the next outing and make for some real sonic splashes though this is steady noise to consider over a good lengthy period and is another fair donation to the collection.



Via the Punk 4 The Homeless music machine came this 6 track blast of enraged sounding discordance that immediately met the needs of my cacophonic caveman desires.  I have a real penchant for immersing my lugs in the acoustic overflow as heard here, many would say I need to 'get over it' and listen to material more polished, I say 'go fuck yerself you affected and tone deaf halfwits'- one has to be honest tha' knows.  Anyway, 6 tracks by a band I know fuck all about and, if you want to lean more, go and do some research ya lazy gits.

'Tory Cuts' is a seething beauty, spitting hot molten gunk with infecting rage that is riddled with DIY spikiness I for one fuckin' adore.  The unscrubbed upper scum, the sub-epidermal filth and the cruddy core all comes together to create a living zombie of enraged passion that can't wait to strangle out a positive pogoing response.  The chugging crud shamble is delicious, the gravelly vocals that are snarled with rabid rage all add to the steaming effect that has me drawn in like an arse-fly to a shit-laden duffel bag.  Fuck the politicians, go throw a brick, get this rammed down yer throats and kick back. 'Shit@CPR' is a nail-gun slam dunk of mid-paced nastiness that has a sub-comedic slant one can't help but be amused by.  The reckless wannabe life-saver eternally cocks it up and the frustration is more than a little tangible.  The riffing deliberateness is once again streaked with toxicity, the outcome is a very polluted piece of sonic sewerage that I am more than happy to bathe in.  The boils and puss-filled sores that come from wallowing in such beautiful acoustic effluence like this are veritable bodily medals to bear with pride.  A solid piece of DIY decadence methinks.

'Stationery Thief' is a delicious moment of idiot humour that relates a tale of a straight-edge kleptomaniac who works in an office and who has an inkling to pilfer paper, pens, A4 wallets and other such working day ephemera.  The chop and charm of the concoction works well and the upbeat score of sound that operates in unison with the roughhouse gobbage only helps matters thrive.  The verses are matter of fact, the mania of the chorus gives insight into a deviant who likes to abuse even the most petty situations.  There are many at this game, the thrill is in the theft, the need to feed an habit inescapable - ooh heck, where’s me highlighter pen.

'What Kinda Police' is a vicious assault on the corrupt so-called protectors of the populace who are nothing more than deviant scum using a front to hide their inner perversions.  This is an impacting assault that repeatedly asks a question - it is a necessary outburst!  The frustration and despair at this invasion of bad apples overspills into a concrete and compact number that has great appeal due to the emotion and the raw-assed delivery that is straight out of the street.  The quick follow-up is 'The Dirt' - a cracking sonic stint that comes from the put down and is spat at those who think they are better.  A chunky celebration of the filth that matters.  The he-she chorus cuts are utterly splendid, the nasty joy taken in being the scabbed, the unwashed, the cheap and nasty fucker who gets on ones tits is delivered with a jangling joy de vivre that is pleasure to behold.  I play over and over - yeah, I am a crummy fucker not lying down and following your hygienic idiocy.  

'Meds' is a quality closure with a mind on the cusp and with a need to decline into degenerate behaviour and of course, to bare one's bollocks.  The doc is given a seeing to, the social arena is invaded by a head gone AWOL, this is a treat for all those pilled up and with a bonce that just won't settle.  With a cranium cluttered, a day to day mither that gnaws at the soul and a persistent pillaging by societal demands, tis’ no wonder the rails are abandoned when the medication runs dry.  This is the best track of the lot, a real catchy rust bucket I can relate to.  The flow from verse to chorus is perfect, the blend of the foul and the clear, the brain zaps and just the general jangle juices that run from the speakers make for a stunner - lovely.

Well, what an unexpected treat.  6 songs, all devoured, and all fuckin' enjoyed.  This is why I am at DIY level, this is why I don't need to use nostalgia and the 'same old, same old' as a crutch to lean on.  On we stride, under our own fresh steam, fuck the static, fuck the stagnant - ain't we the lucky ones.



Hectic times see this Fungal fool on the back foot and patchworking matters as best as possible whilst trying to keep the gigs flowing, the CD review backlog kept to a minimum and many other areas attended to.  This 12 tracker came out of the discordant blue and I duly played here and there and cobbled together some brief thoughts.  After more time the noises were assessed and the following textual ticklings were made.

So, first up from the Kidderminster based cacophonic criminals comes a song that goes under the name of 'Hippo', a melodic track with a brutal edge that cuts to the quick and leaves great mental scars on anyone who is overweight and of a delicate nature. After a quick grunt the song rattles in with a simple intro and the a neatly breeze-blown opening verse that reveals a perversion to be frowned at.  A penchant for a sweating fatso is exposed, the music clatters away with great haste as the warped juices flow and the pluckers get all worked up. The song is intrinsically basic and crude - it is played well though and as a sub-pop-punk likeability.  'Who's He' is similar in many ways but has a fine old zip and a dubious content laden with a mistrust and shady goings-on.  The impetus is the winning factor with the strings warped with whipping gusto and the skins scatter-slapped with breathless attention.  The gob work delivers verbals that are easily joined in with - there is never anything wrong with that.  My fave track of the opening three is the mid-paced and meaner sounding 'Bright Blue Skies' - a ditty with conker-clobbering firmness and a fist in the face of the idlers, takers and general shits that really get on my tits.  Self-absorbed fuckwits are the majority shareholders of a world turning to shit whilst their eyes only see things that they want to see so as to keep their limited intelligence upbeat.  My only gripe with the song is that it drifts out too quickly and lacks an extra verse and some real inner wallop - I still love it though.

'I Love My Baby (She Loves Me Too)' has a right whole groove, borne it seems from 60's zested zoophile with a need to pester the wild world whilst strumming his way to sexual zeniths.  There is nothing intricate and profound going on here, it is a quick jerk jaunt that comes, goes and fills an orifice - I am not offended or aroused, I may need more pills but, the song is a merry jingle I do enjoy now and again. 'Pidgeon Hole' is par for the course tuneage and does what it does whilst bringing nowt new to the crooked table.  It has a charm though, a persuasive force borne from the fact that this is one for the oddball, the outsider, the awkward bastard who won't fall into line.  I can relate to this, by heck, even the fuckin' punks have a problem with me!  The fluidity of the song is also appealing and the clarity of all components works - it leads the way into the neat swinger known as 'Sick And Tired', a real 'fuck it' frolic that has a careless carefree approach due to being beaten down into an inescapable position of 'fucked off'.  This is a minor crackerjack with a great lick that gets right into the crack of my swinging arse and insists I jig some more.  As a bloke who is fed up but will not give in to the shitshow flow I am partly in-line here and some days, surely everyone feels like this.  The key though is to play this loud, enjoy the moment and then go forth and refuse to let the bastards beat ya.  Do your fuckin' bit folks.

'Furry Cup' combines elements of all that has been and with a few elements no doubt of that which is to 'cum'.  A crass song if the truth be told but with a good chopping effect and some nice back hollers that keep matters moving.  I have heard too much similar genital-based stuff over the years and have been desensitised and also noisily neutered I think.  Despite this though the ditty has a certain brutality of tone and of course that crude aspect many aging perverts will love - ooh heck, where's me butt-plug? 'Jesus Shaves' keeps the impetus growing, it is an attempt at a shocker, I would prefer it if the band went full tilt and nailed a few vicious digs at Allah, Buddah and that supreme God-Like entity, Jim Bowen of Bullseye.  I think the masturbation modulations are fine and dandy, the band know how to mix their elements and I am more than happy to crack one off the wrist to another easy-swinging tune but... if ya gonna go for an electric shocker that make sure all and sundry are frazzled - fuck em' all I say - the long, the short, the tall and the cross-eyed midgets too.

'Travellin' has a certain insouciance that is quite apt for a tune 'on the road'.  Let the miles be eaten up as this tune unwinds.  Let the limbs loosen, the head clear and the simplistic vibes invade.  Again, we are not working with ground-breaking cock rock poser piss-arsery here, we are dealing with 'off the cuff' tunes that are what they are.  They slightly fall into the 'pop punk' category in some minor way, they wallow in the cruder realms in a more obvious manner and all the while they have a decent wallop that is easily embraced - and on I go!  'Billy No Mates' is a kick in the conkers of those poor souls who wank their lives away because they just don't fit in.  A care-free society sees these misfits left to stew in a growing ocean of spunk whilst those who play the game and slot into place smile, mock and head to nowhere happy - ah tis' a cruel scenario.  The band show no sympathy here and knock out a fair ditty with spiteful relish.  The tongue is in the cheek (I hope) and the job, is, a good un'.  Now where's my deodorant.

'Unkle Yummy' is unsettling filth of the most sordid order.  Many will gripe and many will screw up their faces, many will have horrors rekindled - in a scene where I dwell there are no holds barred and sometimes confronting this underhand scuzzery is the best way to get it sorted.  The finale assists in the terror factor when that white-haired wanker we all know and despise comes in and does his usual cliched bit - complete no doubt with a hard-on and tingling scrotum.  Despite my reservations on the content this is a nifty tune that ejaculates on areas out of bounds - it may be a tasteless triumph.

The final song of this CD is 'All My Friends Are Wankers' - a real sing-a-long piece that has many strains of truth in it.  I know some good folk, I have also known some shits who claim to be friends and would do the dirty on you the first chance they get.  We walk amongst untrustable wolves on the make - you would be wise to tread carefully and lock your doors.  This is a great tune though, a real Velcro-vibe you will easily be ensnared by.

To add - 2 tracks had been banned by various social media sites (Spotify you wankers) and are slapped down under the banners of 'Psycho' and 'Parasite' - both are on the physical CD and so you need not fear.  The first is a richly embroidered shindig that has a barn-dance suggestion as well as a real old school rock and roll feel wrapped around an exotic euro swing.  The second song is a troubled nightmare with an 'Alien-ised' opening.  One can feel the invasive presence of a being feeding on the life-force - I am not sure why the delicate media half-wits would want this banned as it doesn't seem to upset me in any way - apparently Universal Studios banned 'Psycho' and The Disney Corporation banned 'Parasite' - what a fuckin' world!

So, I have entered the world of the 'Bald Patch Three' - I have been used and abused and I come away enthused - I bet these lot are pretty decent 'in the flesh'. I suggest you check em' out and if you are of a perverse bent then pick up this CD and have yer genitals rub and roger ready.

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