I have seen this band a few times over the years and have enjoyed their digestible and delicate calculating approach as well as their subtle blend of the confrontational and embracingly persuasive.  Recently this crew have lightly peppered wannabe listeners with small tit-bits of CD material and staggered live performances.  Are they back in full flow or aren't they is the eternal question that has been wandering around my noggin and I am still, despite much effort, utterly undecided.  I, like any decent punk rock enthusiast, have looked forward to this latest offering but I write the review without sway towards reputation, the work put in and blindingly cretinous nostalgic demands.  It will go under the spotlight with all the other spillage that drips my way and be given a Fungalised going over as per.  No heroes, no zeroes, fuck your expectations.

Sonic salutations are delivered via the voiceless jangling of 'Instrumantra', a caustic clank of industrialised noise borne from 'Lang'ian new worlds where systemic routine devours resistance.  The ascension from persistent regularity to a creation more rhythmic and, with more hope, is sublime and delicate and carves out a pathway in, what I hope, is a very rewarding landscape of listening gunk.  I stealthily creep forth into the sonic substance proper...

and am met with...

The first upchuck known as 'Betrayed, a construction built on contemporary shades of sonic shimmering and delicately corrugated attention.  The ruffled upper surface is carefully billowed before levelling out and making way for the first silken purrings from our much heralded lead lass.  The result is an intoxification of gratifying extent with the lightly grilled working ideally beneath the fluid upper layers and making for a contrast to invoke lofty salivation.  The staggered compartmented chorus cutlets break up the liquidity and challenge the senses and, ever so slightly, add a perilous edge.  Many danger signs (cute hey) are posted but the band pay little heed and have enough nouse and self-control to make this a safe and rewarding flag fly of confident progression - choice!  'Just Drifting' is heaped with pressure as a classy follow-up is very much needed and that is what we get, a superb free-float of sky blue escapism caressed by hair-raising cloud kisses that comfort and cultivate.  The rhythmic receptors are hugged and a sense of well-being and easy, laid back tranquillity is cultivated whilst work is completed to give the song instantaneous appeal and embracing warmth.  From the opening bass rumblings, through the cascade of crystal strings, to the sugary pastel lucidity of the oral donations this is a sure-fire winner and yet again indicates a band who are exhibiting marvellous progression and a refusal to get bogged down by idiot rules and regulations - nice bloody work if you ask me.

'Guilty' maintains the essence with a lowly grumble that metamorphs into a tweaked and twanged stroll kept dumbed down with cool precision.  A commercialised aspect arises from a very tenderised song that balances the weights of power and persuasion and presents them in a package that takes a little handling before fully opening.  This one, for me personally, travels a little too far and maybe with a 30 second strip down could give birth to a more impacting effort.  The positive aspects though are the enthusing bassism and incessant gentility borne from the hands of time-travelled pluckers who are adamant with the vibe they want to create.  Next and 'Two Places' tunefully tick tocks along on spritely notes before stepping into a mud bath of creeping trepidation that sees the song develop into a convincing sludge slog of exploratory innocence. The embracing curiosity the tones deliver are met with anticipations of something splendid pouring ones way and the reward comes with a succulently smooth semi-chorus coast that brings together every minuscule facet the band has to offer and binds them up in one silky cocoon of appealing simplicity - a marvellous moment and one that elevates this number to loftier echelons than first deemed possible.

I am on a flow here and it is down to nothing more than the saccharined cadences that are blowing my way.  Next, and we take to the skies and soar with liberation via the cutlet known as 'Aguila', a song that leaves an initial perch of uncertainty, takes to the wing and floats along through lucid skies of acoustic azure that maintain their utter clarity and ozone fresh honesty.  Again the song is unhindered, advancing and not ensnared by outside expectation and nostalgic ticking nonsense.  The band are breathing deeply here, inhaling the modern day and producing vibrations very much on the ball.  The pinnacle of poppishness comes via the next totally progressive bout of upbeat melody tattooed with the name of 'Beat Goes on'.  A scintillating dreamy dish of perfection that slips into the attentive nucleus of noise and oscillates each and every component from the membrane to the core with a bounty of delicious tonal shadings.  Ms Murray's voice thrives on a buoyant mattress of decided dinnage that, with each and every play, never fails to clear the cobwebs and get one up and having it.  The message is clear - enjoy the here and now, keep the faith, roll with the eternal flow. 

'Makes No Sense' is a grittier affair, a more direct force with a heavier mulched substrate that doesn't initially allow the lower depths to be seen.  The jangling edges, the blurry lines between the glimpsed components and the overall shadowy terrain of the construct make this my least favourite of the whole collection but as part of this overall package it does keep the rhythmic river running.  'What A Feeling' twists forth, spirals before levelling out and walks in moonlit alleyways where solitude and escapism can be found, away from the hubbub of everyday life.  The band choose a thematic situation, adopt a mode of tone that is purely exact and thus create a believable acoustical umbra in which to lurk and ponder.  The thoughts switch between safety and chance taking, the uncertainty bleeds through the solidified upper epidermal layers and so we have a relatable chunk of tuneage that one can very much applaud.  There are gracious movements of cadenced waves that add persuasive drama as well as foamings of open-hearted honesty that of course, increase the irresistible force of this very natural noise.  From here we appropriately meet the meandering drift of 'The Sea Song', a slow oceanic waltz that is occasionally whipped up by sturdy vocal zephyrs and kept well bubbled by careful attentive string tickles and tympanic accuracy.  Light kissed, rippled with tenderness but with a vital undercurrent that it is not advisable to swim against.

The penultimate track, a whispery draught caressed hustle that has me pondering what pre-created pigeonhole this one would actually drop into - I fail to find any answer.  'The Calm Before The Storm' is merely an intro for me, an open doorway to the final muso-poetical monologue where a conundrum tale is woven from threads of almost abstract mis-match that somehow, find a common route and bind together.  The resultant episode of leakage somehow works and that, my dear faithful persuser, fuckin' annoys me because it darn well shouldn't.  The commentary cascades in jigsaw fashion with each sentence a seemingly detached component but eventually, after a few spins, slotting into its own space.  Puzzling indeed and I bugger off and leave you to unravel things further.

So, as a stalwart of moving noise forward, a veritable pisser on those overdosing on nostalgia and a certain thorn in the sides of the idle headed I remain firm in my judgement here and rate this is a fine advancement in noise for a band who have had many high moments and sometimes not received the recognition they deserve.  A great listening experience and one for music lovers from many spheres to enjoy.  All I ask is to make sure the next release comes sooner rather than later - no rest for the ones on a roll I am afraid.



As I wander the musical woodlands and snuffle about in the most grimiest undergrowth I look up at the canopy where the big players swing around and holler out the more obvious tones. I truly pity the ones who spend their time gazing upwards and who really miss out on that which is less obvious.  It is a true tragedy that the high lofted tunesmith gets more notice and respect than the lowly wriggling worms, that the seemingly more approachable warbler gets more attention than the essential waddling woodlouse.  For me, those at the bottom end are the ones who give equal pleasure and provide the foundations on which all can survive and no matter how hard I shuffle through the undergrowth there are always new gems to find.  On a recent sojourn I came across some Pigs, of the Pop variety, and made note at what they were sonically emitting.  Yet again I found something to impress me and after acquiring a piece of the produce (not rectal) I find myself analysing further, this time in a more open way.  The CD here was given in good grace and that is how I return matters, but ultimately, with no favours (now that would be insulting).

The commencement comes through the tonal quality of 'Given Time'.  Crisp pellucid strums are twilight twinkled and given attractive character before the coffee smoked first verse manifests itself within a weave of cultured control and application.  Lucidity is an early key to the success as well as the fluid moves from verse to chorus and back again.  Veins of cultured purity gently run with unclouded lifeblood whilst the inner heart is bared and consistently donates a subtle level of encouragement.  Very accomplished articulations these with ample angles to please lovers of the rough and lovers of the less boisterous.  This comfortable commencement is immediately bettered by what I think is the most triumphant tune of the lot, namely ''Walking', a song structured on an industrial stick beat, a song gratifyingly pulsating with emotive insight and desirous drive.  The minimalism of the strings during the verse and the eventually blossoming chorus as well as the smooth tight fitting fluidity between both compartments is sublime and executed with marvellous levels of appeal and irreplaceable experience.  A new wave noise that shakes free from the shackles of more typical punkage and sets out with an eye on the bulls-eye of melody and texture and in this, and many other instances, fuckin' nails it.  A song to take ones time with, one to digest over several weeks to fully fall into line with and one to fuckin' applaud with gusto when true realisation of its beauty transpires - I love it!

We step into the fecund verdancy of the 'Secret Garden' next with a gorgeously magnetic blend of the fragile and the firm interlocking with assured measure that once again makes for a quite enthralling listening experience.  The cruises through the context of the creation and the overlaid sprinklings of exactitude and thought-out tones all contribute to a song that avoids the straight ahead approach but has many avenues down which it weaves.  I am turned on by this flourishing noise and truly believe we have a band here who are surely capable of so much more attention and respect.  The fourth track only further cements this belief with yet more stirring layers carefully merged and motioned into a positive existence of sonic pleasure.  'Time' is perhaps the least fluent track thus far but it has enough oil in the cogs and insider trickery to keep one convinced and in concurrence with the CD thus far.  Each component is rewarding, each contribution crucial to the crux of the cacophony and delivered with potent belief that emanates in plumes from the rotating disc.  A turgid tone is the end result with all areas that need to be filled fully loaded.  We close the opening quartet and fly flags of success.

'I Will' sub-whispers, reassures and ascends with semi-trepidation, semi sanguinity.  The clashing mix compliments, assists in the life-giving process and clarifies a creation that drips with precision and instinct.  This one looks set to be a drawn out affair but the band know how to create a pop song and nip it in the bud at the exact moment and leave you wanting more and more of this succulent spillage.  'Magpies' glides in and indicates how the band can go from the melancholic and the moody up to free floating echelons that gush with hopefulness and anti-negativity.   The jump for the seemingly sorrowful and morose to the more cheery and animated is nifty and done with an accomplished easiness of technique that yet again emphasises the inbuilt quality of thecrew.  No need to dawdle methinks, the pedigree of the performers will speak for itself.

'Tideline' appears through sultry mists and beats with an emotional heart that keeps the voyage only just afloat.  A coffee-table extraction that is lightly swirled, carefully roasted and manifested from a hazy scene of self-examining seclusion.  Glimmering yet somewhat opaque this is a very mood laden number that one really has to be in the zone for.  Now and again it fits the bill, occasionally it passes by without leaving a noticeable imprint - one I need more time with I think.  One of my favourite tracks from the 'live' viewing was 'Lighthouse' and here I realise why.  This strapping sonic strain is swamped with refined resonances and alerting vibrations that invades the nerve-endings and create sensational wavelets that activate reaction.  The progressive climb from sanguine basics upward to many a saturated moment is interspersed with firm statements and glistening striations that ooze belief.  Verses are immovable, the choruses unstoppable - the result is a very consistent explosion of proficiency.

Having just turned down the back stretch I take on the first three of the last six with a little urgency and welcome the 'Centre Of The Universe' with open lugs.  A backdrop of bassism and tweaked guitar are regulated via tympanics before a radioed gob monologue comes and briefly dips its tootsies into a flimsy realm of minimalism.  A slight ascension of heat is given and a simmering suggestion made but all is kept strictly in control and stripped to the waist with a hankering slant for making the most of very little.  An artform is created from masterful hands and again it is a construct I am very much convinced by.  'Hard To believe' daubs on the tonal paint with more authority and moves once more on tick tock foundations and clashy elements that give gusto to a song that is alive and kicking without being vulgarly affected.  A swing in the booty, time out to let the strings semi/sub-skank and lead into a fleshless foray to the finale and leave one, quite wonderfully, wanting more.  'Picture Postcard' is the closing snippet of the fast plucked three and hits the sensitive shoreline with contoured gestures of sonic grandeur that may be a trifle baroque but never leave the arena of the simplified, accurate and downright appealing,  The hues thrown in are fragile and in many tepid respects, conflicting.  The barrelled firmness of the drums, the shadowy shyness of the bass, the careful tentativeness of the guitars and the emotive melancholy of the throat work all fall into one softly stirred pool and blend to make something far beyond the expectation levels which, simply highlights, how fuckin' good the DIY noise can be.  Marvellous work.

The last trio and the same assessing methodology I reckon.  Stick flutters hover above deliberate wire wobbles before fracturing six-string invasions move in and the first oral spillages are borne.  'Hurt' is a tense song, a painful heart leakage that at times winds itself up into a colliding emergency of sensations liable to rupture any semblance of resident resistance.  Inklings of an Idolised wedding and a sweet child gunned down amongst a bed of roses are thrown my way which is no bad thing with the band displaying much ringcraft to give this exposing song their own style.  One to play many times to fully grip.  'Wait A Lifetime and 'See The Day' continue the lofted standard and maintain a veritable consistency of vibe, appearance and honesty.  As per the post punk/indiefied accoutrements are brandished to the full and as expected the band rise to their own expectation levels and fashion for themselves much praise from this typing twat.  They seem to know when and where to apply themselves and have a choice ear for not overcooking their own sustenance.  It takes a brave and clued in soul to leave alone at just the right time and for me, the biggest aspect of the success on show is down to this insight.  No complaints.

The Pop Pigs impress me, are set to play one of my gigs next year which is far too long to wait for another earful of mesmerising tuneage.  I plan to seek em' out and enjoy some vibes as soon as but in the meantime will keep hammering the CD on the turntable.  To anyone not restricted by choking generic shackles I would strongly advise they get this and enjoy it for what it is – an artistic, talented sub-poppoid pleasure there to be indulged in - simple hey?



I gave this lot a gig a few years back now and am still recovering from the mental blemishes and flashbacks.  Drunkenness, nudity, racketology and general jolly goodness was in abundance and only after many years is my cerebral state prepared for another dousing.  These wayward welsh wankers have few boundaries, rattle out a good din and can sup like dehydrated fish in a desert and so, of course, my vote goes their way big time.  Having just booked them a gig up my neck of the woods and having received this CD I have nipped to the doctors in advance and already started the medication in preparation for that what must surely come.  11 tracks here, highly anticipated and dealt with in my now expected manner.  Undies tightened, bowels loosened, ringpiece blocked - wish me luck dear textual peruser.  I suspect this will be a sizzle quick assessment, I hope I nail matters in hand!

'Hench' spanner wanks inwards, throws caution (and unwashed underpants) into the wind and awaits a shitback of sickening proportions.  The machine-like industry is jacked up high, the growling tensed up throat rapings come in horrific bursts whilst activity levels are kept at 'amphetamine friendly' and bluster your brains to filthy turgid soup.  Mindless rhythmic raving played with sweaty balls bared, wired to the mains and pleasingly plugged in - the crazy fuckin' cunts.  'Headfuck' is an upset to admire with all soiled mitts to the equally excrement laden deck and happily wallowing in the set mire.  A fizzbomb of clatter bucket/shatter fuck it mania that, although played with such abandon and unhinged attention, remains remarkably tight and efficient.  No room to respire, no space to shake a dead man's dick, this is condensed quick flick noise that does the job and fucks off before the door is slammed in your sclerosis cursed mug.  I like a good rev up.

'Vat Man' and a similar episode of discordance this time with a central section of respite that alleviates the cerebral pain you may be experiencing at this early juncture.  Irate, up-swinging, fist flying and tumultuous, this once more is ruddy quick work slapped out with alarming security and with the expected salivating jaw-dropping eagerness.  The TM team are all obviously in corrupted cahoots but one has to admit, they deal the dirt pretty fuckin' well.  Next and 'Charity Snatch' a slab of lowbrow nastiness thrown forward with sharp angled shards of looned guitar and twat pester stick work all held together by incessant wank wire abuse and a gob that rabidly spews the gutterspeak.  A hard driven bitch this one, laden with white light mania and spunk heavy abuse - and talking of spunk...

Enter the hygienic dulcet tones of Spunk Volcano and his oral opinion on the band and their produce.  No sooner spoken than spurted into the distance and the song 'Knobrot' is pointed our way.  Acute strings again, pounding incessancy and confessional cruel laden croonings from gutter nutters in no way apologising for the crudeness of all areas.  Don't look for profundity, avoid stripping away the layers - just accept this as lowbrow shittery and you'll do just fine.  I like raw clatter, I appreciate idiocy and this is short, sour and full of those vital ingredients - suck on it.  'Mr Muthafucka' is a griping dirtbag cuffed around the acoustic lugs and held on a robust rein.  The stagger drum start, the skid-marked wire work, the desire to get blown out and the expected coarseness of the lyrics combine to give a rock and roll twist to a song that somehow just doesn't fulfil its potential.  I feel the track has been restrained from gorging itself on a full on sonic meal and so is slightly more skeletal than it should be.  This and the following 'Special Needs Druglord' both need that extra nutritious mania thrown in, that careless 'fuck that' attitude that bodes so well for the crew.  Maybe it’s me and my penchant for liking things thrown off the wrist with utter naturalness but there ya go, better to be honest than a fuckin' kiss arse fraud.  Both tracks get the label of 'alright', nothing more, nothing less which could be taken as a compliment, a criticism or a fuckin' pointless remark - I do try to remain fair tha' knows.

'Skidmarks And Spencers' is more like it with activity hive sticks opening the way for a more tempestuous tear out that has much disgust and irritation within.  The lunacy of the theme that entails emptying ones bowels in a fashionable high street store is one I feel a few may be able to relate especially those who like to combine heavy Guinness drinking and shoplifting - oh yeah.  A fair crash out this with the TM twats doing what they do best and nailing it.  Short, scurfy and with warts and all on blatant show - a well wanked brew sir.  This decent dirty ditty is bettered by the flashing brilliance of 'Race Card', a very pertinent fist slapping number that thumbscrews straight in before blasting your brains out with a direct, unswerving puke up of violent tumbling noise.  The vicious assault on those that throw low moral punches is bang on the mark and just the whole hectic delivery, the switch in tempo and the saturation of sonic vandalism is right up my acoustic anal alleyway (in the most disrespecting way possible - ouch).  A big throbbing member this one and long may it get noted and impregnate the minds of the doubters.

2 left, who the fuck is 'Sergeant Fitta'?  Anyway the song is in the unenviable position of following the previous gem and does well to hang on in there and make an impression.  Again it’s a full on battering ram of riffage with the oral outbursts kept in line which gives the illusion of something controlled and may it be said, decent (shock, horror, splat).  It is a fair effort nonetheless and as a penultimate piece it shows the band are still foaming up to the very last.  We wipe the arse with the final fling scribbled as 'Balloon Knot', a galloping mess that highlights just what a whizzed up bunch of loons this lot are with all hands to the greasy pump and ramming it like fuck.  A breathless surge, a closing cacophony, a full on full fuckin' stop - what would anyone in their right mind expect?

I like Trigger McPoopshute and having witnessed them play twice 'live' on a Fungal weekender as well expose their highly comendable drinking ability have decided to book em' again.  This album backs up my feelings of a very wayward bunch of folk always on the precipice of a total collapse of dignity and delivery - long may it continue.



The third CD to flutter down at my feet from Oddbox Records with the most distinctive minimalistic touches yet.  A three-piece who state that they are based in Brighton, New York & Amsterdam - awkward bloody tinkers.  The tones emitted are gossamer flimsy, loaded with easily blown wafts of slumbered snooziness that tiptoe over the senses and softly invoke something of a reaction.  The output needs careful attention, something many are not prepared to give in these lunatic 'quick fix' times but, as a curious laden lover of many a vibe, I sit back, consider and adopt a stance of care before putting my well worn digits to the overworked keyboard.  The resultant textual oozings is borne from the said donation of time and patience - I make no apologies in advance or indeed afterwards.

We enter the spartan fairground of tonality and hop on board the bare and slowly rotating 'Ferris Wheel, where, for escort, we have a fragile lilt that starts with the briefest skip before quaintly rotating on repeat beat rhythm with an hypnotic bareness of soul incessantly kissing the aural membrane.  A sub 2 minute cobweb flicker that turns with wonderful unaffected, unassuming ease and one that seems utterly free of baggage, sub-text and unnecessary raving.  The winning factor I feel is the chilled contentment radiated and that aspect alone wins a heavy heap of initial positivity.  'Angela' tiptoes on a central precipice that lies between that which could be deemed melancholic and that which could be labelled as self-absorbed.  The edge where the tune balances however glistens with acute inner energy and sharp attention to detail and so, slowly cuts to the core of the listener with genuine crafty subtlety.  A pining from a distance, a bow down to beauty and mesmeric magnetism that devours any halting atoms that may be floating in your noised nucleus.  Another droplet of tenderness and one that appeals but then disintegrates its own value by drifting on for  just a little too long.  The inclusion of scurfily fuzzoid strings is interesting though and so I move on without thorough despair.

'You Did' is a pip, a really ticker twang that shimmers with needlepoint nuances and lullaby lacery wafted by the merest susurration and most aerated oral zephyrs.  The 2 minute 11 second running time is precise, the restrained sonic spangles carefully sprinkled within are all complimentary and rewarding and perhaps, just perhaps, I am listening to the most glowing ember of them all.  'Hang Up' is a short slice and dangles our way on spidery threads adorned with dulcet dewdrops that are transient but purely attractive.  The slightly weighted wire wobbles lead to a 'Handful of Songs' moment that disturbs but are soon washed away after the band snatch at the real core of the song.  No sooner has the drift been adopted than we are shuffled out into silence and no matter how many times the song is repeated I still find myself at a loss for an end decision, ah sometimes things swing that way - time for you to put your ass on the line methinks.

Next and 'Cardinals', a quilt covered, pillow fluffed ponder primarily operating around the lemon-liquid drop vocal whispers that tranquilly descend and splash with pellucid, unclouded clarity on the aforementioned acoustic substrate that absorbs and appeals.  This one is a cradle borne creation, swayed with caring hands and looked over by proud parents who have another tender  acoustic offspring to admire and add to their ever-swelling family of serenity. The closing thrill of arising guitar winds full stops with confidence. 'Ohio' nudges in next with a comforting thrill and the ideal opportunity to throw in an instrumental burst with sublime yet unobtrusive tones is taken full advantage of and we get delivered an exacting piece of pastel shadings that merge and blend and thus give the impression of something relatively complete.  A substantial bout of trickling with obvious vulnerabilities that will undoubtedly attract those with patience and a good degree of shrewdness.  Nice.

A concise offering next, a 1 minute 10 second expulsion that follows on from its neighbour with the ambiguous mix of frailty and sturdiness apparent but this time with the briefest vocal inclusion that separates both sides of the donation.  Too quick and too scanty to nail down and maybe one to treat as a midway non-entity that fills a space.  Sorry to be blunt but no apologies for being up front!

Into the backstretch with 6 to go and a whip of the arse and eyes down to the closure.  'March Again' appears from nebulous blurs and gradually increases in clarity and lucidity as the echo nag continues in several kindred styles.  Eventually a scuzz fuzz hits the track and comes and goes in the screwing up of ones eyes - a curio to consider and one I find once more, highly palatable.  'Five Roses' and Where Are You' are two quickies with the former instrumental snip having languid cockleshell sweetness frothing from below slow moving sands and sun-dappled waters of hope.  The latter is an episode of naive pubescent tinkering borne of d-label late seventies denizens of DIY.  Perhaps, in many respects, the most naked product of the entire litter and one that gives a monochrome hint of the most raped and pillaged rock and roll structures.

The final fling of three with 'Summer End' being a real end of a lazy hazy day switch off that sees the sonic sun prepare to set, the last of the busy acoustic insects have one last sojourn and the late warbling bird utter its final languid tones.  A worn-out feather fall, a fading lilt of ambiguity that comforts if the mood is exactly right - you have been warned.  'Clement's Song' is a wavering shadow piece with he/she vocals imperfectly overlaying one another whilst the tune in the rear seems totally at odds with the utterances.  This is an out of sync moment that takes a gamble, rolls the rhythmic dice and comes up with a slightly dud end total.  The execution is lacking and although I think I can see what the crew are attempting I think they are just missing the win zone - a genuine pity.  'Snow' however is back to the groove and after a somewhat timid start the band find hold and avoid slipping and sliding around but move forward in a series of mini-pushes and glides.  Flake flimsy as per, observational in the most simplest sense and taking a theme (that too many wouldn't find worthy of thought) and giving it its own special heartbeat and gift of life!

So Frozy pitter, patter in and pitter, patter out with the main truth of the matter being that this unit have much to commend and much to applaud without them ever thrusting their wares into your face.  They adopt a methodology they seem at home with and my only concern is how long can they get away with this type of tonality?  For now though I am quite tickled and will enjoy these vibes many times over.



Cain are a metallised act with a punked strain that weaves inwards and adds a little bit more reality to the overall delivery than one may, at first, realise.  I have seen the band on two occasions and after being impressed by the lead singers old band Pyro I can honestly say the goods are still in fine tact and this band is a decent step up in entertainment value.  The frontman, when doing his bit in the flesh (ooh err), really gets into the face of the crowd albeit in a very friendly and well meant way (what a gent) which, when backed by the quality noise merchants, really does get the boom bang  The question I have to answer here is whether or not the band can arouse the same reaction on the old silver circle, I darn well hope so.

The ever billowing curtains of silence part, 'Gods Right Hand' fizzes in with a military drum beat for escort.  Acute, mind-piercing tones soon invade and an authoritative metalized vocal methodology stomps all over our aural membrane.  The vibe relayed is simmering and heavily routine with a distinct mitt on the reins keeping all safely gathered in (a bit like a fat nuns knickers in fact).  The song radiates prowess and threat and thoroughly stirs up some good shit with the riffs, aforementioned wire penetrations and the confidently stated gob bursts all contributing to a muscular episode of unsettling heavily shaded stirring.  The mix compliments the band however I do feel there is more in the tank in the production area and believe, that if given a full on twist of certain high end nobs, the power of the pack will dazzle even more - a firm start though and one to vibrate the sonic sex zones of many sub-generic gits.  'In Kind' chases, ups the pace, throws a blazing gauntlet down at our feet and asks us to fuckin' rock the hell out.  The increase in tempo accentuates the success levels and the power-winding stress placed at certain junctures throughout the propelling gust all helps with the pressurised impact generated.  A few indulgences are needed here as this is a very angular and well clustered song with staggered moments found amongst whipped up streaks and holler out tribality.  Somehow we get a scrape by that just holds on by ragged fingertips to the side of acceptable - it is a close run thing though and maybe a little fine tuning is needed here or my lugs are out of sync with the mode of acoustic molestation - it happens to the best and the worst of us - blah.

The best song of this quartet is the grandiose 'Winter's Come', the most accomplished delivery that walks with supreme sanguinity and commands positivity with the whole cultured construct.  A rumbling stagger quake invades the heavy duty verses whilst the chorus cuts unwind and ascend with magnified sub-stentorian stature.  The song imposes itself, casts a strong sable shadow and continually absorbs with its riffed and ready presence.  Cloudburst come and go, spiralling maelstroms transpire but the main gist of this giant it maintained - a bold bastard indeed.  We finalise the four with the flutter discharge called 'This Time It Is War', a straight ahead rush stricken with boom bang curses that run deep within the marrow of the minstrels.  Rapier sharp swishes are exhibited, the robust and well scaffolded string section is backed by some well walloped tympanics whilst our lead lout who gives all things oral (dirty bastard) tidily adds the manky icing on the calorific cake.  A comfortable closure and with potential still to be so much more.

So Cain offer up 4 and an equal amount of noddery (no such word I hear you say, fuck off, there are no rules) and convince me there is a whole lot more in the reservoir to tap.  This is fine and dandy but in no way fulfils the potential and so I will be expecting a real upswing in delivery on the next one.  Stark contrast, pure exhibitionism, a touch up of the end mix and boom, I can almost feel my knackers explode.  In the interim I hope to catch them again and hopefully chuck em' on a Fungalised jaunt.



These cock-a-doodle bastards of swinging sonic sensations have slipped my way several times before from the productive armpit of the delectable Dirty Water Records stable and I have to hold my foul hands up and say that I am thoroughly enthralled.  For me the winning aspect of the output has got to be the complete vivacity and sparkling energy that radiates from a stress-free crew whom drink deeply from the reservoirs of traditional rock and roll and spit it right over your increasingly convinced noggin.  If you keep up to speed with the reviews on this site then there is little left to add as way of an intro and for those that are dragging their hides and falling behind on the glorious vibes out there then a nasty wake-up call is needed – ooh, ooh!

In we go then, to the first slippage and 'Study Hall' exudes all the vibrant and noisily nutritious elements this tuned in tinkerer has come to expect with surfy skin sanguinity, millipede guitar manipulations, sassy goosing brassism and those eagerly hollered mouth inclusions that have a real thirst for the musical animation they find themselves immersed in.  A fruity tune to start the disc and one to jitterbug around to with an ear appreciating the gushing excellence on parade.  Several sub-climaxes come/cum and resonate within the instinctive rock and blue inner sanctums many of us leave eternally open and acceptant of multitudinous sounds.  A solid start and bang into 'Gross People' we easily move with the unequivocal excellence upheld.  This one deals with the kissing and cuddling brigade who publicly display their affection without thought for others embarrassment.  A bloody good tickle this with the Colonel stating the cause and soon crooning his repugnance against the specific smoochers.  A miserable fucker he may be deemed, a wet blanket on the simmering loins of the lovers but, this tidy bean jump of a song is delivered with a tongue-in-cheek/wink in the eye merriment that one is powerless to resist.  The blurred lines between the comedic and the serious is neatly maintained and the usual mix of hot dawg effervescence never fails to win the day.  I am very much taken by this lot (yet again).

Third up and '14 Girls' bursts at the seams with another dose of snappy, vitalized sauce that swings aplenty and ejects a fountain of ebullient tonal glee over every aural nook and cranny you care to leave exposed.  The sautéed vocals, the well dug accent and the typical bounding approach of suck you in, spit you out and leave you fuckin' sizzled by the sonica is all top of the menu.  This and the following two tracks, namely 'All Afternoon' and 'Bad News From The Clinic' are a fine hat-trick of uplifting acoustica with relish for the rock and roll basics very prominent throughout. The central song of the threesome is a fine double entendre jaunt that throws off cowls of unease and is a bare arsed delight of sonic escapism that just wants to encourage the listener then, now!  Happening, animated and kickin' in the most gentlest of ways this jerked jollity jacks off and jacks up in a quality manner to be classified as 'irresistible'.  The chasing instrumental is melting with thermal grooviness that just rises and rises as the song progresses.  The brass up the ass leads the way and urges all other components to get down and dirty and exhibit their inner vitality in an almost vulgarised showcase of talent.  Each area is in line with the agenda of japery and jackasses along on well-rippled carpets of nervous animation.  Slinked in part, sugar popping in others this is a real treat with no sub-text.

'Uncle Willy' is a cheeky bugger and deals with a well-hung naturist who likes to jiggle his joint, undulate is organ, nay flamboyantly swing his sausage, all in the public arena where the women especially, get a peeper full of the pinging pork sword.  The honest and sub-jungle lilt operates with aplomb and we have a rib-tickler to tease out a smile and yet again, a tap of the foot if not more.  I have little else to add.

I grab a batch of five next and give a double quick delivery just leaving you the peruser hopefully salivating for more.  'Tennessee Girl' tumbles in before soon throwing caution of decency to a wayward wind and letting the tuneage just billow in yer mug and set the epidermal neurones on fire.  Highly aroused music that is the order of the day.  'Sit Down, Mess Around' begins with outback preaching that sees the soul spill and the ticker smoulder before a grandiose snippet comes and the lowbrow rock and roll vibes turkey ass forth and get the aisles loaded with born again boom bangers.  A thread of bluesy cruising is deep within the melee and the loose-wristed oral harmonies finalising my verdict of 'win, win, win'.  Next and the observational jerk up of '29 Bus', a tale of the night ride home and the characters, the filth and mental strain all exposed therein.  Those crazy bastards that journey homeward on the final ride of the day are known to all of us who have ventured onto this despicable and quite nauseating mode of public transport.  The disgruntlement of the mental and physical unhygienic situation is delivered with a stop/start thrust-up and much gusto in the gravelled gob work.  A rigid number that works itself up into a right state - and why shouldn't it?  'I Can't Feel My Leg' is another irritated piece and has moments of relaxed grooving before being spitefully injected with neuralgic noise borne from overworked melodic muscles and wired up necessity.  Again the brass commands the most attention and keeps all other toned aspects well trained and alert.  A quirky sub-instrumental with an inner creeping bassism to enthuse you.  The last final blast of the thrifty five is 'Kahuna Hoodoo Hoochie Coo Flu Blu', a nasty slope through clawing and clinging backstreet undergrowth where filthy concoctions arise and are munched on by the lowdown needy and the innocently vulnerable.  A stomach upset, shadow laden bout of atmospheric goings-on that heightens the intrigue and perfectly alters the pace of the whole CD.  One to sit back with, churn over in your cerebral tum and shit right back out in appreciation - yikes.

A trio left and with no further ado we tackle the quirkoid shuffle 'Rumble Strip', another cruise and crash moment with bouts of pseudo-Pink Panther coolness and dishevelled clatterisation vying for attention and causing utter discombobulation for my good self.  A hard one this that I like to chew on but find the need to spit out - a very sweet and sour snippet that niggles ye olde Fungal palate - blah.  'Colonel Sander's Bastard Son' is a good mover with no baggage and needs no further comment at this point and 'Where Is The Meat' punctuates proceedings in the expected manner with tongue in cheek, sonic todge well twanged and those magnetic manoeuvres easily involved with - it is a tidy closure to a well brushed up CD.

I think I have done enough here to generate interest and hopefully expose the nutritious noise made by some darn fine artistes.  If not then beat me to death with a chicken wing, tis all I can do in my busy hectic life.  One has a go, one pisses in the wind but, now and again, one makes headway - what a fuckin' task hey?



A 3 piece Female-Fronted Old School Punk/Hardcore Band From New York & New Jersey on Street Urchin Records this lot contacted me, asked for a review and politely sent me a disc and T-shirt in the post (very sweet indeed). As many will realise that will not sway the end verdict one jot and insulting people with lies is not on my agenda. The produce here is high impacting, played with guts bared and has a good rocked up feel that is tattooed with hardcore edginess. The initial spins were promising but after several more studied rotations is the sonic produce still holding up - it’s all about questions ya know.

We begin here with 'The Fu Song', an example of how to jump straight in and put your ass on the line and make a firm statement of in yer face feistiness. From the alleyway whistles we go into a short burst of head-stamping riffage followed by a some fine cacophonic caterwauling and abrasive, heavy loaded oral attacks that clearly states that the band mean business and are not afraid to get stuck in and go for it. A purely spiked squall that blows with tight energy, upstart attitude and acutely inspiring boom bang 'oomph'. An iron-fisted opener blended well to suit the bands obvious up-front style - I love it. '60-60 Hell' is a more unforgiving inclusion and instantaneously gets its noggin down and hits the midriff with unappeasable aggression that uses fists and feet to knock 7 bells out of any listeners levels of discordant decency. A treacled tonality is given zoomed power via a backdraft of utter focus that attempts at creating a compact, crushing racket to be blown over by. The end result is a unbending number that will separate the palates into the convinced or the concussed, I am somewhere in between.

The combination of a healthy build up and a loose-limbed, naturalised rhythm scarred with an urban tribality makes 'Trapped', more than likely the most unaffected bout of cultured gang-banging gore to drip from the many open wounds of the crew at the helm. Firm skins are bounced over, a string twinge cuts deeper before hard strums flow and the femme-vocal fluid is splashed with varnished colours that ensnare much appreciating light, especially from this assessing glow-worm. A quite sinewy song in the most flexible way and followed by the shinier present known as 'I Don't Know'. A Subsy bass foundation is lain upon which several introductory strums cling and some old school mouth work and a rattle and scum upheaval that spasmodically hump fucks in many directions is created with only the gobbage maintaining order. Tossed around and roughed up the magnificent guitar pronunciations give us brief respite before the assault is recommenced. A fascinating lugful of sonic angularity here beefed up with fiery need and rock hard musicianship - a heavyweight number and is only slightly outshone for me by the chasing exposure of 'New Jersey Sucks', a ripping affair that cuts a swathe through acoustic space and bleeds out its inner soul at your awaiting feet. I love the liberated oral atrocities, so screechy, girly (in a positive way) and without restraint, all excited against the backdrop of a drilling surge. The chorus is simple, states a gripe the band seemingly have, and gets anyone in the same way of thinking, joining in. Lashing, terse and accurate - love it.

Turning a corner - from the first five, to the last five - marching out, now marching back...

Track 6 and 'Lights Out', a quick loading up and the battle command is to go forward and blast em'. From hard riffage through spiteful spit singing to a bellowed chorus that culminates in a power thrust followed by some stripped bare dabblings and then more of the same. Tis a good formula to use and for me keeps the CD moving but a real kick up the jacksie comes by the chasing power splat of 'Get Stripped', a fuckin' fine wallow in musical mires with a pounding message to bear all and fuck it whilst enjoying the mincing vibes of this bruising song. The foot eventually gets slapped down on the accelerator pedal and all sonic systems are smashed to fuck with naked, rampant rhythm making done whilst vibrating the soul until it fragments and becomes part of the melee. Fuckin' jump up, jump in, get thoroughly exposed and have it!

'A Thousand Ways' leads us into the last three with a subdued approach and a more steadfast routine that, in my opinion, hinders the output and denies that so welcome untamed aspect the band seem to thrive on. Having stated this fact though I do agree the band need numbers such as this to emphasise those more savage and undomesticated upchucks that, if maintained throughout, would end up throttling the eavesdropper to aural death. A safe and comfortable number that cements its neighbours and certainly opens up wider appeal. 'Pretend Friends' adopts the safety route of its predecessor but chucks in some of the oral nastiness and toxic tuneage of other ditties and so is a hybridised runt that has much to offer. A somewhat repeat beat offender that jumps into a set circuit and laps around like a Whirligig Beetle on heat. A poke at those who thrive in fakery, offer false companionship, be it electronic or in the flesh, and have no interest whatsoever in the feelings of the targeted recipient. Cunts to be honest and nice to have em' prodded with a decent discordant dig. We close with 'Rest In Peace', a final fling with a fuzzy fog guitar accent, a stop and start verse vindictiveness and a firm stated chorus pronouncement that borders on the sub-operatic rock ravings, borne from theatrical stages coated in grime, grit and, most importantly, reality. A fair dinkum dust-down to punctuate an album that has much to offer now and in the future.

A gutsy effort this one, played from the gut and with a solid blend of the controlled, off the leash and the somewhere in between. The potential exhibited here shows that the band have a lot more to offer and many musical thoroughfares to wander down - tis all in their hands and it will be mighty interesting to see how far they are willing to experiment, prod and, of course, poke.


A belated CD review here due to the request only coming in of late and me being snowed under with many elements borne from many areas. I have done much with The Kingcrows over the years and remember in the early days when they seemed stuck on the Northern area carousel and were producing fine quality noise to many who weren't really that interested (quite shocking and an occurrence only too fuckin' frequent for me). I did my bit (albeit DIY pure and Fungalised) and the band got a little more recognition, played elsewhere, were noticed some more and from there the rest is pure musical history. The band at last are receiving due acclaim for their efforts and I wish them all the best and so dip in to their tuneage and see if the cogwheels are moving in the right direction. Underpants of honesty donned, pecker of critique left dangling and fine salty writing fluid ready to be spilt - pass me the Kleenex please!

Away we go and after a dawdle in the midst of fairground sinisterism the opening riff of 'Here We Go' smacks home with ardent and fervid necessity and immediately exposes a new found echelon of productive and complimentary tonality. The pressing pace and lucidity of the gushing avalanche combines with a penetrating weight that gives the song a certain extra validity and prominence that will serve the band well on their recent upswing. One essential ingredient the band don't forget is their well-tried and tested melodic approachability that again is highly evident on this opening blast of confident quality. I move on before I over indulge in a flood of text and trip over my impressed key-tapping carcass (tis passion tha' knows). 'She's My Rock 'n' Roll' moves in next with equal prowess and rapidity and once more embraces all the exacting and impressive elements of the band as well as the new found glory mentioned. A foot stamp of sound, a choo choo pipe up of encouraging zest and a grinding hook are all the ingredients needed to keep one thoroughly absorbed and the well blended throat croons, the animated drum tumbles add bonus strength to the whole spillage. Two down and all is fuckin' fine - can the hat-trick be had? 'On The Road Again' stings the back of the sonic net with sublime force and accuracy and transpires into what is, the best song of the lot thus far (in my lowly estimation). A thoroughly unconstrained account that is shackle free and from the opening crispness and seat-belted verse through to the soaring chorus it elevates the whole set scenario and gives a solid contribution to the fluid donations that ooze class and clout.

Onto to track 4 and 'Rock 'n' Roll Rebel Songs', a song that has a title that says it all, a rock city roll around borne from healthy spirits and souls that live the life of louts making loud music and, indeed, loving it. A youthful naiveté is captured and takes us to a time when we picked up and played and felt a surge of hope via the vibes penetrating our framework. An easy number to munch on, as is the following 'Forgotten Son', an effort that is slower and steadier but has the usual inflection and snagging elements that make The Kingcrows so fuckin' listenable. An ease of progression and a fluid tactical smoothness convinces me over and over again and yet I feel the band are still not punishing themselves and have the foot firmly set and under control - oh the talented bastards.

'Funland' is the title track and despite being decent enough doesn't stand out as anything special. Is that because the standard is just too high throughout? Could well be. Anyway this one ploughs straight in, adopts a pair of studded blinkers and demands some heavy supping and slurping. Tis the zipping thrustiness of this one and the high wire danger that propels we listeners forward and after the previous care-laden tune it is sweet to get such a blow-out - good stuff my dear chaps. 'Kick Em' Down' comes next and is a minor peach plucked from a flourishing bush of rhythmic fruit that sees the rind of the verse outshine the inner flesh of the chorus, which of course has me chewing on the possibility of if only a top dollar chorus was had then what a pure mouth-watering stunner we could have really bitten into. Nay bother, I crack on nonetheless.

'Apocalypso' bass rumbles, screw winds with care, tympanically rises from tribal substrates where a verse ensues in comfortable tub thump, two step routine that will ensnare oral assistance and have the 'live' louts bouncing. The chorus follows the trend and alters the output with a forthright combo-punch option. Liking is particularly had for the following mouth off that is nicely outside the main thread of the song - a cute touch. 'Never Gonna Fall' immediately summons thoughts of a defiant number built on growled warnings and 'keep your distance' threats. Instead what we get is a more embracing tune that keeps things light and without too much abrasiveness. It is in keeping with the set trend but I do wonder if a mistake is had here and a chance at changing direction lost. Hey ho, not a bad track nonetheless although the weakest runt of the pack comes next under the guise of 'Sick Of Love Songs', a ditty that starts mighty pretty with a gripe in the cavernous gut and a relieving chorus but a song that then gets carried away by too much whinging about a pet hate and overdoing a rather turgid flow. The spiral to the 'PIL'led final utterance is neat and the short running time is extra salvation but this is my least favourite spillage of the lot. Thankfully the simplicity and all round alco-goodness of the partified celebration known as 'Beer And Whiskey' brings the CD to a foaming closure with the band pouring in their consummate all and providing us with a smile and slurp snippet to jig and swig to. I'll sign off here and add nothing more to this individual assessment, best to always finish on a high.

The Kingcrows have progressed and it has been a grand journey to behold. This is without doubt the bands best release to date and I am really happy about that. Sometimes the good guys deserve a break and need something to showcase their true talent and get them some note - this CD ticks all the right and relevant boxes.


Another Oi CD, one that travels the same old ground many bands have boot stomped across and kicks up traditional dust for those who are thoroughly immersed in the vibe. On Facebook the band proudly state 'We don't associate with any political organisation or political idea. We are here to sing about our passions and every day struggles' - I like that and just hope the punters respect this and don't drag any unwanted bullshit into the fold and just let the band jump up and down and enjoy doing their feisty thing. All I can offer here is honesty, be it viewed as positive or negative I can only try and keep things straight and so another review begins with all areas clear. By the way, these buggers come from Scotland so the previously mentioned themes speak for themselves. Let's do it!

Ooomph and 'Bootboys And Hooligans' forces its way inwards, bounds on rubber soled liberation and immediately extinguishes any doubts that the listener may have regarding the bands inner pride and passion. The soil and the soul are intermingled to give a very grounded, heartfelt number that has a firm undercurrent of rhythm and a nice overcoat of gravelly ill temper. Shouted with controlled precision and combining many booted elements the in-crowd will undoubtedly love. For me it is the instantaneous sing-a-long aspect and two-fingered resolution that wins appeal and I move on happy enough. Next and a straining she-cur salivates and snarls whilst gushing out sizzled wordage prior to the main musical assault. What comes is an eager urging chainsaw attack that overspills with a reaction to the shaven warriors and all the scuffles they get involved (what is this war I am seemingly unaware of). 'Skinhead Warrior' is all over in a flash and despite the obvious accents and leanings it passes by without obvious flaw. 'Docs And Tattoos' contains the same glaring familiarities and goes about its business in equally direct and sanguine fashion. The verses are rough and ready but highly apt whereas within the chorus chunks this one punches from both sides of the gender and gives a double impact for all to savour. The rudimentary nuts and bolts of the bollocks are strong and secure and function well without fighting for too much space of the foreground, which for me, is all well and good. So, verdict of the first three - not bad at all lads and lasses!

My arse is in gear, a flame is appearing from the rectal area spreading over the buttocks, is this of any relevance to the review - who fuckin' know, my nerves and mental state are always in turmoil?

'In My Heart' begins like many other songs I have heard (well I do listen to a fair bit of shizzle) and moves into the first verse with unsurprising results. A chuggery to charm when only in the mood for something easily digestible and not one to bother about when looking for something more profound. Another heart full of pride moment with an instinctive pack mentality shining through and hoping to raise a few boots. I don't mind this stuff at all and can move and groove along with it as well as more angular, awkward and out of sync offerings. Nowt special, nowt garbage - just one of those. 'Punx and Skins, Football, Oi and Rock N Roll' Tommy-Guns in before somersaulting on speed in a wrap-around style that jumps into the nut and pecks away like a woodpecker on a mission. The terraced slant, all-consuming mush of noise and general gist is soaked with 'in genre' mannerisms, distinctions and may it be added, affectation (nah, forget the last one). This song gets on with things, moves through a restricting tunnel of tonality and comes out the other end with only a minor kick up the arse.

Next up and 'Skinhead Loyalty' is a steady swinging piece that is borne from a swollen heart that is proud to adhere to the shaven headed rulebook and live a purist’s life. Many may not get it and even if they don't it doesn't matter, the band are zoned in and go through the motions with sanguine sincerity and head-soaked commitment. 'Musica Oi' follows and is a reckless number that lacks a little weight and jaw-smashing accuracy although a solid switched down and robotic riff plod does put meat on the bone somewhat. The flurries though and scattergun approach don't hit home so I move on to the next in line - sorry! 'Survive' is similar but just strains at the bit a little more, forces out beads of perspiration with pain and chucks in a downright determined refusal to hang on in there and keep firing. A lot of similarities here in fact but at least the level rises slightly and there is some punch in the produce.

The last two, I am crackin' on. 'Together' is a consuming number and sticks to a theme and ploughs away with clean direction and no flamboyance whatsoever. The band bounce from A to B with no pausing to pose or add extra rhythmic refinery. Honest and earthy but over a full length CD one cannot rely on the same modes of operation and the end execution must indicate many facets and underscoring accents - a chance lost here. We shut down with 'Violence', a tasty closure for a CD that was tailing off if I am honest (which I try to always be) and this visceral number just comes at the right time to remind us of how well the disc started and what promising gumption it held. Again no frills and few thrills but the consistent hunger and throat-tearing desire get this one to the finish line with all flags of positivity flying. The brief one-string instrumental twang needs beefing up but I shan't complain - I like the shit here and the way it is flung.

I feel cheated here, let down and not satisfied. Much was promised and initially was delivered but a dip and a refusal to change tack saw a plummet in pleasure for this picky punk and I feel the band have not fulfilled their potential at all. Saying that, I found some songs to get into and ping along with but there has got to be more to come and this can only go down as an average CD.



I have no time for sticking to the rules and regulations of in-scene in-breeds. I care not for being pushed towards the guidelines given by sanctimonious punk rock pricks who live by a very warped and time-entrenched code. I have never found listening to one style of noise to be very gratifying to the soul - hence when I wander off-circle I find bands such as the Dead Flowers. This Birmingham trio play a nice blend of scuzzy, psyched garage and do so with a natural skill and an eye for many other flavours that I find most applaudable. They may struggle in their journey because their exact slot is ambiguous but judging by what I have heard and seen so far they are always worthy of my time and effort but, will this CD mar all the promise and add a real shitstain across the pure white duds of discordance that have been brandished my way thus far (oh bugger).

We open here with a crummy infecting track known as 'Purple Skies', cue - saucer invasion followed by nastily clashed guitars and brow-beaten production values. Amidst the dysfunctional murk the band nail a fine slagged, roughly dragged bout of snot slurping sound that is interspersed with some commanding rapid-fire tympanic tantrums that splatter twat the bleak soundscape with bloody desire. The vocals are smeared across the aural viewing screen like abstract inclined excrement - there to cause offence whilst causing intrigue and emanating a belief in the uproar. Strings are punishing and although not given the best processing room assistance still manage to expose life and energy to a very fine degree. I have a soft spot for dirty garaged goings on, this perversely appeals.

'She's Got Time' groovily moves in on a funky vibe with asses waggling and throats warbling. The band consistently keep the hand on the restraint button and move through several sections and an instrumental cutlet before letting themselves gradually go and losing themselves amidst what eventually appears to be an indulgent moment that outstays its welcome. Trim a minute off the song and you have a whole different beast but as it is and with the just off the mark production I think a solid average is the verdict!

Track3 and 'Lose Myself In You' begins with a cymbal rustle and a humming bass borne from damned vaults where retrospective ears will surely be tuned in. The guitar alters the slant though and chucks in a blue light emergency that lustily gives the whole arrangement excitement and danger. A bleak industrial streak pervades all progress and the sleazy gobbage helps finalise the construct with a good overcoat of untrustable grime. A dirty bitch of a song with legs splayed and all arousing gifts bared. There is a sweet freedom of expression here and the closing cacophony shows the band are swinging with ease and not looking for any form of perfection - yes, I like this a lot.

There ya go, as honest as the day is wank. Three songs, three attempts at nailing the feeling I get and what you may get from a band who need to dig in now and fulfil their true potential. This is OK but there is a whole lot better to come and I'll keep stamping my feet until I get it - bah!
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