For fuck's sake, I lost this CD in the midst of many on-line/off-line mires and so have no idea where the initial pointer came from or what the fuck I am supposed to do (never mind).  Tis a hectic life I lead with the head swirling in many spheres of pollution, passion and pandemonium.  I throw off any concerns and refuse to slip into mires of stress and go into this like a revved up chicken in shades - clucking but cool and happy to lay assessing eggs in my own upfront way - ouch, my rear end needs oiling!

First and an 'Intro', a brief waffle and a couple of strums - done, shit, pointless and on we go.  'Anna' is a dirty sounding fucker with a crackin' unwashed riff rolling over the acoustic palate with lively, offensive delectability.  I adore the bassed up grunginess, the garaged essence that sporulates much stinking success and bone-trembling weaving is sugar to the soul and as I sip over and over again I feel myself becoming something of an addict.  Nicely popped and throbbed I make this the real start of the CD and ignore that opening faux pas.  Lustily I bound onward and trip over 'Walk The Walk', another dish full of foul fodder only the most curious and malnourished dare to feed on.  The band hold onto the idea of blending clean rhythm and mucky production values and spit up a mid-paced lo-fi trembler that is slick, off the cuff and healthily loaded with potential to jump from one pit to another in the twanging of a string.  Smooth baby, smooth.

'It's Alright' is on the ball of the basic bopper and pounds along without consideration for anything other than a good pop jaunt.  Lyrically stripped, musically straight ahead with a set riff to roll and with an essence that is very old school US poppoid and has something of the swift liquidity within so prevalent in the mentioned sub-circle.  Slip it on, slip it off, groove at your leisure.  'You Make Me Wanna Scream' is similar in construct but is a more entangling number due to the real ass swing and overall convincing melody that rocks the listener to utter submission and irresistibly forces forth a dance and drink delight.  From the opening acute yes, through the mouth-watering riffage, the so easily involved with verses and choruses and the entire upbeat tones this is a super slap of unfussy, unmolested music to just have fun with - I love it and the garaged accents help uphold my genuine favour.

'Psycho' ruffles itself up with nervy sticks and string jabs before burrowing deep into your attentive zones and rampantly rolling around and kicking its feet in the air with utter glowing glee.  Only 1 minute 14 seconds worth of noise here and perhaps that is just as well, to keep the CD propelling forth, to maintain that short, sharp punchiness and to have us always chomping for more.  Something slightly horrified jumps into the slipstream during this ditty and dips its toes into further sub-generic pools.  I find no fault, I am always up for produce such as this, a simple mind meets simple tuneage and both are given to simple delight - one of the best sensations a music muncher can come across.  'Utopia' begins with an insane tête-à-tête and sees one man impose threat and the other crumble in a heart-wrenching way.  The clattering tunefulness that comes forth is a natural embracing rock and roll waltz played from an acoustically complimentary dust yard that sees the players find themselves right at home in a crummy but aurally acceptable situation.  Nothing from the drawer of originality but a whole lot from the filing cabinet of honesty - we shouldn't complain and what a nice band this would be to slip on an all dayer.  'Oh Yeah' funk fucks in with superb frayed bass work that provides the ideal foundation on which to build a slag bag of lo-fi feistiness.  Slaps come, scarring riff lashes are donated and a complete low-slung relish is poured through the speakers with hip-grinding sleaziness in the midst.  From the central 4 wobbled wire shaft the song is created and if you cast off expectations of intricacy or carefully crafted convolutions then this DIY will treat will meet your dog-hungry needs - fuckin' eat it man.

We finalise this offering with 'All Radio Is Dead', a song that begins with an almost dysfunctional spectrum upload before adopting a mean beat filled with ominous dictations of discordance.  Tension and ambience are brought to the boil before the sub stated/sub-sung verse fling is delivered via apocalyptic sound systems.  The proclamation of the title is deathly, borne from a cold, stark acceptance that the state of play is far from a positive thing and that it is everyone’s loss that frequencies are now devoid of life and meaning and we, the wanting listeners, are going to be severely starved.  The wind down to the last fizzle is abandoned and defeated and leaves us with a sensation of automated acceptance that can only help speed up any downward spiral. Chilling in some respects and quite pertinent.

Done, dusted and quite delighted with the decadence and uncomplicated deliveries I do wonder if I can get Nosebleed on a gig at some point and expose their acoustic accents to the uninitiated.  It is all about moving, staving off the tendrils of the static and Nosebleed look to be a type of band I'd like to include in the fungalised way of things - needs must methinks.   Now who the fuck are these guys?   PS.  Just found out they are a 3-piece from Leeds, ah now the murk clears.



Sent my way via that Fanceenian deviant and twiddler of the 6 strung sword Dan Gott this 4 track CD was offered up for review with the hope of using the textual material for a promotional push that will precede a tour.  Fuckin' hell, but what if I don't like it?  Ah well, honesty first I am afraid, that is how this Fungalised cookie crumbles and in the long run it is ultimately for the best - suck it, swallow and see!  The band yank their planks from the town of York and play, what they describe as, melodic hardcore - one of those ambiguous tags I abhor and one that leaves one forever searching for a more relevant description (as if it matters).  Anyhow, no time to fanny about, into the quartet I plunge, to do something I have done over a thousand times before - crikey!

'Manic Wolves' is a skidding number that careers along a smooth planed out surface of sound with much deliberate direction and polished effect.  The steering wheel of vibration is held firm and the engine given a good going over by player’s intent on pushing themselves, as well as their rhythmic bowels, hard.  The output from the exhaust end is a plume of US 'A' scented shit that although appearing toxic is not as dangerous as it should be.  The melodic mercurial delivery is lubricous and nimble whilst being of such a pace as to filter out only the best of the player's talents.  Lovers of technical twattage and regular no-nonsense deliveries will find equal pleasure here - not total but not minimal either, just an appreciable amount to make one progress into track 2 with hope.  Talkin' of which...

'Be A Magician, Trick Your Friend' is a better track due to the Russian Roulette delivery and the dicey way in which the crew throw in disagreeable flavours and create a hazardous maelstrom of music to blitz the bonse with.  A roughing up intro, a painful twinge and then an all out stampede as the gates come done (along with various undergarments no doubt - wow) and a pummelling piss splash of very intoxicating idiocy borne from loins ablaze and eternally tingling papilla.  A few stops and starts are there for unadulterated show and, in my view are totally pointless, but beyond this niggle we have a teste-trampling tirade that adds more fuel to a building conflagration. Hot man, hot!

Third up and the title twist known as 'Dead Generation', a de-robing thrust of white apocalyptic rhythm making with the open anal passage of the band pushing out nuclear noise that radioactivates the wayward receptors and convinces one that to smash ones nut repeatedly against a brick wall is the only way to listen to this tune.  Sub-violence scores, wham slam slaps bombard and the totality of the tune powders ones will and brings much sonic, sadomasochistic pleasure to the fore.  A deep running thread of consistent racket making and I am aurally agog at such an exciting grenade of sound - thwack, an unstoppable force with pressure intense!

And lastly, ye lascivious louts of the noisy nether regions, the last slab of orgiastic slam-dunking shittery to foul your cacophonic countenance is splattered down as 'Way Of Life' and after a thump and twinge combo this one forces itself into your system with authoritative commanding screw twists.  Another pause, another turn of the violent valve and an advancement into the main mushy substance of the creation with moments taken to regain breath, flutter the weaponry and whip up a tetchy turbulence - I reckon they just about do it.

A first meeting here for my lugs and these creators of din and one that has seemingly gone well.  No problems at all and I reckon there is plenty of hefty muscle exposed to attract many perverts to the 'live' pit.  There is room to improve, I can sense it in my water, and all we can do is see what comes to pass as time flits by.  As a starting point though I suggest you gobble on!



I have been to many gigs over many years but it is few and far between that the occasion has arisen when I have spewed my fuckin' Riggots up.  Nowadays it doesn't matter because there is a new set of Riggots out there for all to see and these are equally garish, foul, varicoloured and, in some ways, offensive - oh yeah.  Hailing from my hometown of Wigan (the land of the pie, the throwback and many he-man rugby noodles) this lot have much clout, much activity and much good tuneage to get off to (not in a literal sexual sense of course but, if you must then you surely must).  I have witnessed their double-ended jackass shit on a couple of occasions (one of which was a Fungalised throw-up) and am in need of more up-close and personal encounters (anally free of course) but in the meantime will have to do with this silver circle of shizzle the band have asked me to assess.  No holds barred, no rockin' rabbits left unmolested - in for a puddin', in for a pound (ing) - my ears are ready to bleed.

The sagging vaginal lips of mother music are spread and the first foul sonic flatulence to escape is hailed as 'The Duchess', a full tilt titivator to inhale deeply and fuckin' choke on.  A stupidly spasmodic shit shaker that stutters inward over drugged tootsies of accursed tones that cannot be trusted.  The blend is a crippler, a Kandinsky cum Pollock hybrid that hints at structure in part, twat splats against all rigidity of conformity in others - the end result is a very exciting splash of testing, temperamental irritation played to a grand level of exactitude.  The chaser is the unstuffed 'Taxidermy', a brief excursion into rotten lace curtain madness where aroused monks of sub-melody roam, eternally threatening to rape your mind with dripping shafts of ambiguity - I shall add no more!

'Dogs Of Bore' is back on track, with claws digging deep and substrates of decency disturbed and uncovering a wealth of chewed up and regurgitated rhythm that once tasted brings visions of things best left buried, for those with delicate constitutions. There is a fly-blown stench and good to the gut earthiness that combines acute action energy, new-school zest and technical molestation which culminates over and over in frighteningly zoned in avalanches of brutality.  Almost jizzed jazz in its ad hoc and jammed style with much cerebral stress relieved along the way.  I shouldn't keep fiddling with this one but like an open ulcer on the end of one's nob, one just can't leave it alone.  The pinnacle of the bands pandemonium comes next with 'Mental Skeleton', scuzz fuzzing in, breaking away and finding refuge in a first verse that hints at things orthodox before prancing on a precipice where wavering elements of angularity and peril manifest themselves and keep us very much impelled to take closer heed.  The way the band switch from the cultivated and tamed to the thoroughly wild and uncontrollable is what keeps the interest levels lofted and the dazzling accuracy is there for lesser melodic mortals to behold - the bastards.  The eggs, as always, are thrown into one basket, kicked to fuck and left to grow rank - nice work chaps.

'Two Friends' is a kidney punching cut with many hooks and counter-cracks thrown to bring anyone in the immediate vicinity down to their knobbly fuckin' knees.  Unpredictability by nature, unwavering and never taking a backward step, this acoustic assailant is nothing less than a vindictive rapist setting about your attentive flesh with clawed hands and barbed lips with the only intent to penetrate.  Choppy, turbulent and deliberately corrosive with many moments horrifyingly close to suggesting the band know what the fuck they are going to do next - scary indeed.  'All Dressed Up' begins with a discordance of unsettling crudeness before a spacious and physically suffering verse is kept alive by a life support machine of sound on its very last electro-legs.  From here an injection of unknown life comes and the band find it within their capabilities to make one hell of a massive musical mess that the mentally disturbed will fall utterly in love with.  Haemorrhage inducing terror tones clapping and slapping giant hands of disarray together and at times forcing out something akin to an orgasmic response - oooh me kecks.  'Icke' next and a crank tale that never truly settles and remains something of a lost runt that has no sense of its own direction.  Something bleak and holistically unhealthy pervades the neurones and although one or two moments power-punch I find the final twist to the closing splat just a little uncomfortable.  With this kind of music though one must take note that tomorrow the opinion may be different as it may well be for everything else on show - what a fuckin' arse hey and truly adding to the bewildering nebulosity I am haunted by.

'Be Resolute' is an evil cunt with a superb crafting of volume violence being committed before our very lugs, over and over again.  A purist tantrum of kick arse corruption fist fucked with a necessary need to make you bleed.  The short and limiting timing creates extra spice and you won't be alone in reaching for the replay button whilst thinking 'what the fuck was that'.  'EA>OK' is a jazzy germ that reproduces itself with each rotation before escaping the confines of the sound system and infecting your living matter.  A real bouncy fucker, hyper-hopping with glee and generating a real thumbs-up response from this jangled and jerked recipient of the rhythm.  A collected and gathered mix of modes to free-wheeling episodes of spasmodic collapse, this is a real fave of mine and one to rattle me nadgers to many times over - ah the bruising!

4 left and a swift stride to the stopping point - stick with it ye zealots.  'Song For The Misery Men', a corrupting dark and dank deluge of dirty rain poured from cauldrons of hate and spite prone to jump from placid plateaus into temperamental troughs of troubled thought with seemingly no consideration of what has transpired and what is about to manifest itself - they always play it dangerous which is the only way to do it. 'Taletopper Namedropper' opens its own account with a jerked up juiciness leaked from seeping asses up for the count.  The twinged ache of the opening assault, the scatter splatter follow through and the defying hunger and usual explosive intercuts all contribute to the devouring animation and crushing echelons of inspiration that keep this hungry dog fed.  Not easy listening matter and certainly not designed to induced sessions of relaxation but when in the mood this is fuckin' rib-rattling sub-rhythm to bounce to.  Despite the grandiose keyed upchuck of 'Waistcoat Blues' and the exciting throw up of sound this penultimate fucker out-cooks its own broth and the noise bubbles over a little too much and sears the appreciative lap of the listener - darn it.  The initial mine-blasts of magnificent music hypnotise but the deeper the tune travels into its own arse the further removed I feel myself becoming.  Now the question is, will this be a trait felt by many others or is it just a personal thing - all I can do is put what I feel and pose the question.  We shut down, shit off, slam dunk with the idiotically entitled 'Forked Shoes' a fine rectal ripping number that burns with incandescent luminosity that pierces the aural peepers and scorches the senses with moments that persistently peck and pound at the whole framework of decency.  The band are aiming for a fuckin' serious high here and are achieving it with muscular might.  The sticks and strings fuck with your head, the whole affray is one to jump into and let your fists and steel-capped boots do the talkin' regardless of the consequences - white hot shit man, take your beating with pride.

The Riggots work, the Riggots do it for me, the Riggots have made many an impression and on this evidence there are going to be plenty new fuckers brought into the mix of appreciation.  Of course, with noise such as this there will always be the odd slip and moments one can't take to but there will be many happenings that will leave one utterly speechless - that is how things go in a world of teetering on the edge.  The band remain firm-footed here and I suggest you get this and fuckin' take a walk on the wild side baby! 



By fuck I h ad thought this lot had disappeared into the sonic wilderness and left behind just memories of an acidic techno punkism I was very fuckin' happy to witness (note to self - fuckin' wake up ya wanker).  Having seen them on several occasions I do remember the last performance being an absolutely frightening stunner and I stood there and just marvelled at how many echelons of sonic success were mounted and duly smashed to fuckery.  The damning mix of ska, rap, dance, sub-trance, punk and the like all combine to make a dazzlingly hefty explosion of buzz hard noise that sets the acoustic arses ablaze.  So, prepared and with rectal fire extinguisher at the ready I crack on and see what these Leeds based louts have summoned up this time. 

'King Kong' bounds in, exposes every musical muscle the band have within their fiery framework and set to work with ardent, wired up wasp vigour.  Fat line bass belly grumbles and bounces before jive ass attitude smacks your ass with nettled accents and a nerved up backspill of tympanic tetchiness and brassed off smearing.  Electro punctuations involve themselves before a souped up synthoid bewilderment is had and the band find themselves amid a tossed salad of sound that slips and slides around as well as inducing many vomit splashes of garish tonality.  A totally heavy brew to knuckledust the noggin into wide-eyed, ‘what the fuck’ submission with a relentless approach to the factors of things hectic and havoc laden.  From the bands splurged abandonment to the avalanche of sound comes an infection, a fuckin' viral vibe we should kick far away but instead we keep hold of and, astonishingly...enjoy (it feels almost disappointment to confess such a verdict).  Pronounced sticks lead us into 'Stone In The Sock, with buzzed keys and bounced bass tones finger flicking at our cranial gunk.  Rapped and cacophonically crapped mouth work shit slips from furrowed funnels of high articulation and hungry hippo desire (clatter, clatter, chomp, chomp) and gives more than just an impression of fervour.  Funk fuckery comes, a craving for the continuation of underground ethics and uprising restlessness is produced and with continual spirals of sonic mania, saturated sections of mind-melting mush and contrasting throw backs to the basics this is another fractured melee to get very much involved with.  There are no restrictions.

Chill out time in essence, crack up time in reality with the most powerful racket thus far - enter 'Crunch Time'.  An exciting megaton drop of bang on marksmanship that sees the crew throw caution to a whipping wind and fuckin' wind themselves up into untold conditions of frenzy.  Naturally chaotic but wonderfully repositioned into some kind of ambiguous order when the band push hard at the pedal and keep the running time shorter the end result is such rewarding quality as smashed out here - replay, replay, replay!  We want to feed more and are given a 'Golden Spoon' to assist us, the taste that transpires is bastardised reggae raping customised with cocky smart chat and youthful re-resurgences of disgruntlement.  Effervescing and spunked in the more purist gob-riddling sections I find myself a little glazed over here but when the band throw in their entirety and aim for a much clattering composite I regain my eager beaverness. The lick of the lilt is felt, the thrust of the cadence enthrals and in certain areas there are some piss-forcing pinnacles achieved, more often than not, with the brass involved. 'Czech Neck' crisply cuts in with a somewhat Euro-essence initially provoking the embryonic state of the conflagration to come.  A tempest of released blowers comes followed by a machinery run first verse that hacks away and saws through the bone of the eavesdropper.  The crazed rise to the finale almost becomes obscene in its garish vulgarity and the chaos caused by the coming together of many colliding elements is all chicanery to become entangled by.  I feel the need to spout some more but will remain restrained and move into a trio of quick reviews to help the impetus.

'Rotten Tomato Entertainment', 'Horse Royale' and 'Gravy Train' all fall into line with the CSB line of looned sound and offer up an abundance of multifaceted flavours and sideswiping, uncomplimentary jigsaw vibes that refuse to fit and defy true orthodox regulations (and nothing wrong with that ya twat).  The first fireball of the three that falls from the cracked skies has a right fat assed bass line and goes from the usual fare the band have to offer to a careful intricacy that has yet more flavoursome inclusions.  More of the same I am unafraid to say with production values precise, unexpected turns taken and the gobbage as fervent as ever.  The middle member of the three is my preferred brew with its cool dude dream drift from tense ghettos cruised with insightful observations and clued in highlights.  Still there is time for some added drama, usually via brassed ornamentation or sticked seizures that rent the rippling substrate.  A fine track.  The last blast of the thrifty three gives me problematic acoustic indigestion with its challenging wordplay and effervescing bundle of sub-floundering notes, all bumbling around for forefront space and ultimately, grand exposure.  It is an interesting approach and I am sucked in yet again (silly git) but why should I care, no fuckin' restrictions for me and no boxes to tick to impress the in-scene schmucks!

'9 Lives (Reprise) ft. Juggernaut' is a fuckin' stunner, a boom banging fizzbomb that initially palpitates with wicked words and fuzz blasts that eventually turn into a white heat twister that spirals up, tumbles down and takes no prisoners.  A beastly encounter comes when gobbage from the wilds is rammed into our mugs which leads the way into a tumultuous wind out that tosses the senses this way and that much to our supreme delight.   This is a peach of a song and a prime example of how good China Shop Bull can be when the engine is well oiled and the many targets shot at are perfectly struck - wham.  Alas, for me, the closure fails to leave us bouncing and is one of the few weaklings the band have released to date.  ‘Cellophane’ is a far from convincing number that loses grip on the central thread around which the band create their best stuff.  It seems the spinal column is less firm here and although certain individual facets please the overall structure is viewed as a trifle messy and somewhat falling apart at the seams.  It may be a case of 'more spins needed. but I do give the noises that come my way good time and so am certain of my (yes, just mine) opinion.  OI OI - sometimes things flop one way other than the one expected.

So, not a thrilling finish for me but that should in no way detract from a good walloping album that has layer upon layer to uncover and to no doubt expose many arousing sensations.  I need to catch CSB in the flesh again, I am provoked and I am keen.



I know completely fuck all about Pootie and if it wasn't for some git from The Murderburgers that still may be the case.  All I initially picked up was this was a one man effort from Florida who keeps things rather stripped down and minimalistic whilst putting forth several tunes that could be considered of outstaying their welcome.  I shall tread the water carefully here and give plenty of time to the task at hand and then go in with mitts of honesty fiddling.  Tis pointless to do it any other way as a reviewer is always in a no win situation anyhoo - as if that matters.

First up and the slab of sound known as 'Volunteers Return In A Year', 43 seconds of nude noise with only gob and skins on show - a very flimsy start with not much to recommend.  A mere curio in totally the wrong place - poor indeed.  String plucks and bolder strums take us into the musical mush proper with sizzling cymbals also added to the intro of 'A Start At The Dinner Table'.  After the opening gambit a clippity clop clockwork section comes with a real hiccupped sensation that is found to be most pleasing.  The combo of DIY pluckery, honest mouth work and urging tympanics works well and keeps me enthralled.  A pause and the zest is upped before going back through the slower proceedings.  This feels like a working of three of four songs into one which may cause consternation but which doesn't dumb down the 'intrigue' factor.

'Little Boy' is another fractured song with lullaby essences, cruising doses and many moments that seem to have no clue as to their whereabouts and ultimately, their destination.  A real hotch potch of tinkering that is disjointed in the extreme and doesn't really work for me.  The problem here is that the flow is horrid, too staggered and the patchwork feel has too many ragged edges for its own good.  There are many angles that are worthy of consideration as to what they could be but overall, as a single entity, this is a no, no for me and the end collapse may be representative of my patience - bah.  Fourth up and the mania of 'What Will They Think', again a multifaceted mish mash of vibration that starts with a tranquil strum along that has the odd ruffle of the feathers amid the country church-like insidiousness.  Onward and cymbalised and skin chaos invades before our artiste undergoes several cerebral breakdowns and hollers his knackers off in a howler of frustration.  An ensuing throw around of many facets and before we know it we are done - is that a good or a bad thing, fuck knows but there are many aspects to pick out here and enjoy - mad I know but there ya go!

'Wall' is not easily climbed over and takes a chunk of reviewing time to fully mount and get to grips with.  A slow strum, the pondering gobbage and a messy kerfuffle of clashing components that never really find true harmony and balance and so always remain niggled bedfellows.  The scuttling bursts with added pace are the most rewarding moments but somehow this one just doesn't have any crucial equilibrium so I move on dissatisfied.  'No Right For Wrong' potentially wastes the first minute of the ditty by allowing morose droplets of rhythmic rain drop to from what seems to be an almost run dry gutter - don't be misled, this 60 second tickle is needed in some ways and helps to prepare the listener for the increase in tension and the primeval release that you may well expect to come.  The throat eventually gets the seeing to it deserves and when the gas is burned like buggery and true mania dictates we see the song reach its ultimate zenith and see my assessing pecker rise in concurrence.  A lengthy track but one I can appreciate and in many areas get stuck in with.

5 left and a rather swifter approach taken with the review.  'Sand Spur' peeps through soundless curtains with tangible hesitation before making an obstructive pause and then, as if by chance, falling into something akin to a thread of tunefulness.  A likeable lilt is borne, a mere wander through soft stained pastures of easy contemplation that give the song a lazy feel and somewhat easy to swallow aspect, not bad at all.  'C. B.' is a cluttered knee jerk reaction of repeater restlessness that schizophrenically  corrupts its own construct with numerous angularities and crude lashes of the acoustic weaponry. An uncomfortable moment that does offer a few glimpses of something more rewarding but those glimpses are brief and I doubt eavesdropping peeps will have the patience to stick with this one.  'Seven Was My Song In New York' is a slightly less disjointed affair and has a charming string fuckery that peg-legs along like a cripple on coke before getting lost amidst a jungle of jiggery-pokery that fails to produce the end bunny from the top hat and the appreciative applause.  7 minutes 35 seconds is way too long for this kind of experimentation and self-induced therapy and so I fuck off out of it with a verdict swayed into the zones of the negative ( I do like the closing madness though).

The penultimate track is scabbed over with the name of 'Crackerspew (Wingfield Tenement)' and comes at us with a bargain basement string wank and tympanic naiveté that radiates a child-like charm that just gets under the skin and tickles the DIY neurones into acceptance.  This is symptomatic of a streak of sound that one can listen to and think 'yeah I can do that', an essence that punk was built on and a point many fuckers too easily forget.  The increase in passion and tempo combine together and round off a song that could easily be shredded and brutally criticised but for me this is a nice ditty and one I can pick and play at any time and, enjoy.  We close the patchworked product with 'Two More Years', a run down the teeth of a comb, a very tight expulsion of wind, the removal of an elastic from a resistant arsehole - take yer pick, and then a steady chug and whispered throat work leading to a similar pond but with a few more splishes and splashes.  Again the faux pas of overdoing the cooking is made and a long drawn out episode tests ones resilience and levels of acceptance.  It is a shame because stretching out matters somewhat negates any focus and rather than a small bright shadow cast from a glowing number we get a jaded and faded antumbra that really doesn't catch the attention - a shame.

So I have mixed feelings over this release, in parts catchy, in parts painful, in some areas raw, chirpy and purely low-fi DIY, in others attempting too much and not in full cahoots with the obvious generic theme.  I can't knock it too hard though as there is a whole lot of potential simmering below the surface and when this bursts through we could have something a whole lot better on our hands.  At the mo though, rather than jump in and purchase, just have a peek first and see what ya think.



A three-piece here, coughing up 2 demo songs for my tastebuds to toss about with. The fuckers claim to come from the moon, the Sea of Tranquillity it seems, which I reckon means the music about to come my way is either created by drug addled maniacs, insane nob-rots or lovely people with a vivid imagination and a need to escape.  So, to get into the mood, I pop out my personal rocket, massage the globular engines and build up for an interstellar climax that may shed some light (or spunk) on proceedings.  Bon voyage dear earthlings, wish me luck why don't ya (crikey, me ruddy helmet!

Example X the unknown comes, Side A I suppose if you want some semblance of textual safety and is a toon named as 'I Can't Sleep At All', an attempt that begins with crisp and comfortable wire trills that hint at the hygiene and seat-belt security of bands on a one way ticket to popularity pleasing heaven where backs are slapped and arses duly licked clean.  The fact here is that an infecting back feed of filth takes the sonic shaft and wanks out dirty husks of abrasive tonality that many may not duly appreciate. The scuzzed scoring sound is not easy to swallow and could be easily misidentified as a beast of nastiness rather than a curious garaged grind out that has a wealth of primitive prowess.  Clad in drapes of unrehearsed rabidness and restless rock and roll shittery this one does it for me and appeals to areas I am cursed with and yet am proud to own. Virulent raving from a pit of piss, sometimes it has that special something, sometimes it misses the point - here we are in a zone.  


'Worthless' has a better flavour to the riffage and carries an insatiable lustiness in the wire work that is easily picked up on.  The gripe here is that the slaggish flow is cut short, amputated in something of a prime which I don't know is a good thing or a bad thing - hey ho.  I am a mere reviewer, floating within a storm of sonic endlessness and trying to take in all aspects of the upheaval - it ain't easy.  This one gets a thumbs down because if feels a little unfinished, a little short of the mark and frustrates the hell out of me after such a fine strum and strop guitar start - cunts!

So 1 good, 1 bad, both ugly, both a trifle mad but The Lunar Boys give hint of soiled occurrences to come and, perhaps with a tougher squeeze of the sphincter muscle, some reeking success as well - I am tuned in dudes.



What better way than to test my todge of tolerance by serving up a CD by a darn good band whom have decided to compose a few tunes regarding that ghastly commercialised farce known as Christmas.  As is the norm, in theory the ethos of the festive season is lovely, in reality it has become a raped and ragged drama filled with bit part players only thinking of self - nowt new there then.  So, here I am, a humbug bastard stuck with a fuckin' Santa sucking CD to review by a crew I have a lot of respect for - oooh the fuckin' hell of it all.  Only 2 sides though so the pain (or perhaps the pleasure) will be brief, cripes!

Side A - 'It's Christmas Time Again' is bounced out of the speakers with fluid gusto and the much important factor of 'innocence' that goes someway to convincing this eavesdropper that these silly sods actually believe this thing.  The typical 4PM essence is there, the solid skin ravishings and the corrosive string slants as well as some tinkerbell chimes, cheesy sing-a-long spillages and many typical lyrics that you would expect to hear on the donated snow covered silver circle.  The main winning aspect of the song is the great swathe of unadulterated joy and embracing thrust that never lets up and has, even the most ardent doubter of the cracker pulling tomfoolery, getting sucked in. I hang my noggin in shame at this point as having to confess to actually liking this and singing along in many parts, I know shameful isn't it?  The band obviously wanted to go for the full on festive experience and tick all the expected boxes and in utter truth, I reckon they have done just that with this well-tuned turnip.  Don't get me wrong, I certainly won't be playing this after the Christmas period is over but this is worth a rotation before and is as good as anything I have come across over the years (including the many veritable classics).

Side B '4PM Christmas Medley' the first part of which is a reworking of that marvellous signature song fans will be very well versed with.  The '4PM Crew' have bite, passion and a soaked through spirited joy that transcends the CD and brings a smile to even my ever-doubting face.  A slip into a beer guzzling encouragement and a rise in desire - what a tonic.  Part 2 comes in the form of a soft-arsed acoustic mush that soon gets its act together and rabble rouses with fire in the belly (no doubt caused by an overdose of sherry) and shouts out a pertinent fact that no-one (and I mean no-one) should be lonely on Christmas Day - you'd be a git to disagree.  A real party number and one ideal for a gathering of folk who have made the effort, got together and given each other a hug and some darn needed company - oooh the cockles of me heart!  The third slice of tuneful Krimbo cake to be served our way sees our lead man and his merry crew slip into Graceland mode and offer up the soppy classic 'The Wonder Of You’ a regurgitated Elvis cornball free of clogging cholesterol and smoothly hitting your aural membranes with charming effect and may it be said, sincerity that is almost criminally believable - oh these cracked sods.  For me it is a song that should only be played when pissed, doe-eyed and on the brink of a musical breakdown - if in the state of possessing all your marbles you should keep well away - surely it isn't too much to it?

So I have dipped in, dangled my toes in the waters of fringe madness and come away disgusted in myself for being persuaded to give a somewhat positive review.  Christmas in theory can be a wonderful time, in reality it is a load of commercial claptrap conning the masses and pushing them through a foolish procedure of tensions and unnecessary pressure.  The answer is to switch off, keep a sense of reality, concentrate on love, what you are blessed with and doing a bit for others off and then you may get something half decent.  If you do have a bit of new cheddarised tuneage playing in the background then this may just be for you - go on, give an underdog band a bit of time for once - woof.



Have you got trouble with yer ring-piece?  Do you struggle to pass your daily motions? Is your partner sick and tired of your anal-induced constipation?  If so, then worry no more dear sonic stalwart just pick up the phone and order your Modern Tribes 4 track muscle relaxant and tear yourself a completely new arsehole within days of listening. This is a once in a lifetime offer you can pick up today for a small fee subject to sexual activity and alcohol tolerance.  And what's so great about this offer is that if you haven't emptied the motherload after 3 spins your hard-earned money will not be refunded. Yes that's right, 3 spins to shit and no repayment if the dump stays docile.   To take advantage of this excremental shifting miracle we advise you do not delay and contact the band on their Facebook page as soon as you have read this review.  Remember happy bowels are empty bowels so blow it out yer ass now and read on about a modern indie punk CD set to revolutionise the whole stool-based industry.  Phew - me fuckin' mind!

'Cut It Out (I Won’t Go Back)' is the first electro-judder to get the rear end juices aggravated with a slap yer buttock belt out that is vigorous, animated and highly charged with ample angularity and feisty fist fucking annoyance.  I like the thrust and marvellous pressure punch that comes forth as well as the ungovernable essences that are out of sync with rubber-stamped, rigidly stomped routines that the musical world is thoroughly up the duff with.  There is an inflamed impetuosity here that has flames stutteringly stoked by bellows of homicidal rage that has surely neglected its daily dose of happy pills and gone somewhat off the rails.  A very organ trembling moment and one I can easily seizure to!  'Annie Adderall' is next, who the fuck is Annie Adderall ye ask - sorry but I have no idea!  After a bit of micro-mooching I found out this - 'Annie Edison from NBC's Community became addicted to pills and earned the nickname Annie Adderall in high school.  'Community' is apparently a comedy about a Greendale Community College study group - mmm - I still remain primarily out of sync. Anyhoo fuck the comedy, what about the ditty on display.  The initial crispiness shouldn't mislead the listener as to what raw-boned repeat heat comes and this wrap-a-round sizzle soaked tribal chant is intrinsically the simplest donation on the box and yet succeeds in ticking certain positive boxes of  DIY honesty with its sub-garaged vibration, deliberate power-mongering and simmering intent on breaking free from many cacophony cages.  A quite gnawing tune and in-line with the previous affair.

Simile soaked mania absorbs me before my favourite of the four is 'When It Burns Down (You Will See Me Smile) hits home.  A mechanically supported, deviantly curious grind out that has a punk streak as wide as Bobby Charltons' centre parting.  It is a short song, shorter than the pecker of Ronnie Corbett and has an industrial muckiness more grimy than the diary of Cyril Smith (fat nasty scum he be).  The persistence deluge of wondering wordage is fascinatingly addictive and the main riff of the song appeals as well as the child-like questioning any decent thinker should relate to.  You know the thoughts 'I wonder what would happen if I stuck my cock in here', 'I wonder what would happen if I killed a priest' etc. etc.  Well you get the gist (I hope). A hypnotic effort and one to play above and beyond the realms of loud.

Last up and 'Psycho', twilights and twinkles before fading into the shadow of an omnipresent, overpowering march of smoky cloud that rains down flatulent wordage and an absorbing powerslab of tornado tuneage.  A storm is whipped up and one expects a wild rhythmic raping to come but we get instead an ambiguous utterance and escorting fade out that leaves us...roused and somehow, implicated.  It is a nice instrumental cut to finish and shows another facet to a band that have an overflow in a tank that needs to be given a full state of release - I am intrigued.

The Modern Tribes have something.  They have a style that leaps boundaries and somehow reaches from the technical, without being too intricate, to the basic, without being crude.  The end result does need attention in the studio and that is what it gets here and this tidy four tracker is surely an opening gambit that promises much and, gratifyingly delivers to.  I reckon another 4 tracker of the same ilk would be a wise move next, there is a creeping mode about this band and long may it continue. Now go take that shit peeps!



A couple of these tuneful turnips from the BFTI squad I have worked with for many a year now and what a brace of fine gents they are too.  The other two are equally fine as well and are always friendly (I like that) and equally understanding of my wayward ways (I like that more). As a combination all 4 artistes have blessed my peepers and lugs with some fine 'in the flesh' explosions with several tunes taking up residence in my rhythm soaked noggin and refusing to be moved.  This album is long overdue, has been awaited by my foul self for a while now and I chuck my assessing carcass in with all abandon and 'fuck that' fairness, I mean let us be honest, how many others will do the same (cunts).

The first globule of sound to hit the shit-house walls stinks with the name of 'All My Tomorrows', a fuckin' crackin' initial spit-out if you ask me and one instantaneously fuelled by 'alive and kickin' bass work, topped with a demanding slab of well-skidded guitar and twat happy stick labour that parts the waves and lets us move toward the first victorious verse where vocals are keen and eager and have a lucidity that combines well with the abrasive, but steady, back slag of noise.  Emotively the song displays wealth and the completely well-oiled manoeuvres and insistent sandpapered effect all work splendidly.  The gruff and rasping gobbage that counterpunches against the clearer throat spillages are a treat and the general grab slant of the song makes this a worthy opener.  Chasing on its heels is 'Hate It All', a fast snaking, up the trouser leg climber that grows on the listener with each deliberate rotation.  It is a cancerous song, infecting and overloading with its dark rhythmic residue and heavyweight bulldozing shuffle that moves earth and arses in equal proportion.  When stripped down for assessment the construct is very basic and could easy be a powder puff disappointment if the production levels weren't at all complimentary.  Luckily the band get it right here and make a good impression with a stable, safety soaked song that takes few risks and just hurls forth body blow after body blow.  Not bad but just unfortunate to be crammed between the previous stunner and the following effort that has more zip. 'Burning From The Inside' cruises along with consummate buzzsaw smoothness and is a million miles away from any egregious errors or magnificent slipshod shite-ups and so convinces with nothing more than the factors of reliability and consistency.  The acute yet paradoxical bluntness of the opening guitar cut is very rewarding and builds up an immediate impetus on which the band can easily flourish.  The vocal statements are intrinsically basic but are delivered with a gusto that somehow encourages me to take greater note which, in turn, proves to afford great satisfaction and gets one delightfully involved.  This one may lack certain trimmings and flamboyant accoutrements but let me tell you it is a direct and arse kickin' number that is well worth the extra spins I encourage you to give - go on, get yer head down and thunder on down with it.

Fourthly and looking for more eudemonic moments to provoke lusty text to be tapped from my ever-busy distal parts 'Shot' is fired my way and is a deliberate strum out with yet more explicitly set forth pronunciations that rise above a very carving underscore of scathing sound.  It is less paced and pushing than the previous number but it carries its own weight well and has a dark rippling throughout that gives an almost apocalyptic defiance that stands up in your face and sears away your idiot indifference.  A well-balanced number again, tinsel and tat free with nice instrumental that keeps within the confines of the structure.  'Some Days' is a 'live' fave, has a matter of fact posture and is one of those tunes that raises the hairs on my nape and breathes into me a breath of life giving fresh air that makes me want to get up, kick down even more doors than I do and piss in the face of doubters and those that take pride in keeping you underfoot. The opening gambit is a superb boom bang of encouraging noise awash with crisp notes, tympanic aggression and harmonious upheaval that all rise to a wave that deals with the emotive mood swings and constant fight we face to keep ourselves moving.  I like the grit and determination this fucker throws at me and the inspiration it re-fuels to keep my busy rear still in gear.  The vocals are almost borne from a hallowed place that looks down upon the fuss and shakes its head in disbelief but rises high and takes on all that has to come and kicks back hard. The severing noise has an animation level that pushes many of my buttons and after playing this over and over again (5 times on the bounce at one stage) I am tagging this as a fuckin' belter.  Suck...on...that!

Past the halfway stage and 'Falling Fast' slips in and in my lowly horrible opinion is song that needs careful consideration so as to get some handle of the very emotive gist of the delivery and the munching melody that gnaws at your resistance in a slow and deliberately purposeful manner.  After a hefty clubbing of the tubs the 'whoa hoa'd' assisted verse ascends to a chorus built on tight-reined rage and fecund fight that will surely flower into a rebellion or a breakdown respectively, the final power boom suggests the latter.  Next and the CD's chosen plodder with a very slight suggestion of something more towards the rock side of the spectrum although I can never imagine the bands stickman sporting a length barney and wearing spandex.  ‘One Night Alone’ is a creeping vine with a message to take heed of.  A low-boiled bugger and perhaps the last impressive of all products on show but it certainly doesn't need a verbal kicking from me.  As a standalone it would be considered a middling effort that is slightly facile but as part of this CD it comes across as some very well mixed cement keeping all around it in place and as solid as fuck.  Well, that's what I think anyway!

'Behind Closed Doors' takes us into the final trio and is a manky grub scuzz that emerges from the soiled substrate and pounds out a dark billowing boom bang of questioning hunger that may not like the answers found.  This one is not an immediate fave as there are other catchier tunes in the mix but the muscularity and tense sinewy effort as well as the incessant saturation of sound all slowly boil up and bring one to their knees of acceptance.  Add a little juice to the sound system and you have another good tune to bounce with.  'Only Death Can Kill Me Know' is a similar onslaught with an intensity that continues to burn harshly and a gristly intention to break the will of the listener.  There is a strong defiance in the weave of the war-mongering and only rockers of such years could surely deliver a number such as this with the emotion shown.  The crew are building to something outrageously impressive here and this one is a penultimate overspill to pave the way for what is the best of the lot.  'Just Another Day' brings to the fore the bands finest elements and sees the CD wham bam a closure in classy style with strings, tonsils and skins all in unison and nailing a genuine underdog pip.  The opening controlled guitar flicks are backed by emboldened drum thumps before the first verse is left to cruise in and gobble up our interest with its controlled but mightily promising lilts.  The chorus chases and is a simple sing and pogo delight that has had me drawn in since day dot with its enthusing and urging spirit - wonderful.  As though this is not enough we get, what is, a most pleasing deluge of heavily spiced oral animation and kick-arse desire poured from the beer frazzled lips of the bassist that ignites the whole song and gives it an extra dollop of 'fucking ooomph'.  From here the song can in no way fail and with a textured and precisely apt noise break, a continuous flow of embracing acceptance and a Thompson-gunned tympanic last blow out this is a certified as a stunner.

I'll be honest as usual here and state that I had serious doubts about this CD when I first played it - something wasn't sitting right when compared to the bands 'live' performances and I wondered whether or not a scathing review was on the cards.  Several more spins proved to be a real thought changer and a few songs had me playing over and over again with others jumping into the fray with each rotation.  At the stage I am at now I am more than confident to pass this one off as a fuckin' good do and one that has given me serious pleasure whilst putting digit to keyboard.  The band are DIY to the bone, have a great attitude and are always chatty chaps - I like that a lot.  Good on em' for this and good on em' for avoiding a Fungal tweak of the nipples of noise - well chuffed.  One final sobering thought though - there is more to come, they haven't hit the nail fully on the head yet so to the band and fans alike - keep on yer toes.



There is nothing like blowing your own trumpet (especially if you are knock-kneed and double jointed) and that is exactly what Dick Venom and the Terror Tones do with a bold Bandcamp statement that reads as thus 'Lean green delectable purveyors of this planet's most penetrating garage punk pleasures' - wow, the cock-sure buggers.  This sanguine edge appeals to me (well in this game if you don't believe in yourself then no other fucker will) and I like the horror trash suggestions too so, it seems, all appears well.  Alas tis all bollocks in this game if the music ain't up to scratch and so I take a spoonful of patience, sit down and plug in - this is what I make of things.

Twat splat, into 'Gun Of A Tongue' we slide with a choppy intro and then the expected groovie ghoulishness borne from carcasses riddled with hop swinging vibrology and non-too serious rock and roll funk junk.  This opening gambit has its arse immediately bared, the flabby flesh jigging away and the routine purely hot dog heeled and a real darn tootin'.  Shimmery and gushing with hormonal confusion this is a half decent do but is outstripped by the lunatic fringe cuckoo call of the appropriately entitled 'I Can't Find My Brain Cell'.  A totally uneven nervous shake-down of noodled noise that has many insectoid beats in the aural undergarments that duly induce a fidgetathon and 'fuckin' fathom it' aspect.  A genuinely wayward upchuck of wacky unconventional sound that leaves me confounded and close to cerebral collapse - perhaps that is the masterplan after all.

The best of the opening 3 is the sexed up shenanigans of 'Tight Pants (Double Ended)', a he/she cum bastard/bitch copulation that humps like a giant on pep pills and with the raucous erogenous zones revved up high and bearing much inner gumption.  A well squeezed number with the repeat verse beat working excellently alongside the twin-gender gob jollies that get beneath the epidermal layers and invoke a jitterbug/epileptic response that needs no extra medication whatsoever - a reet good do if tha' asks me! 'Dead Deadbeat Delinquent' is a shivery shit that wobbles a metallic cable with 60's noir-esque desire that is driven with tense and spooked utterances from a man on the edge.  The song grinds out a graveyard hip gyration with some ranted irritation and some stop/start higgledy-piggledy hoo ha that throws in an abundance of chiller thriller nuances to make sure you tread carefully and in time to the treat.  Later on in this episode of noise we get escorted by the sci-fi tones of a Theremin-esque invasion floated our way no doubt from minds soaked in saucer heaven, nay, alien Utopia. Nowt wrong with that.   'FFFunny Kinda Luvin' is a wired up wrong treat that clashes and corrupts amid a space age tinted toss about that throws itself around in a shake-shack of bee hive bliss.  A likeable lilt to this one and a really odd and eerie edge that draws in my favour for all things B-movied.  I dash onwards, tumbling haphazardly into the 'Last Dumbdregs of Dragsville', which discordantly wobbles a wire before hollering forth an aurally injuring screechoid attack of hybridised Noir-ism and rockabilly garage grime that is  all laid on foundations of untrustable lunacy. The band have a good glint in the acoustic eye though and the final piss off is very much appreciated - I like it!

'Don't Fuck On The Sidewalk' is a warning to the vulgar to keep all tackle and titbits tucked away and to keep things decent - ooh errr!  The heavy duty bass line is the main key here and gives the song a firm underlay of dark rhythmic residue upon which to get deviant and, may it be said, fidgety.  Shadowglass glimpses and glances grace the soundscape, further unscrewing of the mental state comes and so far so good, I am hanging in line with this. The craziest bout of noodleism comes next in the form of 'Do The Mash' and is perhaps the best number to completely lose your mind to.  From the opening collapse of thumbscrewing string labour, through the padded cell hollerings and via the absolutely absorbed and out of the mind 'oh oh's that are vented from a cerebral state best not spoken of, this is a real disturbed donation that trembles the threads of certainty and troubles the boundaries of morality.  I can really shake and shiver my tonal testes to this one and the bruising that comes is just an added bonus to appreciate.

A thrifty flow of four next with 'No Good To Get Up' a twang fuck echo irritant that muscle twitches with a cute spite loaded with yet more on the cusp peril.  The pulsated persuasions are intermittently broken by adrenalin rushes of clamorous cruising that is pretty restrained and goes someway to adding the contrast element.  'Planet Of The Honeyfuzz' has a more sable and sinister strain and is warped corrugated iron that in no way needs too much scrutiny due to its toxicity and liability to melt the mind and cause a permanent tuned out tetanus of the neurones.  Not my favourite flower in the bunch and one that just falls by the wayside whereas the following 'My Way Or The Dry Way' is not my type of thing either but it does seem to leave an impression and be a necessary part of a CD that does have a sneaking sexual side.  A dirty dick of a number with a sleazy and most dubious underlying passion that certainly has pantie tearing intentions as well as a whole lot more unmentionable motives - oooh nasty!  'Crypt Tonight' is a snagging little blighter with hidden thorns that catch in the listeners pubic attentiveness and cause one to offer up a crab-like itch which duly leads to something that could be described as an appreciative dance.  I like the considered virulence emitted as well as the surfy calypsotic wave kisses that enchant, please and pamper.

The closure of 'Get Fucked Up Good' is a solid number to bugger off with and encapsulates the most grooviest and chaotic elements of the crew and that snake-biting rhythm where so much inflaming attraction is uncovered.  The central shaft of melody is adorned with various enthused ornaments and colliding windblown knickknacks that capture much light and reflect an equal amount of magnetising shades.  The gusto for the cause is a significant winning facet and after a couple of previous unappealing hiccups I am happy to punctuate this CD on a fair high.

Not a bad do overall despite a few dips and a few moments to wonder what the fuck is going on.  Dick Venom and his Terrortones are an unsettled bunch and deliver produce you must always be wary of, vigilance is the key.  One slip here and you will lose the thread and won’t know what the hell is happening – take care my dear reader.

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