Them there Dirty Water Records have been nudging the Fungal Arse (capital letters used of course) into action again and have me dabbling with a 2-track offering of uncomplicated arrangement.  Here is a small snippet of bumph that came with the elbow in the ribs:- 'It’s the summer of 2015. Lucy has been in London for a year and is bored of playing guitar at home by herself. She needs a band badly so she assembles together a bunch of deadbeats and outcasts from London’s punk rock underworld and starts rehearsing. Manu, Mike and Joe, who were together in Michael Jackson, become the Rats. Why not? How could you mess up such simple songs?  Lo and behold, the invention works! The melodies become power pop tunes and after a few rehearsals (if you could call it that) they start recording the songs. There is nobody quite like them; some have mentioned the Bangles, others Blondie, but neither is exactly right.'

Now for my take on matters, hold onto yer privates - in, out and shake it all about!

'Girl' is a honey-sweet stroll through pollinated fields of slowly zephyr-kissed rhythm that relies heavily on solar-steady and ever ready string crushes and pop punk girliness that comes from the verdant undergrowth of innocence.  A lovely sway to exacting noise that falls from delicious flower tops in a very tangible pollinating fashion.  We are the bystanders, we are the ones who get dusted by the gratifying grains and appreciate the whole fragrant fertilisation of our attention noggins.  Essences of 60's girl band offerings gently nudge into the mind, ones where naive sweetness and love soaked serenades were aimed at striking a chord - boy, they certainly did that.  A tidy listen this, very nice indeed!

Upturn and spin.

'Lose My Mind' follows the same style, this time with a gentle peck of impetus thrown in and an extra caress of persuasiveness.  Simplicity is taken, adorned in the most appealing of tonal trinkets and placed before our ever-open lugs with the sweetest smile required.  The chirpiness, youthful accent and sunshiny day elements once again make this produce not there to be kicked and criticised but there to be rolled along with and taken for what it is - pop music.  This shizzle is not going to change the world, it certainly isn't going to break any moulds but it stays true to its aim and tries to be nothing more than a pleasure - is that a mistake?  Remember we can't all be rocking and raving with fury all the time?  I'll leave it with you!

2 tracks, lapped up and rotated by this eclectic tinker and classed as 'pick up and play' music for those in need of a break from the more political and turbulent waters we punk shits get caught up in.  As the expectant parent said to the male mid-wife in times of great huffing and puffing tension - 'nicely delivered sir, nicely delivered!  Now smack that arse!



A bit of pub rock earthiness ploughed out with extra pizzazz is just what the doctor would order for every long term punk rock victim.  This lot have been 15 years on the circuit, plucking and fucking, dodging and ducking with their own brand of honest noise that has roots very much planted in the old-school camp.  Hailing from Madrid the band have an energetic 'live' offering that goes down a treat to many a convert and now, with this latest release on the Dirty Water label, I reckon all is looking good for a fair decent listen.  No point fannying around at the bar of indecision, let's go drink down the discordance in some quiet corner and come out pinging or puking with a verdict.

And so to the first...

'A Kingdom Of Coolness' bounds straight in on vibes that are distinctly honest and of a glorious time when sweat, sincerity and soulful sonic scruples were all melded into one appetising chunk of very real rhythm.  This song has all components exposed and articulately balanced within a melody borne of varied influential arenas, perhaps a smattering of punkism, a spoonful of beer swilling vibrology, a heap of rock and roll instinct and some early 70's NY glamour.  It is a fresh and scrappy effort with just the right amount of energy, I am instantly intrigued and am pinging into the next morsel with something resembling a bulge in me trousers.  'Rockanrolla' is a chomping slice of sound with all crisp components thrusting with fervid lustiness and a pseudo-antsy fidgetised animation.  The rolling clatter comes in spurts, the overall direction is spunk-laden and pushes forth an exuberance for the task at hand.  Far from straight-ahead boom bang rigidity this ditty, along with all its cacophonic comrades, are sweetly decorated with designed decor that brings out the best elements of the band.  Subtly funky and tugging at the assessing monkey I spurt out another positive splat of praise.

The best song of the lot (thus far) comes next with the pick-up and join in pop punk 'I Don't Wanna Learn Anymore' breezing in and making for one pure, unadulterated blast of infectious noise that is in-built into any old punkers framework.  Pick up on that fleshy and fucking guitar, move to the drum tumbling action, be enthused by the lucid and desirous gob offerings - go on, get on down man and shake to some happening and unaffected acoustica that really does nail the tone sought.   Plenty of weight and gumption going on here and I stride into 'Older And Better' with robust sanguinity soaring.  This offering rolls in on keen sticks before jazzing and jizzing up on live-wire brass and sass that stops and starts before going into a celebratory swift snip chorus that comes, goes and leaves you gagging...for more.  Simplicity incarnate and kicked into shape by some good know-how and a keen insight into getting the running time just right.  Give me short sharp attacks of high melody anytime and you will see a punked pig wallowing in delightful sonic shit - I am oinking happily here and stink to high ruddy Heaven - suck on it!

Anyone wishing to blow out of their fat arse a good old blast of tension relieving tonality should take note of this next number, a title track that bursts with zealous zipping hunger and unrestrained action that has a nervous energy not to be tamed.  The verses are impetuous, shit kicking bundles of epileptic potency with a contrasting presence to the sing-a-long and swing chorus that really appeals to the most caveman instincts.  I am jumping like a plugged in jitterbugs jockstrap at this point, complete with live-wired member set to throb-o-matic mode and ready to release - ooh yes baby!  'Last Day Here' pounces with might, reaches for the jugular and squeezes with irrepressible hunger and a long-term professionalised impact that gets the responses it most surely is searching for - a big nod of appreciation, a humping jig of applauding love for a racket made with precision.  Not the most liquidised song of the lot but still a beauty and ideal for what goes on here.  Next up and the masterpiece that is scratched down as 'Responsibility Ville'.  A fast acting countrified laxative that forces the shits of doubt to stream from your trembling anus and leave only a purified husk of obliged and beholden bodywork that is totally smitten with the sound.  The honey-roasted guitar, the downhill somersault of liveliness and the cool dude vocal style make this a pearler and that accented chorus is merely the topping on the most delightful pluckety fuckety pie.  A cracker, cutely worded and awash with precious spirit - just what the quack ordered!

The chance of 'More Beer' is never to be sniffed at and neither is this song that really does come from those old school vaults of smoke-laden, beer stinking escapism where the jukebox rolled out vibes such as this and got all and sundry a moving and a grooving.  The lilt and lush movement of moments such as this is difficult to grasp and pigeon-hole which, in itself, is a wonderful thing and testament to tunes with several sensational flavours.  This song has more control and structure than what has passed thus far but in no way lacks any effecting flamboyance and, may it be said, juiciness.  'Miami Beach' hustles and bustles in usual fashion with the booty bouncing to the beat and the privates becoming all aroused as a result (I know I should move on from the genital theme but I just can't help it).  A tit jiggling bout of buggery with the whole escapade best listened to in arse bearing chaps and nowt else.  A middle break fractures the busy bee intentions but the song soon picks up the baton and runs with whirring legs before abruptly stopping dead in its tracks.

'Mommy's On MDMA' is another pop particle glistening with all the fine facets of the sub-genre.  Smooth, quirky and with a catchy chorus this trinket of tonal sugar appeals and brings not only ecstasy to the parent under the spotlight but also to this pop-soaked reviewer.  Slightly jangling, bordering on the stripped side of minimalism and flourishing just enough without being vulgar this is another tucked away treat many will overlook if they don't stretch their listening flappers.  Fly wide muckers!  'Little Man' is a winner, a jerking jack off that pulls with rising pressure and culminates in a sub-chorus of smack on swiftness and alert arse-raiding.  A dripping moment that has all the fine facets of this rattling band thrown in and niggling the neurones into some bloody good action.  I am still won over. The mix is exact and the gushing flow is irresistible - gosh me gonads!

'Night Ride' trots across the sands of silence and gently kicks up grains of gratifying rhythm and leaves an easy trail to tag along with.  A slowish ride that changes the direction of the CD and brings a zephyr of country tampering into the mix.  Not my thing normally but this is a nicely timed moment to put those feet up with and just take time out and admire some darn grand minstrels doing their thing.  If I was picking a soiled shitter in the rhythmic ring-piece line-up then I would be forced to pick this - far from a cack effort though!   The final fling is here and let us tear it up at the last shall we?  'Toga Land' zips along in a frenzied copulation of magnetising elements that make merry hell and come together to give us one last fuckin' sizzle.  Zooming amphetamine fruitiness that clobbers the cranium and appeals, yet again, to the primitive pulses we all should be tuned into - by fuck, wake up ya daft buggers and get moving.  The controlled clatter here is a strong finish and leaves us riding high and feeling mighty good - wham!

Crackin' CD this - I opened the floodgates early, gushed hard and am now sat in a pool of fetid filth that needs blasting away by a dose of good, vibrant music - 'replay button' here I come - I am sure you get the drift by now!



I have seen this lots name bandied about on gigs here and there but have still not caught up with them - hey ho, fuck em', they seem to be doing OK and I can't be ruddy everywhere!  The band is made up by some very experienced artistes who have plied their tuneful trade over many a year and know the whole shebang inside and out.  The rectal passage of tonality is expected to have a good trembling here and so I bend over, part the rose red cheeks and await an acoustic penetration of the most accomplished kind.  I get rogered many ways in my reviewing life and anything less than decent and perspired will get nailed - no time for wise wanking words that don't mean what they say.  I'll fight my corner and do my bit, honestly, humbly and with spunk - ooh nasty.  So, kecks down and arse in the air - come fuck the fungal flue!

'Rock 'n' Roll Girlfriend' is a simple number that relies on effervescing zest, gumption for the sonica and a spunked up approach filled with lusting need for more than just the racket.  An absolutely easy tune to imitate but not one to match due to the aforementioned aspect.  This opening salvo holds good attention and inspires expectation levels to soar - oh you Fukdust Fuckwits - what have you done?  'Monkey At Sea' needs to be a fuckin' good inclusion and is certainly that with a conflagration of brandished tones splat-thwacking with glory all over your personal canvas and making for one rip-roaring end picture.  Essential 'heys' enthuse the songs own spirit, urge the wires and skins to soar higher and thus create a panorama through which the vocals can sign-write their signature in style.  Flash and sanguine without being arrogantly overdressed this is a pulsating mover with relentless vigour - love it.  

For those with a fondness for the old days when things appeared more innocent and without today’s wired in, plug fuck bollocks the next song is a real treat.  'There Was No Golden Age' brings up many items that we now look on with fondness but, which in reality, were complete crap.  Deep down we know this but romantic escapism is a wonderful thing at times and when fucked off with the present day shite it is nice to drift off and wonder about the way things supposedly were and....embellish.  Here things get brought down to earth with a crash as the bouncing pogo-stick of rose-coloured glory is rammed up the shitter and stained very deep indeed.  Tis  a great song nonetheless and has a vivacity not to underestimate!  'Lynch Mob Mentality' comes on jungle drums before twanging in with a heartfelt pang.  The stall is not thoroughly set though as darker undertones reveal themselves and impel the song to metamorph into a kick-back of stubborn persuasion.  The coming together of light and dark tones are not wholly chiaroscuro in aspect but there is definite contrast which is most apparent and gives the construct actual depth.  Onwards and to the impetuous tumble toss of 'Two Timing Son Of A Bitch', a volant vault of self-propelling spittle flown across the distance between the hated and the hater.  Fast, direct and highly venomous this catapulted construction twangs the arse really spitefully and, despite the high octane zip, is still easily joined in with and...enjoyed.  Rather than continue the paced pressure we take a more reclining accepting slant next with the smoothly undulated 'Ripped Off Again'.  A tale of woe that comes after the initial de-escalation of all departments.  Interwoven through the sobered offering is a distinct 'hands-up. shit happens' stance that takes things on the chin and moves along into the next financial fiasco.  The production levels still remain clean and lucid and get the best out of a band very much on a high rolling run that sees quality effort after quality effort come cascading our way.  'Mouth Shut' eases up on the pedal even more and follows the same thematic flow of its predecessor with the learning curve far from joyous but totally unstoppable.  All seems to be taken in the lead louts stride and a certain calm acknowledgment of things turning to shite is had - or so we think.  The internal temperature rises, the flare up of the soulful fuel comes before things idly die and we crawl to defeat.  An odd song, one that gets the tag as the worst of a good bunch - well one song has to, tis all about equilibrium wouldn't ya know!

Back on the track of triumph next with the bloody enthusing and never say die delight known as 'Rolling', bursting through the membrane and squirting success here, there and everywhere.  I love this song, the work of a total wayward and insubordinate character who will never learn the error of his ways.  We all have a streak of incorrigible idiocy that sees us enter certain situations knowing the consequences may be dire but with a 'what the fuck' cum gung-ho attitude in we go regardless.  The devil of drink is usually involved and when coupled with in-built stupidity there is no hope.  Play this loud, crack open a can and bollocks to it all - leave the strait jackets for the jerks.  'Fukdust' four is a self-proclaiming shout out for a partified shindig with all noise laden junkies urged to jig and swig with complete abandon.  A scuttling and surging number - no time to read too much into the operations here, best get another drink and get me dancing shoes on.

3 left, a fuck-free rattle to the finish line for this reviewer with 'Get Some', dirtily scuzzing in, sub-Thompson-gun rattling, punk-glam whamming through the verses and chorus chunks whilst all the while radiating an infecting delectation for the discordance forged.  The players are gouging deeper into their own set groove and cutting deeply into the flesh of us, the hapless eavesdroppers - a meaty morsel.  'Suicide Station' tickles out a tune regarding a dead end location where wasters, wanderers and the lost, all hang out (literally) and die!  A morbid tune in many ways, but with an upbeat spirit raising a whitewashed accent that counteracts the lyrical bleakness - it works well and this is a cute change to the formula used.  We punctuate the whole CD with 'Moving On', a 5 minute plus encounter that initially walks through treacle and takes an age to pull its tuned trousers on. Eventually we get a strolling number that insists we carry on regardless and wade through the mire and make the best of it.  For me it is an overly stretched fiddle that comes across as too well-mannered and restrained when compared to the more vulgar, in-your-face naturalness that has past this way.  The end wind-down is laborious and I bail with the intent of not marring a solid CD with wank wordage.

12 songs, 10 smackeroono's and 2 duff muffins, that's a bloody good strike rate if you ask me.  Maybe I will catch up with this crew at some point, they seem worthy of attention but in the interim I will whizz this around the turntable and tremble the aural membranes to buggery - I suggest you do too!



Well the time has come to review the UK Subs CD that completes a long and hard-worked journey that has seen considerable highs, potentially crippling lows and a fine attitude of get up and do it despite the situation.  I own every CD, most of which were brought on the release day, I have given them many spins over the years and as far as I am concerned this lot are my favourite band bar none.  Many hits, a percentage of shits and some offerings that miss the mark completely but boy what a grand trip it has been. The crest the band ride on now is well deserved and if you compare the brass to what changes hands in the big scheme of things it is still a pittance.  The coin will never replace the appreciation shown by the fans and the fact remains that the band have ground out one hell of a trail in which others may care to follow.  I crack on, no favours shown, no teary eyed wankage or biased bullshit - what you see is what you get and what I bloody well mean.

Side 1...

The commencement clatters in and 'Polarisation' is under immediate stress due to me being a Subs fan and being very demanding of a powerful and convincing start.  With heavyweight cabled bassism, chopping and surging guitar animation, a real fluster no bluster in the tympanic department and Harper's rough house gob work this is an industrious start that knuckledusts forth with exerting verve and traditional modulations we have seen over the past 40 years.  A very robust and slamming start that appeals and I move on to 'Oligarchy' hopeful of a follow-up punch right in the attentive smacker.  This second song rolls in with more melody and on slightly more tamed tones that sees the construction become a typical verse/chorus/ instrumental song forced down our ever needy throats.  Four cymbal splashes, a kaleidoscopic guitar release and forth into the oral kick-back, foamed over a controlled regulation of power chuggery. Rock steady and reliable punk rock that just makes the Subs something quite special. When comparisons are made to bands of the same era isn't it surprising how the most earthy and real this lot still appear to be - fine work!

Third in and as happy as a fly on a turd 'I've Got A Gun' ponders certain armed eventualities and pours forward after a brief pounding that keeps the neurones alert.  A sub-radio style of mouth-work leads into a simple chorus that echoes the song title and eventually blows out its arse during a brief solo push.  Nothing outrageous this time around but played and produced with an exactness that gets the best out of the job at hand.  My favourite track of the first quartet comes next with 'Evil vs Evil' reminding me of vibes past but holding its own character which is stomping, irate and genuinely powerful.  Again, what we get is the bog brush basics of a Subboid song, indicating an adherence to the fundamentals, a proof that the fire in the belly still rages and that over all these years the consistency is, in the main, a good thing to behold.  The greatest aspect of this song is that snatching chorus and tribalised wind-out fodder for fuckers like me - oomph!

'Proto Feminist' next and a tame song that just names a few women folk who have done their bit to level the balance of the sexes.  Some fine women, some bigoted bints (gotta keep it touchy) come and go throughout the tune that wraps around itself and squeezes its own bollocks dry - leaving not much juice for us parched punters to quench our thirst on.  A below average ditty but with a cause - maybe I am just a greedy twat.  'Disclosure' is an interesting number that combines cheap confessional sub-shock tactics with a blues cum riff slanted approach.  Beneath the upper layers is a throbbing personality in need of attention it seems and with some mind idling lines thrown into the mix I really don't know where I am at with this number.  Power-wise this is a bold offering, technically is has some decent angularity and as a movement I feel it is a grower - I just can't see the point of the statements and what the end result is meant to be - tis all bollocks I suppose.

I flit on...

Cracks and splashes, smacks and dashes begin 'Rise' before we wade forth with all hands to the deck.  A powerful song that pushes the CD along nicely and has all components firing hard and keeping a good level of sinewy muscle flexed.  The gripe I have is that it is run of the mill for the band and nothing out of the ordinary and I find myself with little else to say.  A questioning chomper I neither love nor hate with a 'Kicks'y segment thrown in - ooh.  'World War III' is another one in the same groove but the band seem to have their heads further down here and Harper is in tetchy form as a full blown out escapade is had, a bomb blitz that throbs with heave ho angst and disbelieving frustration.  A hefty mover that has a black liquid edge, loaded with diseased disgruntlement and poisoning ill temper - come cut me deep ye cunts!

I take stock, Side 1 is finalised - thoughts are of a solid account with some general highs and one or two flat-line moments...

I toss the plastic pancake of sound and it lands the other side up...

Side 2...

'Dope Fiend' is a well-ventilated structure of shifting sound that uses many old tricks and ragged formulas with a mix of well-wanked wires and twatted tympanics and safe and steady tuneism flown through with easy lyrics about a dependant lass who needs to break her own set mould.  An average effort for me as is the awkward and care-free trudge of 'I Don't Care'.  A song that states the obvious, uses the old punk tag to get its point across and walks with pants around the ankles and makes little progress as a result - nah, a lazy effort lads, sod it.  'Master Race' perspires with more threat, is adorned with rugged chuggery and twilight twinges that resonate deep.  Again, nothing outside of the usual box, no challenging accents or angles but a granite, leak-proof push of sound that thumps home the message.  Fuck all flags for me, fuck em' I say, we all should be under one banner - friends - simple hey!  I like this one a lot, a real spunky monkey with grenades instead of bananas  'Banksy' is a clever play on words that slaps a brush across the walls of society and leaves a message of questioning rebellion.  Twisting straight in with a sharpened spiral of sonic screwdriving we move to a refined bass busting verse that rises and brings out our rebellious nature via a chorus that oozes consummate class.  Thrown off the wrist with a musical wankers exactitude this is a successful song and energises this second side to jump to new highs.  Following on is the rib rattler muck of 'This Machine', a bog brush shit out of bruising noise that isn't the zenith of the CD but is a necessary inclusion to keep the attack varied, of multiple leanings and assorted flavours.  A song that takes time to swallow, a roughed-up forcible violation of our most decent senses - if we can remember what they ever were.

Into the last three - come on chaps, a final flourish to fuck off with.  'City Of The Dead' is just what is needed with a sub-skank, pseudo-Rancid-esque jaunt of jollified jingling that takes dark subject matter and flings the point made across on light, jig-inducing tones.  An anti-terrorist, reality drenched ditty with a pirate shindig style that really raises the rhythm levels and keeps us intrigued.  A shanty it appears before switching down and entering a thoughtful recess where all goes on hold and we seek new light.  The chink of clarity comes and we flow with ease to the last breath - nice work.  'Maid Of Orleans' is about J of A and tells a tale of religious lunacy, great achievement and a defiance of odds.  In 19 short years this upstanding cross-dressing lass did more than her bit and left her mark in the annals of history for all to admire.  The noise made here is choppy, corrugated and with rusted edges that flake away within a non-too melodic offering that reminds me of a song by the band found on the 'Quintessential' album about hanging around in Mexico looking for a hairless dog - come on you know the one.  That song was a short, sharp affair whereas this one ponses about and labours the point with a pointless bass pulse thrown into the mix for no real reason at all - bah.  The closing chomp sets its rear on fire but again this is average fodder.  'Zeitgeist' is the farewell song, the final full stop of a 26 album rampage and signs off with all ethics and sonic values booming.  Pertinent in so much as the punk scene needs to tighten up, get a set of ideals carved in granite and pushed to the hilt.  A sedentary lifestyle is of no use, a divided crowd pointless - wake up, show some spirit, share some spirit it yourself, as well as together.

That is it folks, the last UK Subs official album done.  Scrutinised and played to buggery I reckon I have remained unbiased and been as honest as can be (gotta maintain my ethics too).  A good listen with a few moments not making the grade and an album that will not be the bands best but will certainly not be their worst.  In fact I should do a list of the bands releases and try and put em' in some kind of judged order...what a task that would be!  So thank you to the Subs for some good years of noise, here's to many more with some single releases along the way and if you have read this then I reckon you should buy the CD for the sheer hell of it, as a way of thanks to the band and out of respect for their efforts.  Up the UK Subs.



And so to tug the sonic sausage once more in this never ending meander of masturbation and melody.  Tis been a while since I reviewed this bands last release, namely 'Trubble, Trubble'.  If I remember rightly the content of the produce was mighty fulfilling and I came away with a savoury taste in my mouth and stating that the jollity levels were left in a position of 'quite pleased'.  At the time of writing this London based band are due to make an appearance on a BBC4 documentary about hard working bands so expect interest to soar.  Hopefully I can give a good review here to help the elevation but if things are a little bit shitty than a plummet may be had - oh aye, tis always my fault I suppose!

Upper side...'Tiger In My Tank' - An insect/radio hybrid fuzz, an attention call had, a fitful tremulation comes, we fidget fling forth on the first verse.  A nervously agitated, roughly masturbated melody keeps us mentally animated and fully intrigued with a generous slab of toe-tickling tomfoolery coming our way.  Wires and skins pulse as one, the flame beneath the main roast is kept regulated by good attention and the seasoning on top comes via immersed vocalisation that is loaded with simmered salivation.  The bass beat insists that the band never take a breather and this one does the business for me - ouch!

Lower side...'Fuel Injection' - Ignition, engine running, cruise mode adopted.  Glass-light fractures melt into a frog-hop funk vibe before the main tickle of the tuneage travels our way.  A jolly jangle down verdant thoroughfares this choppy delight drives along with colourful effervescing oil spilling all over the roadway.  Within the main engine of sound comes a sub-surf cum retro theme tune stroke that adds just those extra layers of life to the whole escapade that has no agenda, no provocative depth, no crappy intricacy.  We have a simple trip out, get it and stop asking 'are we there yet' - because we are!

2 songs, as easy as you like it.  Don't look for profound classics, do not seek out convoluted creations borne from artistes in a period of heavy thought.  No, just drop your trollies, prepare for a jig and let yourself go - fuckin' hell, we can't be serious all the time.



I once kicked to death a vagabond and it felt real good?  I did it after listening to the new found mania of the ROPM CD and I blame the band themselves for inciting within me a certain mania that forced me to immerse myself in a consuming frenzy and release my pent up emotions in a ball of tramp trashing fury.  Don't get me wrong, I like tramps, I like their sexual magnetism and chip fat smelling clothes but come on, who wouldn't commit such a crime as stated after listening to a dose of the band under the spotlight.  I have followed this lot since year zero and although have not seen them for quite a while I have kept tabs on the racket made and witnessed an internal corruption to the more cacophonic side - and why not!  The band clatter with pace, they throw globules of dinnage in your face, is it worthwhile or a ruddy disgrace?  Either way - some street residing git is gonna get it tonight - ooh yes mother!

First up and we get clobbered with 'To Be Frank', a super swift blast that, like other tracks, will be judged on music and not lyrical content due to the fact I have no lyrics and have no idea what the fuck the band are on about.  Does it matter?  Are we missing anything here?  Do racist frogs produce smaller amounts of spawn?  Tis' all fuckin' questions in this game tha' knows.  So, to the 1 minute and 9 second attack of aural atrocity - sharp, tighter than Albert Twatlocks chuff and forcing its way between the smallest crack (like any nesting arse wasp) this one flies in, batters home its muscularity and leaves us slightly reeling.  Ok, but far outweighed by the furious lunacy of 'Small Minded NIMBY Prick', a violent assault that sees the band vent spleen and ramrod the rear of our attention and leave a shit-stained mess that stinks sky high of appreciation.  Wire wanked with glee, flashing by like a streaker on whizz and thrusting with vulgarity like the aforementioned stripped runner, now on a steroid and Viagra mix.  My advice - if you don't like this one then kill yourself, go on, do it and get the fuck out of it.

2 songs down, one hobo-harming outpouring noted - oops make that 3 as 'The Establishment', boom twats against your internal membrane and leaves it quivering like a well-thumped fat woman’s fanny.  A real-labial wobbler (or scrotum shaker if you want to avoid sexism) that erects itself on regular, well-flagellated riffage which is eventually forced to dissolve into one roaring fuck of anti-system frustration.  It is something of a mammoth song for this lot, with a running time bordering on the 2 minute threshold (oh those cunts) but I hang in and enjoy the cacophonic kicking I get - if only I had a twat instead of being one, darn the injustice of it all.  Next and a song about 'Niall Quinn', that footballing lump who lacked grace, lacked pace but got stuck in and did alright for himself despite limitations.  There seems to be some grudge going on here which could lead to an assassination attempt I believe - well, one less Mick and all that (ooh controversy).  A swift kick on the ankles this, that avoids a full on foul and yet leaves a good bruise - not bad I think.  The same can be said of 'Dismantling The Corby(n) Trouser Press', a ditty about politics and all the devious cunts involved.  Similar to what has transpired before but one that will divide the punters due to the worded content - so what!  It is what it is, a raving rattle out from the bands slant, the fuzz travels well, the band keep things close, the end result is an upturned titfer filled with more debate - fuckin' hell.

A mental break....

'I Am Absolutely Fuming' whips off its own arse skin, leaves delicious welts and duly infects with billowed spores of restless kick-fuck discontent.  From an initial flurry of hectic animation and madman mouthwork the song takes stock, rises to the finale on a sing and chant crescendo that finalises a reet good listen. I am being quick, as are the band - Touché Turtle indeed!  'Hectic Danger Day' Tommy guns and bass grumbles twice over before ranting and raving about various musical gripes using a speedo chant mode that shows little variation, little originality but is done with such exacting desire as to make it listenable.  The song is one of the average ones and gets rather embarrassed by the more impacting 'Stop Telling Me What To Do'.  A feeling comes that we have all felt in our life time although with age it gets less and less and we move on and do what we do regardless (always been a trait of mine anyway - fuck em').  The anger and persistent pressure screwdrives with spite and tattoos one huge bruise onto your idle head.  I am now going to go out and burn down 3 mosques, 2 synagogues, a single church and then rectally abuse several men of the cloth - don't think you are telling me what to do - cunts (wink, wank).

Five quick flicks of the arthritic wrist and they go something like this.  'The Sunday Drinkers' ploughs in with intolerance high and beer bellies panging.  At this stage one can applaud the consistency, one can dig in the ribs the same old, same old sonica that needs constantly reminding of the fact that one way is not the only way.  'I Wanna Be A Spaceman' is a fuckin' a classic, a proper fuckwit free-for-all that double's up the vocal duties and follows a formula of thrash dash incessancy with a stabilised segment preceding one final blast out - one of the best for me, not rocket science but rectally effective - fuck yeah.  'Not All Animals Are Satire' is wrong on two counts.  Animals are indeed all satire, it is flowers that aren't and cabbages are indeed racist.  Just thought I would put the band right on these two points before slapping this song as an average inclusion - there ya go 'average'.  'Malibu Phil' sounds like a good guy with a peanut sized liver and an ocean sized thirst.  Shame he comes from Oswestry!  This brief drinking tribute to a pisspot gets the job done and will leave many reeling - hey, whatever turns you on - not bad.  Last of the fervent five and 'Mr Rabbit' jumps out of the hat, pulses with care before bouncing with a riffed up rear.  The said bunny of noise eats grass soaked in a drunkards amphetamine based urine and the resultant mad political ping about is to be expected.  Never trust a leporid on drugs, no wonder they get squashed so often - poor buggers.  Not a bad throbber this one but does it stand out from the pack?  Does it fuck!

The final four, consistency high, resonations raping!  'Every Day I Start To Booze', 'Share If You Agree', 'Not For Profit' and 'Rrose Sélavy (To Make A Toast To) ' all thump you in the face with the routine all registered and well drilled by now.  The first track comes and goes in the thrutching of an anus and leaves me little to say only 'wow'.  The chaser leaves me less to say which in itself is a tremendously good and wholesome thing (I have a nasty gob some say) but all those self appointed politicians out there need to belt up sometimes and just get up and 'do' rather than 'suggest'.  Third and the penultimate track nail guns, trundles along a mad busy hedgerow of acoustica and comes out with its arse stung to pieces by bees of apathy.  A DIY song concerning a rally of the redundant, a call for support and a proclamation of the things done are profit free (financially that is, important note that).  As a peddler of filth with an incredible loss in all ways to my name I get this one and so applaud as a consequence - gotta be decent folks.  I also masturbate over the song with a plastic imitation Clement Freud hand (oiled) - gotta be indecent too folks!

And finally...

'Rrose Sélavy (To Make A Toast To)', what are you expecting folks?  Well, you'll not be surprised to hear we have more of the same - more nob-numbing, heavy duty discordance that cracks along after a short deliberated intro.  These demons of speed press the foot to the floor and aim headlong into the final wall of decision - the mess left is glorious, full-bloodied and stinking of unstoppable desire.  If you are going to full stop a CD of this ilk do it well, the band do just that.

Overall I like this one, although too much of the same rattling style does test one's patience.  To overcome this the band keep things short and sweet and don't go in for cock-rock moments of posing piss-arsery - good thinking dudes.  What the crew do they do ruddy well, keep it thrashy but tight and ram home every noisy nail with authority. Tis nowt new under the solar globe but nothing is these days - everything is theft, everything a regurgitation.  Hey let's not get too analytical, just switch on and burst some blood vessels.



Having recently reviewed this prehistoric bands album and being very much clubbed to buggery by the overall shit-stained sound (dinosaur shit at that) I was very much looking forward to hearing this new release.  These troglodyte tunesters from the anal opening of New Zealand proclaim to have 'party clearing' potential and these rock and roll rapists seem ready to roger your senses and see you left for dead with all senses destroyed.  I am expecting a rock and roll rampage here, loaded with catchy riffage and ensnaring accents that make me wanna jig, anything less and I will be one disappointed victim.  Ping...

'Juvenile Delinquent' is what the band are about, highly wired sleazoid rock that exposes a cock of cacophony and waggles it hard like a dog on heat.  This care-free, 'fuck you' get up and do it flashpot of noise pours forth with incessant zeal and brash, unmanageable passion that begins with the opening garbage can rush, through to the scorched mouth molestations and down through the rest of the rambunctious rock out that slags it up and lets everything hang real low. When the band move like this they create a snatching aura that one can really jive down with and lose one’s mind to - that should never be frowned upon.  A funky fucker with fruit to throw!

'Swamp Thing' oozes forth from the dank and rotting detritus of silence and lurks forth on sludged heels that drip with menace. The first push glug bubbles with a boiled effect and tries darn hard to create an atmosphere.  For me the attempt fails and as we get carved up with ensuing wire manipulations and finalising trashy chaotic intensity I find myself striking this song down as one of the bands worst to date.  A very idling effort that loses identity due to its labouring methodology and somewhat dragged down affect.  I feel a whole deluge of ennui fall and cloud my vision - I bail out...bored!

Thrill confronts disappointment and we get an end result that is a split decision.  One fine tune, one dud - A overrides B and the positive aspect is where I shall concentrate my thoughts.  The Cavemen are a good band and I will remain tuned in, waiting for the next chunk of whipped up noise to come my way.  Keep it fast, sassy and happening chaps!



Nob-knackering rock and roll vibrations spill with abundance here as the shake-shack sonic masters Hipbone Slim and the Knee Tremblers issue forth some 50's/60's tremblings of the most infecting standard.  The band comprise of Sir Bald Diddley a.k.a. The Bald Bomber on vocals and guitar, Bruce "Bash" Brand on stickwork  and Gastus Receedus on the 4-wired wank weapon with all 3 showing articulation and insight into their chosen genre and delivering a tight-assed jigfest that even the most distant outsider will find appealing (or perhaps I expect too much from the closeted cacophoneers - bastards).  Anyway, I go into this excited, ready to jitter and ready to dangle my dick into what I expect to be a right old honeypot of acoustic sweetness - oh we hopeful eavesdroppers are a strange breed!

The opening salvo is a familiar song I picked up on by The Nine Ton Peanut Smugglers, roughly renamed here as 'Bald Head' and delivered with more graveyard trembling.  It is a groovy bit of fun played with saturated delight and attention to lunatic fringe delight. Twat-twangs come and jangle the nerves, the persistent pride in the glabrous globe is cracked and the howling blue dog accent makes one start the CD with a smile.

From here on in I adopt a different approach and pick out the pick the many flavoured pops and hope this different approach meets the needs of the crew and the peruser.

'Orangutan' is a choice moment, an idle tree swinger that lazily lurches from bow to bow with a very fuck-free approach assisted by a hazy guitar and some sub-cavernous vocals.  A touch of jungle tribe dabbling squeezes out an extra 'ook' of appreciation - no gripes!  'One Armed Bandit' takes some beating for me with an instrumentalised roaming with casualness and artexed over with a very tactile and atmospheric layer.  A lovely mix to take time out with and...quite crucially...escape.  'Sally Mae' chases and what a woman she sounds.  A real sizzling wench with many desirous aspects the band play this one quite hard and throw themselves into the arms of the feminine needs and deliver a real seductive sauce of simmering sultriness.  Feel the sex, taste the lust, imagine that hip-swinging babe and be seduced by the sonic swing.

I am loving this CD and gliding through with no low points had.  Other zeniths to praise are 'Hieroglyphic' a fuckin' morsel to disappear within, 'Hey Romana' begins with something akin to a Benny Hill tickle and comes as another stress-free homage to an article of love whereas 'Indestructible Love' deals with the full emotion and contributes a hustle, bustle shebang that is one of the most saturated numbers on the CD.  A real hive of activity and, just like many of its neighbours, keeps the pizzazz element soaring. 'Why Can't I Find What I Am Looking For' switches off, strolls with a constant question asked, whereas 'Don't Know Where To Start' poses too but has a more westernised semi-Cashed sensation running through.  Both tracks offer a slightly alternative route to the proffered collection of songs - I am happy to ride along.

The closure of 'There's Only One Louie' is a delicious high-jumping jigeroono jive that brings all the exciting elements of raw-arsed rock and roll into the mix and twats forth with exemplary relish.  Listen to that Berryfied guitar, get down and twist real low to the bending bass line and shake your whole chassis to the scatter splatter skin work that thrives with joy de vivre.  The vocals on top are mere seasoning, darn tasty seasoning at that and we walk out of the acoustic exit door with our souls on fire - wham!

I am done, a more terse encounter and one that focuses on the best bit simply because there are no foul ones.  Dirty Water Records know their stuff, the band do to - the combination is unstoppable.



INITIAL SURFACE REVIEW - Band from Birmingham, formed 2014, liable to numb your knackers with the electro-pulsations that primarily pour forth on torrents of hardcore toxicity and wired up frustration.  I have reviewed 1 CD and witnessed a  lone 'live' showing.  I have been very much impressed.  Here we get a 3 song splatter, I don my steel-capped boots and kick out another review.  It goes something like this.


Assessment one - Soundbite, fuzz fuck wire manipulation intro, twanged adornments minimal.  The first verse comes, reveals a loathing for the systemised situation many find themselves in - closeted away, in a rut, pounding the hamsters wheel - ultimately exchanging hours for the coin.  A certain restraint is abandoned and the roared sub-hardcore chorus nails home the true intent of the matter.  A saturated and incessant ploughing against the day to day head-pecking pressure ascends and the thermalised ill-temper follows suit.  Recommendations here are of immediate 'replay' button attacks so as to fully digest the discordance.  'Wage Slaves' grows, add a bit of volumised fertiliser and a bloom will ensure - a bloom to appreciate in your most disgruntled moments.

Assessment two - A prepared start, followed by mechanoid oral utterances that peel away to let the first eruption of savage abuse invade.  The bleak bladed knife of sound cuts into the flesh with spiteful twists and vulgar brutally that seems borne of a cold and calculated creator cum destroyer.  The murdering machines under scrutiny in 'They Are The Drones' are unremitting, unapologetic bastards of the sky that come, take life and leave behind many innocents dead.  The frustration spills from the hearts of the band, a mean delivery is par for the course and of course the crew add their own sci-fi/futurised subtleties - nice.

Assessment three - 'What Is This Place (Not On Your Own)' is a song built on a bewildered fascination at the fuckwittery out there that bleeds from the gaping wide-eyed maw of the moronic masses who can't think outside their own tightly sealed brain boxes.  Think and do things your way and be forever castigated by the cretinous tribes who think they know best.  The song here is the longest of the trio and my favourite - a surprise indeed thinks this lover of the short and sharp.  The ethos and straight ahead drilling combined with the cute touches and sing-a-long embracing chorus will no doubt make this an 'in the flesh' favourite.  The corrosive edge initially hinders acceptance but stick with it, the whole mush works and gives hope to the outsider - always a good thing.

LOWER UNDERSIDE FINALISATION - I have booked the band for another gig, this should explain where I am at with them and what I think of their produce and attitude.  I don't take these sonic sensations lightly - and neither should you.  Go support these minstrels!



I know the Crash Mats, they are not Thrash Brats, but they are Hash Twats - and from the haze comes a discordant daze that takes on many forms.  They seem to have been around for ruddy ages now and played every local gaff possible.  One thing to note though is that the sound and output has improved dramatically and the sanguinity of the execution is apparent for all to hear (and see if you get out there).  A few new songs here, a few I am familiar with and all the usual nonsense thrown in.  I am steamrolling through CD reviews at the mo to clear the backlog and I'll have you know my aural membranes are ringing - you set of twats!

'Smoke All Night' is a peppy coffee-table skank along that sees even the more decent divulge some interest and get into the groovy vibe.  The accent adopts a certain professionalism with a more cultured end product coming to the fore and highlighting the bands capabilities that sometimes get drowned beneath the nonsensical subject matter. The fizz ascends, bubbles overspill and within a certain madness insists the song stays fidgety and full of bouncing beans.  Between the skanked sung sequences instrumentalised invasions come and create a song with further facets - a bloody good start this.  'Pablo' is a sublime effort that has a main structure of minimalised, bass dictated delectation on which we, the casual or serious luggite, may wish to aurally nibble.  In the flesh this is one of the stronger songs, on this CD it may be the absolute best.  That quad-wire hypno suggestion captivates the cool jangle of the 6 strung weapon, the strait-jacketing sticks and the ensuing fuzz explosion all operate, masturbate and copulate to produce a number that insists we applaud with movement, preferably flinging legs and flailing arms.  Belter.

Next and 'Sega' is a chirpy sunshine beach joy that pays tribute to the console many of us wasted many a hour on.  Sonic the Hedgehog sure as hell wasted a lot of my doleite days and for that I have only thanks.  Along with my trusted SNES my mind escaped the turmoil of life and disappeared into the anal orifice of digitised fantasy and during that golden age of computerised game play many of us  This brings back memories and does so with a fine musical jaunt that is both mellowed and fruity - an odd concoction I know but it is a decent ditty nonetheless.  Tame but decent!  Ah those 16-bit days, didn't we feel so advanced!

'Tommy' picks up the tempo but still holds onto the solar shine thematics for the most part although clouds of corruption soon gather and a downpour of irate needles damage our somewhat chilled bonse.  There seems to be a niggle infecting the lead louts outpouring and try as I might I just can't grasp the gist.  The construction moves with drive, has a good amount of frothing rage, alters lilt and leaning with good measure and rattles the noggin in an orthodox but effective way - I shall not find fault.

'Sausage Roll' is a fat twats signature tune with a dose of glutton dog foodstuffs named without shame and praised for the nutritional beauty and tasty vomit inducing bilge found therein.  We piggy northern bastards who like a blow out should be up for this despite it being nothing short of pointless and health damaging.  A quick flick of the wrist this, a swift dose of crapulence that needs very little analytical investigation.  It is what it is - if it was left from the CD it wouldn't be missed but I suggest ye titter and enjoy its brief inclusion.  'Batman' is a sweet and sinister blend of retro intrigue that adopts a shimmerised sass and moves with garaged shadiness to disturb.  A magnetic sidewind of generic, sub-noir music ideal for a time of yore or a period of nostalgia.  It is perfectly executed, captures the fluttering aspect it aims for and again, rather than bitch, I shall lap up this quick fly by and leave it there!  You fuckin' lazing lumps, if you find more to say then get scribbling a review yourself!

'Legalise' is a reclined demand to bring the bush into the flimsy realms of legality and let all and sundry get bombed at their leisure.  This is a wrap-around repeat offender that rolls on eye-lidded tones and cotton wool vibrations.  This could all be compiled by actual dopeheads tha' knows - real people who are charmed by the toke, genuine folk puffing to the max - oh wait, what am I thinking wink, wink.  The song is an obsessive’s take on matters and will induce the potheads to slowly waltz and think of the next ganga fix.  Not bad, not great - middling sir, middling!

'Royal Rumble' is a feisty number regarding that farcical comedy known as wrestling (US version).  The hazards of smoking too much hash are many but the most horrific of all is that one day, through much paranoia, you may wake up...dum, de, dum, dum...a wrestling fan - oh the terror of it all.  There is a great interest in the grapple pit here, someone is enslaved to the glorified group of grippers and seems to have a head full of wayward knowledge.  Despite my hesitancies about the pastime, I can feel the passion within the melody and that alone enthuses me to listen more alertly and enjoy the foolishness.  I quite like this one and feel myself drawn to the local fancy dress shop and that Jackie Pallo wig - what a cunt!

'Heavy Metal' is a pure piss-taking bout of lunacy.  A thick-head view of hero worship that is pure piss arsing that leads me to the decision of nominating this as the bent shaft in the display of upright dicks.  Having named this effort as the lowly lob in the peckered pack I can still titter at the tomfoolery and see a few noodles who will take delight in this.  After the 4 count I am sure the 'live' pit will come alive with beer sozzled nobrots who like a cracked ping about!  Oh the shame!

'Ratface' is a seriously good mover and initially bounds around with cloak and dagger darkness injected with dancoid drugs from a time when monochromatic mystery was very much in vogue. This backstreet shuffle hungrily devours the silence with a musical manipulation not to be sniffed at, unlike the gussets of one Gladys Sweatrot, whose knickers are worthy of your hooter's time anywhere between 6pm  and 12 midnight (please help me).  A great back end boogie, much needed lads, much needed.

'Get Me Off This Ride' is another cracked egg effort, leaking silly billy albumen all over the turntable and making one quite sick.  A smart string jangle and a weaving bass are held tight by a sealing stick routine and further accentuated by a hyper-animation and cool cat grooviness.  I disagree with the sentiments of the song, I wanna stay on this ride for another go...and another...and another etc.  Oh spin my puddings out won’t ya!

Shut down.  The National Anthem, high pitch peeping sound and...white sonic snow! This is a good expulsion from a band at one with their fuzzery, buzzery skankolicious shizzle - indulge!

Normal service may not be resumed!

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