Lancaster, a band, a noise, an attitude.  4 sonic turnips doing it for the hell of it and well, because there ain't no other way.  Affection is zero, originality equally so but...tis as honest and fuckin' earthy as you like and done in a manner that appeals to my more primitive instincts (and I won't apologise for that).  

Sirens, get yer head under the table, the skies are leaking rusted rain of the most natural kind.  Shit-stained and murky this opening account is an open gash that seeps puss and runs with rivulets of ruination.  The back chug is like clouded piss, the stickwork like propelled kidney stones hitting a shit-coated basin and the vocals seem borne from somewhere around the crapulated U-bend and...I fuckin' like it.  The distinct upchuck of virulent defiance, the de-sugared cruddiness of the emission and the gruff holler outs of the title 'Us Against Them' is stuff I thrive on and in my opinion outweighs many more offerings of that stuff I deem as 'acceptable'.  A crackin' start and followed by the strong basic blast of 'What Are We Living For' a song that has an appetite for rapidity and moves with the grace and elegance of an unwashed hippo draped in a soiled nappy and with a bad dose of armpit hives (not to mention the oral eczema and leaking lugs). A scrag end that moves with force and kicks up a refuse tip dust cloud liable to choke the more sensitive out there (good).  The routine of the song is without frill and asks the question, doesn't look to find the answer but is happy to bruise your bollocks in the interim and see what you splurt out.  In cahoots with the opener and that makes  two tramp tunes to sniff at and...if you care to...molest!  Nowt wrong with a bit of Hobo love.

'Unscene' is a decadent and distempered piece of filth that hangs from the arse of the band and stinks to high Heaven.  The band smear the offending dangler and make a marvellous mess with guitars slipping and sliding, drums prodding and poking and vocals just simply wallowing in the crummy mire and helping spread the nastiness.  The least effective song that gets caught up in its duds of cacophony and ends up with its rear in the air, its own anus left agape and waiting for a good old critical shafting.  I merely tamper around the duffel-bag and make the odd poke, all in the best possible way of course.   A bit of the nice and the noxious next with 'All Systems Fail', chucking up a bog brush push of skanky sweetness that is crudely and rudely assaulted by a heave of aggressive self-destructive annoyance.  The garden shed tones of two are bare-buttocked and scatty with the evil roar a superb bout of 'head gone west' mania. Yes, never give in, never sell-out and when you do make sure everything is fucked to utter buggery.  A very decent inclusion and one to watch for in the 'live' lounge.

'Hang Him High' is a foul beast once more rising from the soul and kicking up a storm. Like a Tasmanian Devil on the end of a tasar this active fuck never lets up and moves with a dirtiness that I haven't really heard since the mighty Asezawallas rogered my ear-holes. To add to the immensity of the cruddishness make sure you rack that volume rating up to level max and pogo like a pervert who is being whipped by the sonic whips he loves best.  Trundling, terrorising and, may I be so bold as to add, trash.  3 compliments in one sentence, ooh the bastards.  The title track closes the mayhem and shows off all the best amateur, shambolic and frayed aspects of this band under the dubious spotlight.  Idiot mis-tuned ravings and cretinous tunery and loaded with sonic faecal matter to be wonderfully stained by.  Totally simple (in all ways), easy for the inebriated to join in with and a sure-fire end of set fuck off that will please the hardcore, long-term maniacs - count me in!

It is the honest, bread and butter, spit and sawdust ugliness of this band that I find, paradoxically, quite beautiful.  I should, at my time of life at least, know better.  I don't and I won't apologise for that fact.  Some things are in the blood, a certain love for DIY doofers who do it without affect is what I have - go on, have a bit of the latest D-Liberate morsel.



A Facebook short-description - 'Born out of medicated lives, Radio Europa delve into the abyss of human living via the medium of spoke-tronica.' - Oh heck man I may need some pills myself.  That is all I can gather about this Welsh experimental duo, oh and that they are also politically niggled (nearly forgot that).  What else is there to add at this point - Mo Farrar has 3 odd sized testes, Geoff Capes is married to a Daffodil and a friend of mine, Ged Murder, is attempting to pogo to the moon using nothing more than a bleached banana and a half-filled colostomy bag - there ya go, and now for the review.

One comes, one ponders one gets...'Answers' and questions, a constant head peck of 'what is', the obvious things asked and the stark responses given.  Cold, calculated, a statement of intent.  The first sonic pulses come via the mechanoid raping of acidised shadow wanks and prismed piston fucks that cine-flick through a serial of slanted tones made for mental dereliction.  'Clickbait Tosh', is test-tube tomfoolery gone mad after the creator has overly squeezed his pipette of tuneage which has resulted in a real testing monster of background suggestion and subliminal shittery - I welcome the fear.  The automaton utterances of 'Tak, Tak, Tak' segue in, fall from the same conveyor belt of corruption and barely make discernible sense that somehow comes back to the fore of the think tank when least expected.  It is a shifty bastard of creeping, nefarious sub-noise that seems eternally deviant and destined for sporadic plays here and there solely to convince one that something definitely insidious is at work.


'6000 Hands' peeps through an aluminium door of flexible oddness and brings fractured light and sonic disturbance of the most diseased kind.  Digital-flick intrusions grow in repetition and phantasmagoric fuckery seizures forth mental scenarios of a world on the blink.  The artiste is troubled, the whole nervous system fungalised, the circulatory system spluttered.  I am left in a heap, bleeding from the noggin due to my quest to discover a verdict - damn you oh restricting brain-slamming tradition.  'Interlude' next - a 55 second montage of 'Pong' gone haywire, 8-bit bastardisation melted down into mode 'damage'.  It is a cruel fucker, invoking imagery of monochrome, low-pixelated time-wasting - carried out by an autistic mongoloid hepped up on visualising acid - screw me, screw my mind.

'Ghosts In The House' is 'Giger'ised terror, light flash, quick dash, deep gash suggestion - I am being fucked.  Fucked by cheap scart cable terror - pulsated electro fashion, cold as hell without passion - reasoning flees, I drop to my knees and let the sparks emit and the haunting overwhelm me - are you with me brother?  A nasty insertion - in many ways!  'J Robbed Us Of A Living' throbs, rams down the throat the joys of being 'shit'.  You are it, we are all shit - but what about 'THEM', yes, what about 'THEM' - can you see the ants rising over the desert dunes?  Tis all fractured.  'Josephine (feat Equinox)' floats in with commentary corrupt.  The shaded smears of sound are spoken over with a hopeless essence of hate, defeat, acceptance and, would it be too rude to add, spite.  A split song, a self suffering number lost in a void of well rolled manure - quite dark, quite damning!  'Ex-Punks Have Current Money' is a satellite showing that seems to make observances from outside the dirty fishbowl.  Vocals shimmer shag, get lost in the glutinous miasma and thus make very little sense.  You need to cast your line and fish the deepest waters to find any semblance of clarity - have ye the patience to sit on the sonic river-wank!  Another oddment!

The earth’s crust fractures, blindly light flashes and lets us hear the voices of those banished.  If the elder-God Suc'Naath was slowed down, restrained with strait-jacketed violence then here, we may just find, something to inspire a vision of how this song appears.  'Look-Up' is a threatening catastrophe, a suggestion of something wrong - or is it me who is indeed wrong - what a wanker! 'Cats Whiskers In A Wound' is morbid fascination, pondering, deep fascination of fleshed catastrophe gone wrong.  As we creep along and dribble down our emaciated frames we look on agog like hypnotised zombies wondering...just fuckin' wondering.  Are you still with me brother!  'Sunny' rises from west, brings a day break of glinting personality until mechanoid critters awaken and shiftily invade the solar scene set.  Aluminium trees sway, crystal bluebells ring at the touch of a copper-based fly and stainless steel beetles climb wiry stems and whir their metallic elytra.  The essence of the music is to cultivate visions - these are mine.  We fuck up and fuck off with more questions and answers (according to the artiste) and we leave the last throes of 'Original Head (feat Pulco)' totally and utterly at odds with one’s own cranial pattern.

In a recent review (Pulco) I suggested the artist go and have a good wank.  For this interview I am contemplating going for one myself.  I have been molested, moved to a different sonic stance and ended up...discombobulated to the extreme.  What was it that just passed me by, what the fuck have I tried to review?  Ah yes, experimentation in one of its many uncountable forms - is it actually there to be liked?  Now that is a very serious question!  My end verdict - not music, not listenable, not repeatable - but, done and dusted and that beats doing fuck all hands down!



There are Cavemen in London!  From the grimy backstreets of ramshackle debauchery and trashcan tartery these moral free denizens of deviancy doth roam and...rape.  They feed on your ethics, they glut on your vulnerability and ply you with slagging music of the most primeval kind.  Once lured you become a victim, a hopeless case of cacophonic addiction, bled dry, lefty high - with no reason why!  The grunting Neanderthals of noise are at it again, hark hear their tribal trance, stagger forth into their awaiting embrace...and...get screwed.

Upchuck one - 'To High To Die' feedback fuckery, a sharp escalation and into the groovy slipstream of wild, untamed music making that has all the trimmings of 70's NY flamboyance, horrified angles and a self-destructive lunacy found in the very darkest recesses of 'kill yourself' punk. The holler of 'Too stupid to live, too cool to die' is sublime and in many was encapsulates the crews whole manic approach.  Fiery, tempestuous, unpredictable and with a zest that is forever animated and consistently masturbated.  The guitars are tossed off with temper, the sticks slapped like a cock on heat and the throat seared with utter relish - what more do you want - have it!

Puke out two - 'I'd Kill', amp on, cue crummy guitar and refuse bin slaps.  Add your own he-bitched mouth and slant towards things idiot, degrading and loosely tuned in.  A quick song, quicker in fact than it seems (that may be a good thing) and one that totally pulps up the melody, uses the bands own style and has an approach that keeps it low baby, low.   The refulgent break is a swift shining spurt in keeping with the bands urgency and takes us to the repeat offense of the wind down - suck it schmucks.

2 up, 2 down, a smile or a frown!  A style is had, an essence that is mad, The Cavemen are not taking things too seriously but just getting out there, letting it all hang out and...rocking hard.  



Ah yes The Mobbs.  It rhymes with nobs you know - now that is alarming.  I just hope I am not going to get any cock rock stuff here and come away flatulently fucked off rather than sonically sucked off - oh the desires of the acoustic pervert.  What we get here is 3 gents jauntily proffering their tonal todgers and trembling out a stripped bare sound of pub-rockian proportions with a little extra class added for good measure.  Hailing from Northampton there is a definite feel to this CD of the old fucking the new and with numerous position changes throughout - ouch!  I have spun this silver circle of sound to utter buggery and have come up with several decisions regarding the songs on show.  Here is something many people would call a review (whilst others would say it is a load of shite and many wouldn't even be aware it existed - ah those brain-dead cunts).

Track the first and the tones of the title track, namely 'Mojo Degradation'.  Fast forward, hit clashy guitars, switch back and create naked noise.  Add festering disgruntlement, slowly brew and provide solid bass bounce - away ya go.  If one throws in a good explosive chorus and a general amount of taut tetchiness I think one could go so far as to say the opening job is a veritable good one.  The stark reality of the strings, the acute knife edge to the general delivery and the simple but catchy urgency all unite to appeal - one down, one up - my juices are flowing.  'The Smoke Not The Fire' is one of those annoyingly ingenious constructions that does so little and yet snatches the sonic soul and keeps it...hypnotised.  That punctuated pulse beat and steady, immovable stick regime contribute to a minimalistic sound that paradoxically, is saturated with exact and arousing essences ideal for the sonically sozzled twat to twitch to.  Vocally alive and varied, emotionally on the cusp and with several neat flowing moves to fracture the tension I am getting further and further inflamed by the emanations coming my way.

Advancing forth and the cool and correct donation of 'Taste The Truth' is a subtle shift and although upholding the oscillating style just alters the essence oh so ruddy slightly.  A sexy ripple of the rhythm is had via the verses before a statement of the title comes and a smooth harmony escorts the song further into the realms of the structured quality.  A very persuasive connection takes place between the players offering us this third delectable piece of noise to chomp on.  The accuracy levels are high and with such a spacious sound they bloody well need to be - phew.  'No Sympathy' is serious twilight wander with gaslight magic and moth-flutter string strikes adding to the songs obvious character.  Beneath subdued tones we stroll before picking up the foot speed and reacting to the subtle upthrust of the tempo.  Threat is a shadow in a doorway, reaching out and looking to cause a kerfuffle - one without any feeling, any emotion, any...regret.  The polished tootsies of tuneage scarper and escape a serious beating – just!  A neat song tucked away and outshone by the excellence of the title track, namely 'Piffle'.  The opening beat, the slight abrasive and thoroughly miffed mouthwork both combine to make this a magnetic portion of truly inescapable ill-feeling towards the state of play out there in this thoroughly useless world.  A song that appeals to the pessimist, the gutter git who has had a belly full of bollocks and want to shake free and jive his ass without hassle.  Tis a mini-masterpiece and sums up everything good about the band and this CD.

'Insult To Intellect' twangs, finds a positive routine and moves with the grace of a muscular beast who is happy in its own skin.  No rush, no outrageous flamboyance - just steady regularity and a solid kick back against TV propaganda and the bullshit found therein.  The use of media to rape the written word, the constant hyphenation and the so-called 'progression' grates and grinds against the nerves of the crooner and no matter how irate he becomes his companions keep things cool.  Nice.  'I'm Estranged' is a fine plough along with pulses high, resistance higher and eagerness flaring.  A one man’s dictate of how things will be done on one’s own terms.  The verse is irked, the chorus simply stated, the musical invasions pepped up - as simple as you go.  'Matador' is a slick waft of melodic material to be duly hypnotised by and dazzlingly led astray.  The dance floor beckons, the one lit by hazy black and white bulbs, enhanced by scattered mirrors and smoked intrusions.  In the corner the band play, in the zone, unaware of the ones the vibe has lassoed in, two elements - apart and as one.  Hips gyrate, arms flail, tootsies glide!  The atmosphere rises, cool dudes strut - this instrumental goes with its own flow and is in no rush to be swept into silence - and why should it be! Metallic art kissed by suggestive light - marvellous.

'Little Miss Hard Of Hearing', Violets Are Blue' and 'Annie May' are the next 3 and a flash in the pan style is adopted so as to keep ye intrigued with the review.  The first of the 3 has a sub-bluesed underflow, scattered over with upbeat perks and sparse extras that lets the vocals feather float by and get the job done in a neat, tidy and unflustered way - not bad but rated as the weakest willy in the cock parade by me.  The central track of the quick three cuts in with sharp style, moves like a clockwork cockerel in its finest plumage with the crest up, the eyes glaring and the claws scratch at your resistance.  Colourful, confident and plucky enough to hold its own on this quite lengthy CD.  The final fling is another clucking fucker that jigs around the farmyard of sonic fun with great effect and danceable know-how thus getting you the listener off that fat arse and wobbling.  These latter two roosters of rhythm show off the band at their simplest yet most polished and peck away at any level of criticism you may think of throwing the bands way - annoying gits.

The last stretch, 'Not A Sausage' foot stamps in, takes a quirky weave and threads a tune that exhibits its frustration at the financial state of play for many pluckers out there.  Personally I do my bit with no thought of financial gain but can still relate to the irritation many must feel at producing a product and seeing it taken for granted and, in this age of copy and play and of course, high competition, for free.  This is a cute little song that has its point to make, does so with a cheeky glint and ensnares the interest due to nothing more that artful acoustica with a pertinent theme.  The penultimate tremble 'G-Type' is vocal free and a delightful shimmer of the bands string department and a ruffle of the tympanic cupboard that sees a real booty moving escapade unfold and get those dancing juices dribbling in teasing trickles of ecstasy.  Nothing complicated, nothing overly masturbated but just honest 'rock out, cock out' frivolity with focus.  A nicely shaded treat to take us into the final throw known as 'Grub Before Punch', a snatching bastard of high octane restlessness that improves with each rotation due to its vigorous punchiness, urgency to get the job down and the smoothing bubble of the bass that allows the upper oral additions and guitar punctuations to swim to success.  A perky finish full-stopping a CD that has had me applauding no end.

The Mobbs bring pleasure in high voluminous measure and this is a lengthy treat for those that like the bare essentials of music.  Talented, tight and with an ability to use little to create much - fine work.



Chambers are from Hull.  Perhaps the hairy arse of England - who knows?  They are made up of two fine lasses, one on stick duty who likes mushrooms, the other let loose to wank the wires and vandalise the voice box.  They came my way via the Seep Away tin can twatter Dom Smith, a top fella with an ear for good noise.  They duly played a gig for me, helped with the gear, were both friendly enough and, as a bonus, sizzled out a searing sexualised sonic session of doom that captivated this well worn rhythmic wanker.  I purchased a 2 track CD and promised to review - here are the words to back up that commitment.

Track the first, and 'Disappear' is a recess song, delivered from the nooks and crannies where freaks, fall-outs and the toxically fruity reside, watching the world toss off and taking note.  The accent to the opening segment is wonderfully sinister, gothic, androgynous and...perverse.  It is a perversity built on the most simplest of terms, a mental kink that seems to sneer at acoustic pain and sub-textually...ask for more.  The mechanised beat and piston thrusts are beautifully in tune and cultivate visions of robotic sinews worked to death and thus perspiring lubricants that taste both salted and sweet.  The elegance of the tune, the unity between the two players and the dramatic swishes and swathes of sonic theatre all combine to make this one hell of a memorable track that had its own distinct character and an overflow of futurised muscle.  The video that accompanies this song is quality as is the digital flick that escorts our second track, namely, 'Love Song'.  This second thrust of all things unsettling blows harder, is a cool calculated assassin that travels along with fascinating intellect and cutting precision.  The band are thinking about each push, each pressure application and each tonal stroke.  From acoustic waters that flow, spout and bubble to geysers of gratifying riffage that soak the listener through with a quite delicious liquid decadence this second veritable skin crawl hyper ventilates, secretly masturbates and duly gets off on your submission to the soundwaves.  Add volume as a condiment, sit back and adopt a pose and let this bomb blast invade you - the pleaurse shall be all thine.

Chambers came from nowhere, enthused me with their live gifts and now have me gushing via this 2 track wham bam.  A steady serpentine constriction I am happy to be overwhelmed by.  Top marks!



I sent my money in for this CD and received an advanced CDR to get my chompers into and do my review.  Is it money well spent, or is it a waste of good brass?  Well its DIY and done the correct way so even if the music is not all to my taste I consider my cash has gone somewhere positive - gotta support these doofers tha' knows.  Rob Taylor is the man at the helm and his previous releases have been ruddy well lapped up.  This is a bigger venture that is nicely titled, I, as a mere dog at the bottom am salivating with anticipation - ooh and me lipsticks hanging out - woof, squirt, woof!

We begin the adventure with the truth of the matter, the spirit of the sound and what it means to those who care.  Fuck your download theft, fuck your virtual music collection and fuck your stupid acceptance of commercialised crud that you are bombarded by and too weak to fuckin' resist, 'Music Snob' by Andy T pulls no punches, I wouldn't expect it to and is a pertinent piece of poetical justice many need to take heed of.  A perfect start to an onslaught not to be taken lightly - we are immediately...thinking.  Bloodington rupture, tear themselves are new arse and blitz it with the blazing 'Anti-Chart Boys', a quick fist fuck that is ideally placed after the opening ode.  The same band double-punch and offer up the longer lashing 'Slimeball Suze', a breathless brain-bashing bastard that states, rattles, pulverises and relies on frayed temper, a cruelty to all instruments and an eagerness to boil ones blood and release much inner tension.  The mush reaches heights of insane proportion and catapults the noggin into noisy clatter-fuck-its of crippling intensity.  You'd think you were getting a shitstorm, but within is something smelling mighty sweet.

One of my favourite tracks next with The Crash Landings puking up the catchy 'Billy Got Tourettes', and when in Rome the review goes like this - a fuckin' huge street cunt of cacophony that pisses melody by the fuckin’ bucket-load and shits out a twatting treat for us bastards to jump up and jig with.  It fuckin' rolls with ease, trips forth with a great production level and get this old buggered cunt dancing - how's that ya shitheads!  The Committed change route and give us the raucous and retrofied rustiness of 'Fuck Conscription', a razoring tumble chuck of incessant defiance that reminds me of several 2nd wave punk bands with The Gonads having a song like this but with the tongue further in the cheek.  Never mind that, this is a good account from a band travelling hard and sticking to certain spiked regulations and ramming home the offal.  Stem Cell Messiah offer up the crippled and cruel face slap of 'Below The Line', a mechanical orgy crammed into a mincer, spiced up with human misery and, may one be so vulgar, human body fluid, and churned out on an awaiting vessel and...swallowed - a nasty fuckin' brew to say the least - have you got the stomach?

4 Past Midnight provides fast, flourishing and fluent angst with the 100mph head tumult of 'Nothing Has Changed'.  This paced punch fuck of breathless passion is from a band who have gone round the block many times and still have plenty of classy, razor edged punk spunk in the bank.  A real sizzler that ups the ante and adds a new level of acuteness.  The follow on is by 20 Days Dull and goes by the name of 'Last Chance'.  This song clashes in on multi-lit strings before opting for a route of modernised accents and drawn out strategies that creates something akin to the oxymoron of a musical 'new-school oldie'.  Clean cut, with several slants and much going on it is the crispness and clarity that survive the critique and although not one of the pools I dip into with any regularity the song has its place here and is well delivered too.  Jesus Hooligan jump up next, leak forth an episode of sound known as 'Woman Girl', a feedback riddled encounter that prepares, pumps and pukes.  The regulated repeat hammer of the song is extreme tribality jacked off with focused intent and mind-melting mania - to the point, what is the point, point made.  Russ Crimewave donates one of the best songs of the entire collection with the gruff and raucous one man pulse 'Fit For Work'.  An antagonised masterpiece of raw, off the street musicianship that speaks to many folk who are at the brunt of the governments cold-hearted approach.  Of course the bending fiddlers of those free fruits need a thumping but our artiste is concerned with those that are truly suffering and being told to get up and do that which they are not capable of.  A searing piece this, a real miffed construction and a stand-out cutlet from a lengthy bout of absolute quality.

I take stock, stand impressed and resolute with the fact that the scene is loaded (as ever) with stunning sounds for everyone.

Bloodington blow my balloons off with a 1 minute arrow attack of crackpot madness.  The purity of the panic stricken punishment is wonderful and leaves throbbing welts on my aural arse that I take great pride in.  Hardcore havoc that bleeds compactness and a thorough idiot belief - yeah!  Snide gently come in on cushioned tones before attaining a fair melody and letting the lead lass roll out oral delectation with liquid leisure and contribute to a song that captures pop tones, retro rhythms and spiked insecurities.  A free-moving song with the foundations and upper stories working against and alongside each other making for a very healthy moment to play over and over – ‘Invisible’ needs to be more aurally visible.  The Tickturds counteract this smoothness with a 44 second crap clout of tasty tumbledown trash that raves about the quality and necessity of 'DIY'.  The Turds of Tick are a ramshackle beast that do it without thought of style but just rely on their inner spirit - is that a bad thing, surely not ye silly scrotums!  Beana next and a lovely little arm round the shoulder moment and a dickie bird in your ear with 'Wake Up' sweetly arousing and capable doing as much as a full-on fist up the rear can .  Feather soft caresses of female throat whispers fall with little sound onto the pillow of your consciousness and cause the merest sensation to subtly persuade.  It is a moment that doesn't go unappreciated.

'Uno' by Sanction This bulldozes all in its path with a heavy-duty crash thump that seems borne from shores abroad and with a very accented aggression.  Hailing from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne the band provide more muscle and meat to an already hanging bone of fleshy goodness and this rippling song with its high voltage riffage will appeal to the many hardcorian heads out there as well as some of the metalised nutjobs.  Never bow down!  That fine minstrel Rich Gulag next with an offering of bleak reality cum rusted mayhem scrawled as 'Working Class Genocide', a song that functions with futurised mechanics and rusted digitalisation that keeps the listener wary and, somewhat, on edge.  A confused kick-up of unsettled tension, a tension that resides in the player’s soul due to the crap condition of today, tomorrow and...beyond.  Deathzone chuck in the token gesture quickie with 'And The World Keeps Turning' a rough and ready spit out of traditional angsty punk that is what it is.  Declaration of War quickly follow with the equally routine clobbering of 'Numb', a song that bobs and weaves, never deceives and once more never tries to be anything more than a forceful belt out of blistering punkage.  The CD needs slices of the obvious and these latter tracks give you just that!

The next song is a machined masterpiece that functions with frightening power and drags me into the fold due to its voluminous and victorious parade of clanging and banging noise, borne from a fucked up factory of unprocessed disillusionment.  Charles Brigade have the mix just right, the tempo exact and the acuteness precise with 'Odio I Crass' piston-steaming and pulling all the right punk and passionate strings.  Dead Flowers are a good band, in fact were a good band as they are no more which is a crying shame indeed.  Alas the masses want the same old shit, overlook many good units and let much quality slip down the ever gaping U-bend.  Here we see the familiar song of 'Putting The Move On', slag and sleaze it up in grimy rock and roll fashion with a leaning that I can easily fall in line with.  Perhaps the end production level is off the mark and the band could thrive with a bit of extra vavoom in the mixing room but this is a good song played by decent chaps - switch it up and swivel!  Surgery Without Research plough on with a street based roughness, clout back with common people’s coarseness and bring to the table raw and ready silage from a sewer of discontent.  Lacking frills, this open wound called ‘Pig Government’ bleeds threat and no matter how unprocessed it is, the fact remains that stuff like this is the backbone of a scene sometimes too pretentious for its own good.

Punka produce a minor pearl from an oyster of acoustic goodness scratched with the name of 'Biff'.  A regular fuzz swing on form with a persistent flow pushed along with mid-paced accents and blended with an ear to make a song that is saturated throughout and more heavily impacted when the volume button is twisted upwards.  This and the following westernised wank off of 'What About You' by DeKadence are a great couple of bedfellows with this latter song acoustically distorted and somewhat cavernously haunted and throwing the CD into new rhythmic realm.  Folky and fucked this is a nice place to visit and keeps us alert as to what may come next - talking of which...

Burnt Cross deliver their usual wound-up, lofted standard of refuting rock with 'Don't Believe'.  A hard foot-stamping sub-tantrum of question provoking feistiness that has all the hallmarks of a unit well known in the scene and always held in high regard.  This song leads us into the grand and almost epic masterpiece known as 'Feed The Machine', a 28 minute, 20 seconds nightmare that is Burrough-esque in part, documentrified, opposing and may one add, though provoking.  The worded weavings are nothing I haven't considered before, are familiar mental avenues down which I have strolled and are indeed thoroughfares many of us should be fuckin' aware of.  Awkwardness comes as a result, a questioning stance that upsets more than you can imagine and a situation arises that is upsetting, demoralising and damning but, is one to have great pride in.  I love this horror arrangement and the cold, stark brutality of the slow ponderous striding music that is there to take no prisoners and  no limp wristed excuses.  The composure and exacting presence of the musical monolith arises from man-made soil that stinks to high hell of indecent acceptance and overwhelming cerebral inertia.  You have been had, you are constantly being programmed and the defiance you offer is the way to get hated, berated but oh yes...not sedated.  From those sneaking tendrils they send out to grip your embryonic form to the crushing boughs that wrap and choke in later life - you should be fighting to be mentally free and think for your self - not skipping around in a social scene with all your fair-weather friends and proclaiming everything is great because you are getting what you want.  Anger, defiance and awkwardness matter - this is a fuckin' good reminder as to why!

We shut down, we wind out on futuristic vibes - into a bleak future if the deadheads have their way and let us be honest, there are a lot of them about.  This is a very hard-hitting mush of electro violence that takes no prisoners in its twitching mechanoid arms.  Not my cup of cha and one that full-stops the CD in a murky incoherent manner - mmm, two latter end dabblings by the creator - one enjoyed, one failing to tickle - no mither.

This CD is a crackin' effort and rubber stamps the quality out there.  The whole design and ethos is spot on and for a few quid it is worth chucking your coinage this way.  I am still waiting my proper CD and when it comes it will be played to buggery too – DIY peeps, tis the only way.



And yet another unit I have helped since the early days, have glowed and crowed over via my gob, my live assessments and, of course CD reviews.  Here I have a chance to do the same again but this is the bands third full length release, one of the most trickiest situations a band can be in after releasing two genuinely strong and cock rocking albums.  I love the crew but am not insulting enough to hold favours.  If the music is good I will gush, if it is shite I will state my opinion - it is only fair.  This style has cost me, people do not want honesty and yet I cannot change.  Luckily my honesty is driven by passion and an unruled style of scribbling - ah fuck it, let us cut the explanations and just see what these Blackpool based bombers are detonating now!


And let there be fuckin'...war!

Part one, side one, movement one - take your pick and listen to the first 7 tracks that deal with that ultimate pointless facet of life - conflict.  'War' sneaks in on haunting strings that are shifted and scratched with accursed words uttered over the top and thus creating an acousticised message that both warns and wonders.  Wonders at the complete fuckery we, the human race, indulge in.  A textured opening, the calm before the storm, the soft zephyr before the howling invasion...gird thy loins.  Lightning fractures the sky, blades of strung spite cut through, we fall to our knees beneath the first bout of artistic carnage.  A tirade of questioning spirit falls, a zip in the music develops and a scathing bout of artistry reveals itself to be awash with passion and a certain accuracy.  The band have a distinct sound, maybe down to the taut witch-crafted tones of the front flinger, but there is a definite streak there that is picked up on and applauded.  The 'Red Poppies' are both sharp and textured and further blown by the ravings of a wound up man demanding you think for your fuckin' self and disobey their commands.  Thermals are gushed and we sway into the next track leaving with a bold impression felt.  'Vinegar Tom' is a groovy fucker and seems destined to ease the stress but the warning of something wicked coming our way soon alters that frame of mind.  A cruising number that deals with victimisation, bullying and all consuming power that sweeps the resistant under the frayed and threadbare rug.  There is a threat held in check, an under pulse of skin-creeping sinisterism and as the song develops it is a section that is both whispered, escalated and loaded with ominous weight that gets us more and more drawn into the manky mire.  Like glutinous oil of the bleakest kind this one swirls around your ankles and sucks you in - thank goodness!

A reality soaked word from a tot and into 'Summer Fate' we cascade.  More gentleness, skewered with a bitterness and spite that slowly attempts to ascend but is kept beneath the gossamer touches with ease.   A poetical interlude exposes more layers to the Dischord machine as does the artistic tender waltz of 'Red Is The Colour', a song that deals with the theme set and moves like a snail over glass.  It is still highly noteworthy and corpulent and indicates this band is far from a one trick donkey and has a dangling dong to get fucked by from many angles.  The copulation of art and music is tangible and goes back to punk roots sometimes forgotten. The careful march towards the midway silence is consistent with only the briefest pause taken during the course of this thought-provoking piece.  It closes the opening section of the CD and leaves us with many question marks, exclamation marks and 'what the fucks' swirling around our head. A maelstrom may it be said and one I review in complete admiration, intrigue and genuine respect for a band not resting on their laurels and not sucking the shaft of idiot predictability.  I flip with passion.

And sigh...

May your life be graced with...peace!

A bold start that rises on strong tones before a call for forgiveness is given.  'Peace' is a strongly constructed emotion of musical energy that bleeds from the speakers in refractive tones that offer a new angle to look at things rather than relying on predictable bitterness, rage and all round vengeance.  The band think, process and then deliver - this opening act of part 2 paves the way.  'White Feathers' is a liquid torrent of questioning frustration that ponders the hypocrisy and contradicting thought sequences that abhor violence but then thirst to get up and fight against the fuckwittery. The whizz in the strings, the impetuous naturalness of the skin slaps and the scorched earth tonsil work all combine and still make room for crucial interjections from a number of sources that not only ornates the whole output but adds a crucial anarchic element that, duly wins a valid vote of favour.  A band producing magnificent musical memories that those in the know, are fuckin' blessed by.  Lucky, lucky bastards and never take your music for granted.  From this superb shit-out comes the pinnacle - 'Shellshocked', a sing-a-long razor cut that deals with the elaborate scenario of seeing many external monsters decapitated and yet the inner demons left to live and breathe.  The creator, the hater, the perpetrator all come, all may be found in the place you fear most.  The skip in the tune, the acute edge to the melody, the snatching catch-all accent that has so much relevance and the fact that the offering is constructed by one of the few believable bands out there make this a veritable must for ye Olde Fungal Fucker!

Whoop, fuckin', whoop - onwards with a spring in the nadgers!

'Battlefield' is paraded across our line of aural vision (contradiction conundrum tattooed with chaos) with melodic making armoury on full show.  The initial growth emerges from a crummy substrate before sending out thorned feelers and ensnaring our attention.  Words tumble over each other and poke a finger in the shithole of all of humanities creations and restricting inventions that cause so much trouble and strife for each and everyone of us.  Tis all a world of confusion and double standards and as long as there are borders, divisions and crushing labels people will fail to get along and more suffering will be had.  Perhaps the weakest song of the CD and one that fails to appeal in the main but it makes a good point, counter clashes against itself and may be better than what I am giving it credit for at this stage.  The mad expulsions do work a treat though.  'Victory Gin' is the penultimate tuned tipple and starts with malevolence, manifests itself from behind the curtains of your mind, the one where many demons lurk and father jacks off over his latest garish jazz mag.  The unsettling accents glide in, a paranoia is emitted that is too believable to be true and are we listening to the rantings of a maniac or a man clued into the hygienic world in which we now live, a plastic habitat to keep you mentally numb and under the almighty thumb.  A special little track this, fully frustrated, disillusioned and ultimately unhappy with this whole wanking, working regime!  Noise, especially that which is deemed to be spiked, relies on inner emotions that are usually tortured and stretched taut.  Here we have a gut reaction, my response is also from the gut - thank you dear Dischordians.

The last blast that is not from the past, a pertinent and happening song it be.  'Love' raves, double raves and then...raves some more.  It relies on the most powerful force we have and it asks you to do nothing more than...consider.  The machinery of the band is whipped up into a tight ball of tense tumble tunery with the fire in the belly still glowing and forcing out an utter storm of emotion.  A brief strummed and slapped pause, the tumult to the last expulsion comes and asks for nothing more than 'peace'.

The 3rd album release from Dischord and it only seems a moment ago when this lot first played a gig for me and blew my nadgers off with their debut album (which I gave as Album of the Year I'll have ye know).  The fact is the band are a quality act and continue to be so with a proper punk blend of art and acoustica making for a final intelligent mix of noise.  Love it, love the band, love their efforts - long may Dischord continue.



Wonk, wank, wink, fuckin' wink.  A band who have done some time, been applauded by yours truly and who have now been caught up with and are the current flavour of the month.  Coinciding with the festival fuckwit fervour, a strong upsurge in diluted punkism and a slanting shittery towards the paradoxical acceptable rebellion the band have timed things just right and are riding the crest of a flimsy wave that means nothing but will take them to where they want to go.  I like the band, have a real fondness for some of their remarkable tunes and hope that my assessing words will be honest, off the cuff and as natural as ever.  Of course I will have my mischievous way, the one that many deliberately misread or are too dense to dissect - I like that so there ya go. Oops I am digressing - what a cunt!

First up and the disposable nonsense that is 'Awful Jeans', a commentary on ill fashion sense adopted by fuckwits everywhere (especially in the ragged and mocked punk pit) this spillage shows a modicum of cheeky humour, a sprinkling of excellent musical nouse and an over abundance of tension at what is nothing more than a shite pair of kecks.  The songs plods along, is enhanced by brass blasts that keep cobwebs from settling.  The gob is wound up, takes exception to lower limb covering garments many of us just don't even consider.  It is a feisty start, one for those who like things simple and 'sing-a-long' methinks - oh the absurdity!  Track 2 is one of the best you will come across on this latest release with the bands easy and fluid naturalness shining bright and indicating that when the band go for it, think less and let bleed their own sense of rhythm things are always gonna be brighter.  'I Told You So' is simplicity incarnate and comes, goes, and fucks off in the mere thrutching of an arsehole.  The melody is high, the oral offerings lucid and swimming and although it is a song that will undoubtedly lack a long shelf life I suggest you enjoy it whilst you can!

I clamber on, shite eyed and thrushy tailed - darn those late night whores!

'Bin Him' seems an idling song, lazed and glazed with a mush of sound that keeps all areas under some kind of subduing wrap and so confounds this rankled reviewer.  It has much ill-temperament, wallows in its own discordant defecation and uses a simple wrap-a-round methodology that may be the easy route or some kind of subtle masterplan.  Wonk Unit know the script, I am sure many others pretend to as well, this one needs time and patience.  I listen over and over - yes, like a knife-wound in the posterior - it gets better!

The next 3 songs get short thrift from me basically because I find all three best filed in the box of crapulence and rate them as some of Wonk Units weakest work to date.  It had to happen and although and all I ask is one doesn't confuse honesty with hate, truthfulness with spite, a candid approach as an excuse to close ranks and feel much more musically educated than the reviewer here - it is what happens you know!  'And You Call This Normal' is a dreary dirge that is a nice attempt at capturing the drudged blues many feel but I find the song a grating piece of weary wankery I real have no association with.  It does grasp the ambience it reaches for - and like the crooner I too am now fucked off.  'Silly Voices' is bouncy bullshit borne from slummed serenades that many loved up cunts may wish to indulge in.  It is a consistent pulse that never rises above a certain flatline and as a result gets on my tits.  Again a song that seems chucked out and with no sincere angle that gets me challenged and thinking - not like the Wonkers at all.  The last of the flimsy three is a ditty called 'Owen Meaney', another repeat offender that has the bands fine essences but does nothing new and in fact does the bare minimum required - are the band in a rush here?  Finely mixed, accurately delivered but without anything different - just the same old, same old and everyone must have their threshold of patience.  Alas the scene likes repetition, regurgitation and nodding along and saying everything is wonderful - I don't, I like to prod talent along and hate to see it wasted - Wonk Unit are better than this - fuck you if you disagree and hey, fuck you if agree as well!

'Je M'Appelle Alex' has been around the block for a while now and is a good moving stalwart of the bands repertoire that many old and new bonses are familiar with.  It is an awkward song in some ways, and yet in others moves with dirty liquidity and when, the tap of tunery eventually gets a good twist, the splashing impact is all the more refreshing.  Droplets of noise-craft, rivulets of rage and an off-spray of spite all eventually shower the eavesdropper and I am raising my thumb here as a sign of appreciation - not a bad do!  'Old Trains' is a weary look back with a fondness for those ramshackle modes of transport cunts like me (and most probably you) used to trash, throw stones at and attempt to derail (we were loose cannons, our parents careless and our needs borne from confused frustration).  From the initial push of the strung pistons to the uphill trudge up the aching track to the final drive into the tunnel of silence this is an observation piece that contemplates the lack of health and safety and other tedious points.  A song to spin one or two times and then take the disc and leave on a track for some thundering express train to utterly crush - not for me I am afraid, an almost pointless episode.  'Ode To Summer' is a far better burst and punches its weight, oozes life affirming gumption and celebratory buoyancy that raises the bar and moves us into realms more impressive.  An animated and unmethodical disarray that comes together and produces great fruits of enthusiasm to wake up to.  An early morning motivator to get you through the shitty day ahead.

Hit and miss, prized and piss - I head further into the CD still undecided as to the end verdict!

Twing, twang from distorted mind melts the next song is a seedy bout of confusion that seems to have hidden agenda tied into cunt conquerisation and cock relief - not my thing ma'an.  'Pale Moonlight' gets too wrapped up in its own innards, is overly spiced and bumbles along without any firm focus.  The song has trimmings aplenty of what the Wonk do well but here it is all too ambiguous, maybe too clever for its own good and the mark of decency has been overstepped in the most heinous way.  'Model On The Northern Line' strolls through a storm, hits a tunnel and comes out the other side with the same tempo in the chuggery, the same heavy eye-lidded approach and the same old directionless approach.  A moment of twinkle-dust fantasy comes via dew kissed fairy lips and although a brief swell of excitement is cultivated I sign off from this one...disappointed.  'Old Man' is a crackin' song. Well worded, fluent, insightful and with a pang and tang of frustration and all round fucked offery I can't help but be dragged into this, with visions of crooked old gits struggling through life with arthritic joints throbbing and well-worn muscles nobbing.  The band find a new lease of life here, unlike the aging swine’s under the scrutinous sonic eye - I am deviously happy on both counts!

'Hot Day You Know It' is stress-ville borne, flows with inner tension and tootles towards the last utterance with easy aplomb - maybe too easy in fact!  Not much comes in the way of genuine escalation, we get a flat-line buzz that just about does the business.  A close call but a good boost of volume bulk gets the arse well and truly kicked.  The finale is a fist in the face of the wanking patriot who believes one small island is the be all and end all - a shitty island it is at that (just like the people infested world all over).  A fractured song, one riddled with snotty and virulent anger, a seething full stop to the CD that leaves one concerned as to where the next noisy move will be.  Do I like this final fling of the sonic fanny flaps?  Does anyone, in all truth really, really give a fuck?  And is time ready to stand still once again and has originality been long dead and buried?  I know not and yet I suspect I do - silly cunt.  I shall leave you hanging...’We Are England’ my arse!

In summing up, this CD, in my honest and personal opinion (2 crimes in the punk scene I believe) is the worst album release by Wonk Unit to date.  Their previous efforts have been lapped up, gushed over and praised like fuck but here I cannot do the same.  It is an album that falls flat on its face, tries to progress quicker than it is ready to and the band I feel have been too hasty in getting to the recording studio and so diluted their art in the name of desire.  It happens, no band can keep producing high quality and here is Wonk Unit's low point to date.  I am sure many new converts will disagree - but you won't find me telling lies to please them or anyone else for that matter!



Another Oddbox Records release, this time from a frayed and fucked outfit that surf it up from Cardiff and who keep things corroded and totally DIY.  This is a limited cassette release that comes in bright yellow and is really a shout back to the old days when things were less...affected.  I like the approach, here is my take on the tunery.

'Sunny D' starts on positive well glinted notes and builds up a positive feeling within the framework of the assessor almost from the word go.  The ensuing copulation of all musical components is at once clashing, confused and yet crucially coherent.  The band force out an indified, scatterly fried dislocated discordance that tumbles over itself and ends up a lo-fi upset of sub-garaged poppism.  It is brief, multi-coloured and active and for some other reasons too - I quite like it.  Into track 2 and 'Day At The Beach' wanders further into the DIY caverns with a bleaker, more hollowed out sound that has much in-fighting between that which is happy in the mire and that which strives for a greater sense of clarity and liberating melody. Almost like a submerged song trying to break the grimy surface and expose all its resplendent finery this confounding track pleases in part but frustrates in the main.  The precarious balance sought for that which is real and that which is radiant is just missed but the song has meritous points among its vulgarly protruding flaws - you just gotta think about things a little harder ya cunts!

'Real Leather' throws a curve-ball into the cacophonic sky with a lengthy episode of explorative tunery that velvet crushes in, takes stock and then tumble twats head over heels into a manic mush of almost frustration relieving vim.  One prepares for a short bout that abruptly finishes but instead we get a blue lagoon, sun shimmered episode that is happy to laze in its own melodic ambience and let the golden rays fall as well as the sweetly effulgent and somewhat lustrous tones emanate.  This introspective inclusion is neatly timed and proposes that we rethink what this band are about, where they are sprouting from and where they may end up - I like to be challenged.  Track the 4th comes, 'Vera' spreads of her legs of reverberation and trembles out an overly wired wank clanker of sunken shittery that really does need a dose of oxygen to help it float a little better.  Here the low production and murky mix of the overly noir-esque blunts the blade a little too much and the staggering horror repeat that takes the song to oblivion leaves little room for positive critique.  Not my favourite!

The closure of the compact 5 track turn-over is coined 'The Best Way Of Life', a ditty that grabs at psychobilly graveyard frostiness, wavers on weakened struts between snaking weaves and finds itself like a zombie of under-reaction that lacks animation, gusto some ways...direction.  It is an angle that has been untouched so far, the bass line is the songs greatest asset and the general construction has promise but appears to be an unfinished article with the final arrangement falling short of a thumbs up award.  Each component needs its own room to rhythmically respire, the vocals need further clarity and a few introductory atmospherics wouldn't go amiss - just my personal thoughts don't ya know!

Five tracks, five overviews, I am in limbo and have thoughts aplenty but no end decision.  Some tickling moments, some turn-off tit-bits too!  Hodad have a sound, they have a potential, here it is not fully tapped but it is a promising effort.



As a fecund reviewer who is forever on the go and producing too many worded blooms for his own good it goes without saying that I come across many heavy fertilised sounds along the way many of which cause my assessing leaves to wither and my rhythmic roots to retract.  Initial rotations of the discordant devilry on display here resulted in such a decomposition of the framework and I have had to delve ruddy deep into the sonic substrate to get my assessing juices coursing.  Jizzed and jazzed, mathematically complex both bands on display here test my resolve and have me dealing with the situation as thus:-

Lite offer the first two expulsions.  The band hail from Japan and cough up a brace of instrumental, intellectual chicanery borne from hands absorbed in their art and very much in a sub-zone that may not be for the masses.  The first upchuck is entitled 'Else', and is an ambiguous molesting of all musical areas and leaves one forever reaching for the replay button just to try and feebly grasp what the fuck is transpiring.  All zones wank alone but at the same time impregnate one another with a sound best summed up as 'detached cohesion' - it is an odd thing to aurally witness.  Strings are sessioned with jammed jaunty affect, the skins are slipped and slid over with barely any discernible effort.  A shadow suggestion is forever in the rear and an ant-like activity level is produced and so, this coffee table spillage, is always there to be pondered and poked at.  Far from my choice of tunery I can see the ensnaring factors that attract the nosey.  'Saigo No Basin' smoke drifts beneath the doorway of our attention, creates an early atmosphere before splintering the expectations with a bustling spasmoid seizure of almost computed manipulation.  Skin work picks up and rolls around with a semi-perspiring affect, it creates a draught within the weavings, brings some heady freshened air to what could be an overwhelming assault of intricacy, and I for one inhale deeply.  Crystalised fractures attract light from varied tangents, the reflected colours are forever swirling and are a shaded myriad to indulge in - if you are that way inclined of course.  My verdict is that this is fine articulate music, mixed and produced to a tee but which is far from easy listening.  It is fodder to play whilst occupied with something else or the complete opposite - such is the juxtaposition of sounds that are intermingled and whipped into place.  One thing to mention though - the players are quite professional in the output - maybe too professional for their own good!

Mouse On Keys are another Japanese outfit and go for a similar routine but blend minimalism and dynamism in one convoluted swoop and so cause consternation for anyone requested to review.  The opener is scrawled as 'Four Preludes. B Minor' and comes across as a hesitant and mocking fracture that falls way short of any decent mark you wish to set.  Keys are attended to with child-like worry, skins are scatter attacked with ad-hoc abandon and what we end up with is probably one of the worst musical efforts I have heard this year.  Poison to my punked soul, a pissy shower on my sonic spirits, a duff dick up my discordant duffle bag but...the players know their artform, apply their touches with sincerity and, even this is a toxic gas to my tuned snifter I can sniff out the appeal.  Just don't sign me up to any fan club...please!  Next and the second offering, 'Echolocation' transmits itself with musical hall cum classical quality vigour and is a higgledy piggledy arrangement of Mozartian melodrama - borne from keys corrupted by hands that dabble with agitation.  A fore sound bubbles above that at the rear with both opposites fighting and agreeing in equal part.  Listen to this three times and take the music at the front, then take the music at the back and then listen to all as one - do you get where I am coming from?  In essence this is jazz, the most horrible genre of music that has ever disgraced my ears but that personal slant shouldn't detract from the effort poured in.  For me it is elevator music to kill yourself to, for others it will be a fascinating bout of acoustic intricacy that invokes life - you decide who the silly twat is?

No, no, and double no - this CD is just not for me and despite the quality production, the obvious ability and the angle it flies in from I just can't say I like it just to keep peace and look all eclectic and clever.  It is a niche market that this will appeal to, for those who like more than just noise.  Good on em', nowt wrong with diversity but here, I am left on the outside looking in - by heck its cold!

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