Who the fuck is Steve Ignorant?  Who the fuck are Paranoid Visions?  Two questions, two little posers! If further explanation is needed then I suggest you bail from the interview now (as this is not for you), if I don't have to explain let us not fanny about and get to the meat of the melody!  Many should know the score, I certainly do (I think) - all I have to do now is deal with this latest offering from these two long term elements.  And in the fungalised swine went...

The game is afoot, the opening offering comes forth and of course, my lugged tympanics start to tremble!  'Look Mummy, Clowns' begins with the repeat echo astonishment of a child, who seems surprised by what is ready to roll forth.  The skins pulse, fidget and roll whilst bass punctuates and leads the way into the development of the song proper.  Malevolence comes via twisted strings and menacing mouthwork.  Statements come with a sinewy, grimaced accent and drip all over the molten and threatening music.  From the thoughtful and questioning deliberateness arises angelic flotations of feminine clarity that creates a cerebral epiphany and helps all wordage fall into an uneven, ambiguous place.  This opening 6 minute 11 second stroll of sinisterism and deliberate dissection may pollute the verdict of some reviewers and assist in giving something of a negative response - for me it is stage setting beauty and begins a CD that I feel has much weight and an equal amount of contrast!  Following this open stride of stature comes the roughnecked blatancy of 'Loudmouth (Kick The Fucker)', a gobby affair straight from the bloodstained backstreet and into your face like an impacting fist that you ruddy well deserve - wham!  A tale for the tosspots who like a bit of rough and tumble with their ape-like minds always on high alert for the first sign of aggro.  The song has plenty of gumption, goes at it with a victory in the violence and the fact is, with thinking like this, the human race will be always fucked.  You gotta stand your ground though and if push comes to shove a thrown fist can do wonders and a good old sherry bottle over a noggin can do so much more.  I digress, the song is a stunner and rattles the rib cage with annoyance.  Straight onto another level next with 'Strange Girl' manifesting itself as a very touching song that deals with the disgraceful affair of one Ann Lovett, a 15 year old school girl who died in childbirth beneath a grotto dedicated to the Virgin Mary.  Granard in County Longford, Ireland became the centre of a disgusted spotlight when the situation hit the press and still, after all this time, the ripples are still hitting home.  The fear, the let down, the complete abandonment are all dealt with in the classic offering the PV pirates spit up and it is all done so with such decency, honourable respect and may I add, pertinent tenderness.  Orchestrated to a tee, he and she oral tones are blended to perfection and give the entire song character, presence and attracting colour.  The desperation of the victim is felt, the hopelessness of the horror captured and the underlying question of 'why' brandished with insightful talent - I love this one!

'Something Else' next and we screw inward, enter a tight spiral to the core and a free-flowing follow-on that seethes at the sub-indifference and idle acceptance of the same old underhand deviancy that pulls in to line the thinking of the populace and lets the powers that (would) be, have their wicked and all dominant way.  You are safe, everything is cosy - the message debilitates, the bastards have you - rise fuckin' up.  I love the mature spittle saturated energy here, the snarl from dogs not ready to stay put in the kennel and the rabid attack they go through to help get you off the sofa of apathy.  He and she fire from the belly, the music masters drive as one, an excellent assault to defy!  'Fan The Flames' begins with a commentated statement, a call to arms, a call for democracy.  Bass builds with a tympanic partner in initial crime.  A twilight twinge, a strung sunset of hope and then...a long trawling diatribe that avoids violent invective but instead opts for a persuasive tickle of hope inducing wordage to get your rebellious juices hopefully...flowing.  The song is over 5 minutes long, it certainly doesn't feel it and is artfully composed, cultivated and...delivered.  The reviling and railing content is nicely swished in turgid and temperamental waters - waters that are tamed though, tamed by sonic sailors on a voyage to success methinks!

'Where Is Love' is scalding emotive liquid cascaded from one heart to another with the opening angel lilt failing to detract from what is an enraged barrage of incessant demand.  The stomping approach leaves a bruising impression and pounds like a jackhammer without remorse.  A stripped out moment that sees bass and gob work in unison donate time to reflect and recover before the rise to a fantastic finish is soon upon us and leaves us mightily and sonically...stunned.  'Bleak Town Revisited' regurgitates horror and despair and fights against a monochrome claustrophobia many of us urban thinkers feel more times than we care to mention.  The closing in of the sickening grey is dealt with here via articulation, a pulsing prowess and an injection of multi-coloured resentment that is splashed with subtle care beneath a wafted blanket of magnetising melody.  An unruly cunt of cacophony this that is orderly in many aspects but has an aroma that just won't be tamed.  Of course anger is the key, the blaze in the belly - something that seems lacking in much of today's scene.  For me it is another solid affair that contributes to a ruddy good album thus far.  

Cinematic pomposity of grandiose colours opens the gateway to hell of the ensuing kick against the cloth slapped down as 'Art And Craft'.  Omen-ised utterances add a haunted accent before we are dragged into a feisty flow of bubbling brightness that is played with sincerity and blown with much bitterness.  The disgust is apparent, the hate for the holier than thou 'out of bounds' arenas that commit so much crime  and get away with more then they deserve is heaped up in piles of throbbing invective which, of course, I like!  This is a hefty and well orchestrated number that hammers home the talent of the band at the helm - tis so good to see peeps pissing with spirit!

Last two and 'No More Running' is a swift punked kick up the arse with a dogmatic intent to fight rather that fuck off.  Bass rumble, spikey attack, salivated venom, abused skins, savaged strings - add own thrusting desire and away ya go.  The song doesn't fuck about, neither will I - a crackin' speedburst.  And lastly to 'War', a song that goes back to basics, deals with the ultimate and never ending abhorrence that the human race commits and flows with a steady but sanguine meander of well-intentioned focus.  No longer shall we rest, no longer shall we take their shit - this is a holler to rise and resist to.  Alas the armchair has captured many arses, the TV magnet indoctrinated many heads and the chance of a kick-back is just a dream and if it ever did happen it would surely go down a route of individual gain rather than the betterment of all.  Excuse the pessimism, I am well scathed.  The song rises on muscular waves, a request for direction is called for as a reggae-esque drift is delivered with astounding accuracy.  As a treat a Crass classic is rattled forth, and we, as long termed appreciators of the anarcho crew, are fascinated further and when the song comes to its finale we reach out, almost without thought, and press the 'replay' button.  Superb.

This album needs attention, it is a fine piece of work that does all contributors justice.  There is total evidence of players unified, a clear indication that these creators are long-term addicts of acoustica and know how to get their fix just right - not only for self but for those around them.  I am taken here, this is a grand release and shows, that even if ones carcass is aging, there is no reason why the soul shouldn't have enough rage to keep things alive and kicking - oh yes!



A small slice of rag blazing raucousness from a Danish/Swedish hardcore band who have only one thing on their mind - to cause mental illness. The band’s name means 'powerlessness' in English but the crew certainly don't lack for muscularity if you ask me.  5 tracks, 5 tornadoes to get thrown around by this EP needs my bared arsed attention and I go in stark bollock naked.

Wham - and 'Sidste Udvej' comes.  Power ascension, holler, tear yourself a rabid ring.  The blend batters as the blood boils, the storm whipped up is blindingly powerful and devours ones conscious soul.  You need to dive deep into the murky waters, the waters that bubble with fuckin' hardcore, teaming shittery. 1 minute and 2 seconds of power violence - and played darn fuckin' well.  'Det yderste mørke' is a fucker to be crushed by with the strings blazing, the skins razing and the throat sincerely erasing...your resistance.  Pace and passion fly into the flames of searing Hell and come out of the other side with an incandescent intensity to get blinded by.  The band are glowing and growing as we speak, from a fertile substrate that reeks of insightful experience - I may be wrong.  This second carving of the flesh seems to be more vindictive, more prone to the violent end of the vicious spectrum - that appeals to me no end!

'Svarta Strack' is the next volley to trespass over the epidermal layer of decency and tramples its way to a verdict of sable positiveness which in itself is a contradictory outcome that leans towards ambiguity, unlike the propelling avalanche of unapologetic murder music that slays all resistance and leaves one twatted.  The roaring entity that exposes itself like a rhythmic rapist on heat is vulgar, unruly and without delicacy.  As a listener of many modes of melody over many years I feel I should now know better than to be sucked in and sucked off by this molesting bastard!  I don't, my nob throbs, the energy, brutality and deviancy magnetise - yikes.  'Habets Sidste Bastion' is my personal favourite, it feels like the most complete track of the lot and trundles along with a forcefulness that ruptures, rankles and invigorates.  The riffs are as tight as a ladybirds arse, the cascading meteorite shower of white hot rockery is hurtful and the whole structure of the song strikes me as something approaching 'normality' (forgive me for not seeking out a more appropriate word'.  This is a lovely experience and I get chucked into the last blast bleeding from every orifice you care to imagine (yes, even those ones you sexy shits).

The finale comes on prepared foundations, is more deliberate and glutinous in its opening and closing bars and even though this offers variation and creates a deeper shade of shittery I find it the least tasteful of the quintet quaffed.  We do get one last holler out for no-good measure and the inner section is ablaze but I would suggest that 'Foraddt' is the flimsiest fucker of the five but, by heck, it would be harsh to relegate it into the league of flaccid not firm.  This is still one banging closure, just not one to over exaggerate.

This CD comes, deliver several howitzers and does its hardcore thing.  I have little to add.  If you are an H/C addict and like to play merry hell with your sonic receptors then you will love this, if you are of a fragile nature with a leaning towards the softer side of noise then please stay well clear.  Ta!



Ooh look Ma - tis them cunts The Cavemen again, the foul bastards clubbing and strumming their way to Shitsville with a sound that is wonderfully prehistoric, beautifully unwashed and flea-ridden to utter fuckery.  The grunting cretins hail from New Zealand, have crossed the mental panorama several times and never failed to leave a lasting shit stain on the whole outlook.  Luckily for the Cavemen I am a pervert for all things stinking and thrown forth with abandon so, with my hooter sniffing and my ear-holes prepared to be molested, I take the plunge.  I refrain from mentioning what may happen to my todge - you see decency takes precedence ya twats!

I stagger in to the clutches of the 'Savage' first and get torn a ripped to shreds with a sharp taloned assault that begins with a 'sandpaper over warted skin' spitefulness.  The result is an aural bout of bloodletting on the part of the reviewer that is in response to the aforementioned abrasion and the expected untamed, molesting  gob work that is enthused by itself alone as well as the gushing back hollers.  It is a quick and effective start that is in keeping with what these club happy chaps do.  Onwards with a grunt and 'I'm A Mess' veers all over the mental causeway and slips and slides with jagged and nerve jangled effect before slipping beneath the awaiting ooze that is both polluted and stinking.  The crew play out a very foul and rank episode of careless cruddism and kick up a foam of clogging virulence that is more than likely gonna poison your sweet and innocent soul (he says sarcastically).  It is what it is, unhygienic, unapologetic, unprocessed.  I can imagine many will switch off here and say 'fuck that shit', but perverts like me who like it rough and rocking stick with the stench.

'I Hate Art' is a really arsey bitch that sticks a finger up the rear of the wannabe intellect and the ones who have an eye for beauty.  I like art, impressionism is my thing but I love this fruity punk kick-back and the blatant bullishness of the mania that spills forth. The affected easel is pissed on, the face of Mona Lisa covered in hard flung excrement and the balls of wannabe Monet's kicked black and blue by a loutish, pig ignorant assault of spiked stupidity - gosh I adore this shit!  'Satan Is Her Name' scumfucks and twists, spirals into the stratosphere with arse torn abandonment and untamed idiocy whilst pointing the finger at the targeted she-demon.  The bass grumbles with genuine pain-afflicted annoyance, the sticks do well to keep a semblance of order and the guitar and gob screech, skid and scar with psychopathic tendencies on show.  I like this one, it is a slack-jawed shitter and moves with unstoppable zeal - sometimes tis all you need.

4 quick flick assessments - 'I'm In Love With You', craps its pants, tears its own anus to shreds and splutter leaks an adoring confessional outward with hip thrusting lustiness. Like an obsessive at your window I suggest all you lovely lasses hide in a darkened corner somewhere and all you slappers and sluts prepare yourself for one helluvva rough ride - literally.  A strung pronouncement and a surge, 'Speed Of Death' is nicely titled but is not as fast as I thought it would be.  It has pace, a reckless slant as expected but it merges into the pack of runaways and doesn't have any stand-out facets as one is slightly led to believe.  I ride alongside several times though, just for the hell of it and, in truth, have no severe gripes.  'I Hope They Drop The Bomb On Me' is a middle-paced affair with perhaps the most regularised route taken of the whole mush. The lyrics are beautifully perverse though and are a fascinating aspect for anyone in a 'fuck everything' mood with a desire to take a razorblade to their own genitals.  A self-loathing aspect is blatant, a real hatred for life in general and the whole human race is punk purity and this song fits the bill as to what has been and what will come.  Last of the zippy 4 is a toss off slagged as 'Ain't My Baby', a tumultuous wank that clashes, collides and careens.  The drivers in charge are addled, fizzed up with youthful spunk that is charged with electric vitality and nervous vigour - this is just another example of the acoustic cock spilling its juices - dirty devils.  

I like this hasty offload - here are the next 4 ye impatient fuckers.  'Dead To Me' scratches its scurfy surface with grubby talons, riffulises (new word) and ruffles with a more deliberate and restrained style that pays cripplingly good dividends with the resulting effluence being of the most fragrantly appealling kind I could hope to wish for. The withdrawal of cranked pace, the more considered placement of tones and the obvious intent to stay regulated work a treat and I reckon, the fact that this song offers most variation from within a wild pack, is the key to the impression made.  'Nasty Girl, Nasty Boy', is  a tame affair that tinnily rubs up against its own shaft of urgency and foams over with the usual mucky pup puke.  Scuffled and shuffled with an end resonance that is both deliberately clumsy and clattered it is in keeping with what has transpired and the easy repeater routine will win favour from the thickheads.  'C. H. A. R. L. I. E' is a swift punk push, drugged up to fuckery and with a sonic bladder seemingly fit to burst with desirous waters ready to splash on your senses. Mayhem comes after a fair amount of self-control - the liquid shower is spraying all and sundry - I don't mind a soaking now and again!  'I'd Kill (To See You Dead)' is a song already reviewed by me on this site, you really do need to keep up - my verdict here is 'ditto', now get searching tinkers.

The finale is here, 'Why Won't You' progresses with consistency, pulsates with raucous exactitude and sees our gang of grimy gits request your company so as to indulge in a little drugged up deviancy.  Classy in the most corrupt kind of way, slammed and sleazed in all departments and oozing that trashy rebellion borne from NY back passages (literally in some cases) where fags, fruits, flakes, freaks and fuck-wits jizzed as one and produced many testing tunes.  Nowt wrong with that!

Over.  Out.  No need to shout.  The Cavemen club and clatter, are messy and manky but, I suspect don't give a fuck.  Their output is delightfully decadent and diseased and is pure rock and roll waywardness that will appeal to many warped partakers.  I like stupidity and senselessness and appreciate natural off the cuff vigour - and so, I like The Cavemen - is that so wrong of me?



A Manchester 3 piece come my way and have the tenacity and, no doubt mosaic covered testes, to pronounce themselves as art rock.  Ooh the ruddy gits, and according to their Facefuck description 'Young Mountains are a three piece guitar band based in Manchester. Their sound combines elements of off the wall math rock with an indie disco sensibility.'   Now the question is - does this matter, does anyone give a fuck and is this CD release now worth a fuckin' fuck.  Hey I have been requested to review, my conscience says do it and my honesty says this...

Multifarious twinkle tones literally trip forth, mumbling words follow suit whilst shuffled skins and cymbals add to the initial nervousness of the first track, namely 'Cannula'.  A deeply tactile song of embossed and embedded notes all inter-changing at a flustered tempo so as to give the relax tones an opposing affectation.  Several rotations are needed to grasp the gist, the tube of tonality bleeds out a response but only after patience is generally donated.  With delicate angles and tangents dabbled with, certain curves examined and noisy nooks and niches probed we get the feeling of educated experimentation taking place that will leave the mere innocent and unpretentious passer by floundering.  Those with an ear for oddity or those that are just tuned in to a different wavelength may get this, I am a mere spectator requested for a verdict - the verdict is ambiguous and I say each to their own but leave me out of this one.  Too limp wristed and may I add, diluted to make that crucial impact with this hardened noggin.  Neatly played though and cutely arranged with definite insight and care.

Track 2 and more of the same - jazzoid, coffee-table, supermarket serenading without offence, without much suspense.  'Our Ties' is perfectly mixed and teased out with a certain tonal eloquence that conceals the fact that the overall spillage is leaking from fractures barely noticeable.  Suggestive rather that forceful and with a very erudite care taken that magnifies precision and enhances the scrutiny of the arrangement.  Early aromas of those Heads that were Talking sidle in, contribute an extra layer of character and so aid one in examining this affair a little more closely.  It isn't as bad as I would have you believe (on one of my cantankerous days) and I wave a flag of neutrality when it comes to making a final verdict - what a bugger but I am being honest, I am split down the middle, but not like the old bamboo squire.  '(She Continues To) Encapsulate' is well played, well mixed, well blended and tucked away on my list of 'not to play again'.  A powderpuff punching twaddle that has some fine musicianship and neat manoeuvres but which does nothing for me at all as far as an 'enjoyable' experience goes.  It has its moments and creates shadow images of a presence but nothing concrete comes and nothing grasps the attention zone and creates those essential ripples. This song disappears in the convoluted pond and maybe, due to its central location, it suffers a harsher verdict than it deserves - bah.  

The penultimate tickle and 'Self Repeating On I', is educated musicianship that has all the adornments of learning and understanding and is a well-practiced artform without any genuine flaw.  The trouble for me is that is lacks naturalness and avoids the exposure of any rawbone vulnerability.  These failings (in my opinion) assist in keeping a distance between the player and the peruser and that is a faux pas to be not taken lightly.  Don't let these critical points deflect from the quality of the muso's and their endeavour to play their own brand of intricate poppism - what they do they do bloody well, it is just that it leaves me flaccid rather than blooded up and throbbing for a nobbing - ooh missus!

'Precious Ritual' closes proceedings and is in-line with the oddity levels set and fails to recognise that those outside of the heavily equated circle are ready for something short and sweet and not a 6 minute plus wind-out of nervously autistic proportions.  The unevenness of the flow, the somewhat pseudo-detachment of the vocals and the mellowed edges to all areas make this a tonal tool that is not as threatening and acute as it should be.  Again the jazzy aspect and those jangling elements add to my own personal befuddlement whilst I envision some who will undoubtedly be absorbed by the technicalities - oh heck.  I fuck off, with my thumbs pointing...downwards.

No sir, no way - this is out of my oral range and one CD I am happy to leave in the memory banks marked 'unpalatable'.  I have done my bit, stuck to my style and belief and tried, as best I can, to get a balance and give an insight.  If you are unconvinced seek out and see - all I can do is give one man's verdict of one style of noise - it is a thankless and darn hard task.



2 songs for Fungal to review - no more, no less.  I know that the band are a 3 piece and hail and holler from Dundee - that is all my knowledge for now.  I plunge into this one with eager DIY lugs, my thirst for new vibes is always high.

Track the first, 'Next Generation', a spunking street-shit that has a cocky edge and begins with a tribal tub thump that leads into a stated gobbiness with all balls bared and laid on the line for a closer examination.  The overall delivery is kept minimal in many respects with all components given enough air room to expose their own rhythmic vibrations and honest to goodness accents.  Scrutinising all areas as individual elements and then as a whole I am finding no real complaints with the bass being particular attractive due to its tight twisting adhesion that binds the whole song together.  In truth, there is no ground breaking output here, no musical epiphany to behold but there doesn't need to be - tis a rough cuff of the lugs done with spirit and alertness - I still appreciate shit of this consistency!

'Waste Of Time' is an educated track and comes with more advanced insight with certain acoustic adornments donating a finer quality laden edge.  More groomed than boomed, more cultured than cobblestoned which, although not making it a superior track to the first, will bring in lugs from different sonic pits.  The opening tones have crispness but a clouded griminess, the initial verse aches for a million dollar production but still does the business and takes us into a very pleasing chorus.  This chorus, if I was a adopting the stance of a gauche pedant, is glaringly unoriginal and with a distinct corned 'whoa hoa' route taken but, it is pushed forth well and who the fuck am I to complain.  Thumbs up squire!

2 songs, in and out and I have shook it all about!  Both efforts are worthy of my praise and equally worthy of a slight critical fingertip up the jacksie.  I think the Delinquents have bags of potential, a choice of many routes and I shall hopefully get em' a gig at some point and review a bit more of their stuff in the murky, sonic spunked future.



The Apocalypse Babys formed in the late 1980's, have played all over the place and been on the cusp of several good moves along the way.  Lady Luck didn't deal the goods, ill-timing and tossology were all thrown into a molten mix along with idiocy, alcohol and the usual ignorance on the part of the many.  Here we are in 2016, I have an album to review and in truth I am way fuckin' behind schedule.  We are all cunts together I suspect, losers having a bash and trying to surface for air in a clashing and colliding shitheap - don't we just love it!  Inwards...

'What You See Is What You Get' opens and is a pertinent piece that deals with the self-appointed judges within and outside of the scene. The cunts are everywhere and are best ignored whilst we go ahead and wear what we want and do what we want.  Consistency is the key, don't dress up for certain situations - be you at all times - simple.  The song here is typical AB spillage, rising on textures, flowing with funky poppism, carved with accent due to the lead loons squelchy vocal style and loaded with rock and roll freedom that is easy, uncomplicated but highly active.  The band ply their trade with an effort to stick to the structures of bog basic music and then add their own passion and sense of style and just let it...flow.  This is an upbeat tune despite pointing a digit at the deciders of dress.  The song is immediately followed  by the dark-edged war-based rant slaved with the name of 'A New Vietnam', a song that rallies against conflict, the lack of progression by the human race and the on-going repetition of mistakes never learned from.  There is an underlying frustration within the weaponry, the mouth sub-snarls and sneers, the tune is still given enough rhythm to avoid anything too heavy coming forth.  Sticks regulate  the overall pulse, the wrap-a-round route is easily digested and the wind-out has a good clout - alas I am not a true fan of this song, the band do things far better and for me this is an early weakling in a CD that has healthier prospects on display.

'Spanish Sun' is one for the Chav methinks and has nothing to do with me whatsoever.  A song that sub-celebrates the meatholes where sea, spunk, sand, spunk and sex (with spunk) are the order of the day.   It is a rather tame affair and as I say, has a theme not in common with my soul, but as per, many will disagree.  Personally I'd like to see these shitholes sung about buried underneath a heap of soil from where a nature reserve can grow and do some good.  The song is well played and produced quite adequately but I am a trifle bored with it - that's honesty!  'So You Wanna Be A Soldier' is a cracking effort that moves with swift muscular athleticism and nails a pure punk tune with total aplomb and inbred accuracy.  The theme, the thrust and the fluidity make this a special moment and all areas nail it darn hard with the bass being a chief component and almost dictating the state of play.  From the opening salvo, via the incessant push to the rewarding finish done in traditional style this is an early stand-out moment and I pogo like a piss-pot on pills just for the hell of it - great song!

A subsy start and 'Anti-Social Networking' cruises along on regulated thermals that flicker with a resentment towards the internet and the foolish exposing that takes place on those public places as well as the fraudulent claims of popularity and eternal friendship that come thick and fast.  What you had for tea, where you have been, where you are going, how much you are in love and how great your life is - all need to be proved over and over by a populace losing hope and clinging on to many brittle pipedreams with misdirected hope.  I love this little tickle and the fact that it nails the perverse and plastic world we are all getting drawn into - bah.  'I Don't Wanna be A Celebrity' snot surges with a resentment to all that glam sham shittery the pigs at the top wallow in and the dogs at the bottom aspire to (not this dog anyway).  After some nonsensical news clips that mean nothing to me but a lot to the many the song rushes along in a state of agitation and acoustic feistiness.  The guitar twangs and gives a razorblade edge, the bass regulates and rumbles whilst skins slap and shake with abandon thus giving the whole structure further life - a good old bone shaker.   'You're A joke That's Not Funny Anymore' deals with the tale of an ex-band member who did the dirty on his musical mates and got shifted on before the shit really hit the fan.  One side of the story it is, I am sure the guy under the spotlight has another tale to tell, so I will deal with the rhythm rather than the rumpus.  A great tune, coolly crooned via a middle-paced rock and roll sing-a-long that is liable to have a few peeps joining in during a 'live' set or indeed when spinning the dish whilst doing the ahem, dishes (pass me the Fairy Liquid please).  Nicely played, traditionalised and held in check rather than let off the leash to become a foul-mouthed kick back of moronic stature - good move!  

4 quick tricks next, the flow needs to move on so I'll be terse.  'Frank Robinson' is an easy ditty to enjoy, gets on with things, exudes all the AB fruitiness and is an opposing view of a man deemed to be greater than what he was.  A usual happening when real shits come to their end and then are praised as something they never were.  This song is mid-paced, mid-magnetic and melodic, not bad but nothing outrageously stunning.  The same can be said of 'While The World Slept', a safe and steady jaunt regarding the government’s warped sense of justice and self-created ignorance to things horrific.  The songs moves with the bands usual finesse and has many retro elements as well as the usual poppoid trimmings that bring a sense of comfort to long term spikers who are unconcerned with this genre or in fact, that genre.  2 decent songs without danger.  'Touch Your Toes' is a tale of travel and what can go wrong if ale and wayward characters plan a jaunt to foreign lands.  A tickling tune that is neatly composed and put forth into our lugs with cheeky abandon.  Great riffing, accented as per and slightly irate for good reason.  The mix of the comedic and the more sobered is fine and dandy and this one will be adored by the many rather than, the few.  Last of the quick four and the penultimate track is a cranked explosion known as 'I Need Medication'.  A basic punk upchuck of mind bent proportions that exhibits an 'on the cusp' state of cerebral affairs that wants them darn tablets...NOW!  This one is what it is, a swift thrust of niggled nervous tension, I feel I need not dissect and dabble, I just need to swallow a few tabs myself and...pogo!

'We Are The Apocalypse Babys (Who The Fuck Are You)' is a potent finish that flicks two sanguine fingers in your doubting face and carries on regardless.  A smattering of punk arrogance, an overspill of self-belief and some good balls out urgency sees the main bulk of this song fly by in triumphant style with an unstoppable relish apparent and a need to expose the inner throbbing passion (vulgar bastards).  The switch in tempo, but not in temperament, is sweet and sour and rounds off the CD on a genuine high.

The AB buggers continue and do so in their own charming way.  This CD is typical of what the band have produced over many years - if you are not with it by now you never will be - what a shame that is!



I have reviewed a fair bit of the Bordellos stuff recently and in I plunge again, taking in my stride the oddments and splinters that fall from the sandpapered and experimented bowels of this St Helen's based outfit.  No rush and no urgency on the part of the band, and despite a backlog of reviews, the same ethos applies from this end too.

'I Don't Believe In Motherfuckers Anymore' is a lovely start, loaded with indirectness and the first spell cast from an obscure grimoire of testing tunes that confounds and befuddles as well as mentally cripples and troubles.  Syrup slow, orally organ-tinted, insightful but innocent in one delivery this sedated wander down cerebral avenues is an embracing tickle that sidles into the senses and cultivates intrigue.  The vocal style is quirky, clear and utterly effective, the harmonica ripples offer up a slight abrasive quality that is soothing and I am giving this opener a definite nod for being its own characteristic self.  'Unhappy Song' offers no threat towards the gloopy pace of the CD and massages an advancement into realms draft whispered by the merest utterances.  Scenes are set, reality ingrained and the sobering listlessness of everyday occurrences develop amid a scenario that contains an inner, undeniable love.  A very tangible tune with nostalgic caresses to believe in and as we fade into the final darkness visions of a busy world disappearing under the cover of night are had, but a hand in hand security holds firm - I like this one!

I will pass on my reviewing duties of the warped and uncomfortable delight known as 'Gary Glitter' as I have already reviewed it before on this overloaded site - do your homework please.  I will say though it is a gnawing tune with acute pertinence - have that!  'Village Green Revisited' is an idling midget that gets lost in the crowd of its counterparts and leaves me little to say.  It is an effort I just find tedious and it does do fuck all for my sonic receptors - these things happen and I would be a ruddy rude cunt to not be honest and try and sneak in a foul and fucked deception - sorry chaps.  'Did The Bastards At The BBC Kill John Peel' is a trickle of tonality that poses a question worth considering.  Now, in an age of worthless airwave wankism when fine bands get lost in a mire, we must look back to the time when JP did his bit, opened new acoustic vistas and encouraged many of us to seek out many flavours.  He came, went, is now diluted to fuck and is regurgitated whenever fashion gurus need a fix.  And yet music tube stays clogged.  I like the theme and I like the accents here, it is one of the most gratifying tracks of the whole kaleidoscopic shebang.  'Fanzine Smile' is a vulgar fuzz fuck of disharmony that sees the crew attempt an indified shake up my  Too out of sync, too imposing and not riffed and regulated enough to have that 'shift yer arse' effect so obviously aimed for.  I can see the reasoning but just can't grasp any positivity to gush over - the reviewer’s life is a shitty affair.

I take a break, indulge in sounds off kilter and then...plop-drop back in like a fruity frog in a pond of obscurity!

'I No Longer Speak The International Language Of Kojak, Kapiche' sees the Bordellos abandon the oars and the rudder and just let things...flow.  This stance adopted is both rewarding for the player and the peruser and radiates a chilled feeling that gets across its point rather than kicking and splashing the listener with a pond preaching kerfuffle.  My only niggle is that it hangs in for too long but hey, what's the rush! 'Vinyl Record Stamp Collector' is a very archaic sounding texturisation that serpentinely ripples and ruffles its sleek scales with confident effect.  Something cheaply exotic and appealing to my earthy marrow comes and with its reminiscence of a doped up grasshopper on holiday I am all confident whilst giving this a nod of acceptance - an odd sensation that soothes.  'Pink Torpedo' is an uncomfortable listen that ghostly shuffles with discordance in the delicacy.  The whole escapade is of one repeating trick and neither rises nor falls above a set line that, for me at least, fails to thrill.  A low point I think and 'Betty And Siouxsie' is equally unconvincing but has a jaunted jangle not of this decent world and that, in the usual perverse way, appeals to my sense of progression.  Too much of that which is cleaned and organised and so, vulgarly plastic, pervades all areas and I am giving this a nudge out of sheer testing awkwardness (because that is the way I crumble ya cunts).  The fact that it stays below the 2 minute mark is helpful and something strange does fuck with the jaded senses - nice!

3 to go, 'Stone Turns To Stone' is a slow folk bout of torpid tuneism that has something of a passive appeal that settles in the soul and does very little whilst it’s there but sluggishly persuades the eavesdropper to take closer note.  A tender creation carefully diced and spliced with wrist-flicked stringwork and shadow-whispered by she serenades from bleak crannies.  The inertia inducing emanations are more than what they seem to be - be warned.  'Stick Like Glue' is a spectral song with a gumshoe persuasion that watches everything you say and do from alleyways bathed in sable sinisterism and misty malevolence.  It stalks its prey, it whispers at your rear and it unsettles.  A mystery figure with a presence to make the goosebumps rise - I like it!  The closure is here at last, 'Piss On Spotify' is wise advice but a bladder full of caustic urine would be better splashed on the whole social media network so as to bring all the posturing, posing and pathetic piss-arsing to its crippling knees.  The waves that unfold here are treacleised and as we waltz in the gunk we get the message and welcome the final fritzing with pleasure.  Another oddment, a theme The Bordellos insist upon maintaining - and why the hell not?

So, another encounter with The Bordellos over with, another trip down surreal street undertaken and a stop off at Ye Olde Inn of The Bizarre taken for good measure.  Everything that this band do can in no way be liked by any one individual but, with much dabbling and diversity, there are many aspects for all to enjoy.  There is no real pigeonhole for this band and that is a fuckin' fine achievement that puts to shame many crews who think they are punk as fuck and in truth...aren't.  Now all I need ponder is whether or not these would play a Fungalised gig - worth a punt I reckon!



No fucks taken, make sure you are not mistaken.  A French hardcore band vomit forth 8 rectal tearing riots for myself, and whoever else cares to dabble, to get to sexual and sonic grips with.  A tension is apparent here and a pulled tight passion aching to burst free - it does just that and here is what I think of the mess made.

'Serie Noire' mutters in, what the fuck - I can only speak one language - what an ignorant fucker I am - too many shrooms in the noggin methinks!  The noise comes and I am more at home with the tumultuous speed burst piss splashing my senses and leaving me with an opinion of 'expected'.  The drums and strings are hustled and bustled with fuck fidget intent whilst the oral offerings are blown this way and that by the ocean of noise.  I had a premonition of what was coming although I thought things would be more...manic.  This is decent enough though but the following 'Drug Free Schools For Me', is an oxygen burning track for those who have dabbled in glue and come out the other end with the wah wah monster a not-forgotten phantom.  School hate rises, a shit kick against the pricks who made the regime a testing hell and left one with only one escape route - Evo!  The frustration is alive, the 'leave me alone' stance is one I can relate to and the clattering cacophony that accompanies with its trousers down and bruised balls bared is highly apt - nice!

A seething tune next with a havoc soaked shit out called 'Smells Like Piss Spirit'.  Thunderous chaos reigns supreme in a playpen of puke and piss-patch artwork, with thumping malevolence dished out in one hefty packet of nefarious noisiness.  We begin with something akin to a tongue-in-cheek moment but when the final desires of wanting to crush kids heads with knees we realise that something very wicked this way comes!  Best song thus far, evil does live!  'Lieutenant Marion Cobretti' is double delivered with criminal intent and has a structure most robust and without any noticeable design flaw.  The gibbering lunatic that opens is crushed beneath a pounding hate mush.  A mush that bubbles with threat, reeks of stomach turning spite.  Dare you dip in your sonic spoon and swallow a mouthful - go on, fuckin' indulge...and puke!  Another smasher for me, one that gets better with every spin!

Onwards - 'I've Got The Curved Edge' is a swift nob throb of afflictive aggression designed to damage, disrupt and discompose.  A very fleet-footed fucker wired up and in no way psychologically trustworthy this rapid whipping is an easily consumed clatter attack that may be shat out at a later date with a great deal of pain - ooh me rectum.  'Cool Crimes' staggers in on ricket-ravaged legs that support a framework of decrepit hesitancy.  Things attempt to get heated, the shout of 'Fuck Off and Die' breathes lies into an ever-growing wind rush that rises with each gust and threatens, in a subtle sort of way, to blow your nadgers clean away.  A nefarious bleakness drips from the speakers as this one weeps forth onto the listens sweating lap - we remain worried and leaking throughout.  This welcome change of pace and more regulated riffery works well and comes after a more tumultuous affair and precedes one of equal semi-recklessness.  'Harambe's Revenge' is bass buggered, guitar grunged, tonsil torn and skin scathed - a nasty distraction of idiocy that deals with the perils of drinking heavily and getting one's dick out in places not suited.  This is blistering music from the lunatic precipice where only the most cretinous cunts of cacophony are likely to be found.  I sometimes frequent this area and so come into contact with many things unhinged and toxic.  My verdict of the upheaval is of a song played well, pushed to the fore with fire and unconcerned with morals - 2 out of 3 options isn't bad.  We close with the unexpected cover version of 'Teenage Kicks', a song so hallowed and held in high esteem that any feet in the wrong place will be duly amputated.  I listened and was concerned, I spun over and now get the gist, I now play and nod along with a smile.  The band have given their own style to the classic and even though this is no match for the original this is a fair encounter one can easily enjoy - we shall leave it there.

Stupid this is, cacophonic Karate it may just well be!  It chops and kicks with good effort, puts in a few low blows and leaves a decent bruise after the event - mmmm - have a dabble and let us all see where this tribe end up (prison perhaps)!



Oddbox Records toss off and spurt forth many angular sounds, and Giant Burger tick all the right (or wrong) boxes to justify their latest release being on the said label.  All I know regarding this band is that they hail from Hackney in London and have been spilling their sonic seeds over the fanny of the listeners for the past 4 years.  What more do you want?  Ah yes a review - fuckin' hell, on the headphones go again!

The starting point of the CD comes via 'Sports Bottle', a song that begins with multifarious technicolor tonality and thus brightens ones initial expectations and, preconceived ideas.  The vibrated shimmer shake is backed by a tympanic pulse and a bass bounce before a vulgar assault comes and throws power and anxiety into the fray and creates a Frankensteinian bitch hepped up in its own clumsy and awkward way.  It is fascinating corruption of something decent and, in a swirling and whirling way, comes to the fore of the senses as something most pleasingly frolicsome.  For some reason I like this, the sun shines in the noggin and that is a fuckin' good thing.  'Kim Chemtrails' starts with fascinating accents, a flustering jangle that is punctuated by a victorious pronouncement of slap happy intent comes before gloriously seizuring into a mush of pseudo-stressed apprehension and wanked off mania.  The cycle of sonica is peddled up a rocky incline and left to freewheel and crash down the resultant slope in wonderful blood splashed garishness.  The band are intent on participating in a dangerous game and whilst just avoiding slamming their nadgers on the gearstick of distress they emit a tangible insight into what they want to do and how they want to do it.  There is something very alive and kicking about this second song and I, for one at least, fuckin' lap it up.  Fuck anything punctured, keep on pogoing!

Jungle tubs are thumped, 'Chocolate Bar' is unwrapped, the taste of the tonality expected is not what it seems!  Cloddish inelegance scrambles over rough set terrain where mud bubbles, fungal mycelium wickedly devours and black weeds straggle all ways.  The sonic emanation donated is cruel, inconsiderate and seemingly abysmal but, there is much glory within the mess and no matter how deep the offensiveness goes the feeling that all is well is prominent at all times.  Dark, disturbed, a multi-faced rapist of rhythm not to be trusted and, bizarrely as the suggestion may seem, not to be adjusted either.  A quiet appealing shit heap!  

More indelicacies follow, more slantwards scheming and, may it be so sneakily put, testing tomfoolery paraded before our lugged peepers.  'Tono, Tono' is a self-wound piece of encouraging persuasion that pecks away at your stout doubt and slightly wins the day.  The 'organ'ised infusion, the spacey kind of hypnotica and the continual swirl of vulgar tonality make for something simple but effective - nuff said.  'Vobster Master' is a perky little pecker with a glowing sanguinity shat out from an arse that is well jazzed, perhaps jizzed and, slightly...jaunty.  A mere instrumentalised inclusion to while away the wanking time.  A tug-o-tonal tune to potter about with, be it genital-based dabblings or something more domestic, like doing the dishes or weaving a new pubic rug.  It is an orchestrated chameleon that changes its shade ever so lightly but remains the same inner beast - it has its position.

'In To The City' further confounds my sense of musical balance as another style of sound comes across as being slightly out of step with its cacophonic accomplices but at the same time appears to be in cahoots in the overall crime against certainty.  This is no bad thing as the song here displays its own character with she-warbles, pushing notes that throb with life and glaring episodes of keyed colorisation.  A carousel to hop on and enjoy - forget trying to attach any labels, shake off any attempt at trying to add your own deep analysis - just smile and become absorbed.  'Flute On A Clamp' topples forth and never really recovers its equilibrium as the song that unfolds, is in my always honest opinion, ruddy awful to hear.  Bah, and I was enjoying this CD so much.  Like walking through a flowery meadow with heady scents massaging the senses and then, oh and then...treading in a pile of dogshit and having the nasal passages brutally alarmed and the cosy cushion of security...popped.  This is no way tagging the tune under scrutiny as a turd, each to their own and it is a sound shake up/wake up wank off but, it is a little to jarring at this juncture and I find it...frustrating!  Onwards, over the minor blip and into the initial sacred tones of 'Amazon'.  Development takes place, something sub-psychedelic unfolds and fucks the senses in a spangled and sincere kind of way.  It is a cute mix that has vibrations of early 70's TV shows, angular US experimentation and something akin to Heads that were Talking (in a suggestive kind of way).  There is delight and disarray, there is flexibility and flimsiness, there is power and passion - I am oddly attracted and still wonder why - nonplussed with the noise for sure.  'Masterpiece Of Shit' lowers the lights with spastic and convulsive chemistry, a toxic mix that is heated, given a somewhat aloof and cranked majesty and pushed into our aural mitts with a certain insistence.  The opening flow is pleasing, the metamorphism into melodic masturbation less so but, and a but that must be stated, the band are reaching out, not sitting on fat backsides of easy option idleness and, in brutal truth, are testing both themselves and the listeners resolve. Like it or lump it - this is a good way to be, I am certainly not sticking my sausage of criticism in the rear passage of the closing number just to keep ye pesky perverts of cruelty happy.  CD review...done.

Giant Burger have many shining facets that attract my attention.  They have a quirky noise that envelopes many sub-scene, ob-scene elements and chuck them forth with their own choice spittle included.  This won't be everyone's cup of tea but hey what is?  My advice - fuck it and see, there are many pleasant surprises to be had out there!



Underclass UK are severely under-rated and may I add, overlooked.  The band don't lick arse, don't play with the flimsy unconvincing ball and don't suffer fools.  What they do though is play heavy dark edged street music with a blatant earthiness and convincing dedication and give their sincere all to making music with 'oomph'.  Luckily for me, and the few who made the effort, I managed to get them a gig in my neck of the woods and get a first hand treat as to their tunery.  Lovely chaps, no illusions as to the struggle and...the set they played was a boomer.  I made a vow to get them back, I won't forget that promise.  This is the bands 4th bit of produce to come under the Fungal spotlight, as per, the style I adopt is consistent.

Crash - the door of silence gets kicked off its hinges and we are bombarded with the mid-paced sounds of 'Always Darkest Before The Dawn', a song that presents itself, tramples around with suggestive authority but keeps itself self-contained and doesn't allow itself to go full-fuckin' tilt.  This may be an initial error as the band have huge punching power and rather than feel their way in I think they would have had a more profitable reaction with a big fist flying opener.  This is still gritty stuff that rises from a twilight of despair and heads into a final nightmare of acceptance.  The band plough along, carefully pull apart the flesh of the wound on show and let the first droplets of honest blood fall onto your senses.  Take care you don't overlook this in your rush to get to more meatier affairs - it has many meritous points - oh and play fuckin' loud, this music was made for volume!  'Checkin' Out' is a catchy devil, again with no real acceleration but with a forceful gob gust and much wire weaving and stick adhesion.  The band are in a fine groove and working as one compact, fire-proof unit functioning with a furrowed brow and facing up to some harsh lyrical consequences.  The good times are done, the final curtain awaits, a sobering tune is yours to contemplate and...easily sing-a-long with.  A good sub-pulse of skin and bass cultivates a reliable mode on which all other contributors can ultimately relax and adorn with muscular precision.  Anti-war/anti-religion ravings are ten a penny in the spiked scene and here we have such an onslaught and, as per, the seething hatred and frustration at the damning stupidity on display is what drives the song into the heart of the listener.  'One Size Fits All', surges, blood rushes with a desire to bring about a stance of thought which gets the job done in decent time - best way as per.

'Rats' is a beauty, thumps, twists, bobs and weaves with the consummate class the band have in abundance.  The concrete pushes inwards, the rodents squeak and squeal with blind idiocy, the players become irritated and kick back with noise.  Bass is splendidly trembled with a bone shuddering dialect that drives to the nucleus of gratification.  The drums are pumped (literally don't ya know) with insisting authority and a crash, splash, fuck it and hope appeal whilst that 6 strung weapon majestically craves out avenues of both power and melody.  The edge is still sharp but gleaned with a darkness not to be taken lightly.  The oral roars are from well-walked wastelands and drip with conviction - a crackin' number!  Next and a similar song but with a jauntier angle donated and with a more personalised theme that deals with the walk out of a parent and the shit that gets kicked one's way.  'How's Your Father' has a sturdy spine though and moves on, resists the bilge and manages to rise up on a hotbed of musical manoeuvring and deliver a grit and spit shit out that reinforces the spirit.  The defiance, sanguine pedigree and last triumphant hollers make this one to play when the head is swinging lower than the norm.  Never give in fuckers, shake off the elements, dust down and punch back like a bastard!

4 quick flicks of the wanking assessing wrist now, the seeds of enlightenment are spattered quickly and are arranged as thus.  

'Under The Sun', heartbeat, life lease, up and at it!  Craving attention, hungry to get something very pertinent off its chest, this simmering fuck retaliates against the daily grind, hollers out to all those in the universal spin of the hamster wheel - jump off, don't submit, resist the working water torture.  The irritation is kept on a regular heat, a release comes via a unified gob off that eases the tension - one for the labouring lout who is fucked off in the extreme.  'Rip Your Face Off' is heavy duty clobbering that pushes and pounds with an aim at rousing the rubble in the head, shaking off that clogging dust and getting your arse in some kind of gear.  The music is slapped out, the bass is hard at it and mesmerising the eavesdropper whilst the rest of the crew apply with spirit and contribute highly to that recognisable assault the UUK boys do so fuckin' well.  Next of the swift quartet and 'Lost In Your Dream' is a runaway train that takes to one track, trundles with determination and has a certain resistance to the inner engines that helps this reviewer gravitate towards the sides of appreciation.  Last of the flicked four and a slow and sedated song that opts to grasp at an atmospheric slant and rely on slow persuasion rather than more forceful demands.  I can see what 'Give It Back Now' is trying to achieve but for me it falls way short and the reason why is that it is too similar to its counterparts, too arid and lacking a full flourish of new accents and flavours.  Not my thing and one that turns me off, rather than on!

Onwards, a cruddy opening of mid-paced noise begins 'Groomed' a song that follows up from the last blip and does the same.  Oh heck, two duffers for Fungal and two that just don't seem to rise from a very suffocating pack and find their own character.  A shame and maybe, like I always suspect, too much of a consistent thing is not a good thing and over a course such as this some songs get a rawer deal than they deserve.  I can only go with the flow of feeling and let the thoughts spill - boy this reviewing game makes me feel right shite at times.  On to the next one though with balls of honesty still in place and 'How Many Times' assaulting the lugs.  I have taken a break before this and the following 3, refreshed the old sprout as they say.  A punch flurry, a question, a more cocky and stocky approach.  A swinging chorus with a more loosened and effective delivery and the song resonates more deeply due to its slight increase in pace and more adhesive sections that fall into place with liquidity.  Nice as is the stomping 'Infected', which shuffles its tidy tootsies, heps itself up into a decent furrow of fruity noise that cutely plays its words and gets you the thinker...thinking.  A dark solo and a somewhat factory-fried mechanisation deals out the dinnage with honest efficiency.  Yes,  perhaps the best word to describe the way in which UUK spill the produce - with efficiency!  'Don't Call Me (I'll Call You)' is a venomous, well-calculated piece of cacophonic kit that suffers no fools, pounds away with cock-sure sanguinity and deals out a subtle thunderous hammering that, once more, when twatted through with volume vigour, really gets to the core of this assessor.  I have just booked this lot to play another show - am I getting the message across.

We get one last song, a Slade cover with its own defiant twist - a crowd pleaser this one for when the set is coming to an end and the pissheads need a final fling - I shall leave you to decide, I personally love it.

So you slags, another CD brandished before my lugs and an overview done. Final thoughts are this - Underclass UK are quality and punch hard, this CD is a healthy nugget to get bulldozed by but, you had better watch out.  There is far more room to improve, the band, if they throw in some angles, opt for one or two quick blitzes and use some more blatantly riffed up routines will blow your bollocks clean off with future donations - this bodes well and I am putting the squeeze on this fruity outfit and hoping to move them on to reaching that full potential!  Get this CD, play to buggery, watch this fuckin’ space.

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