Pizza Tramp take to the bench of discordance, get their musical cocks out and see what passers-by take note.  Whilst exposing themselves the band indulge in some ale swilling antics and have a several promotional products for the more perverse punter in the street.  I have accidentally come across this band and also been asked to do a review - such is the state of sonic play!  The band sprout from  Taff Land - a place of dragons, woman beating miners and perverts with leeks up their arse - or so they say!  Fuck em' all, here is a review.

'CCTV' is a typical theme for the punks to hark on about and here it is done with virulent and billowing gusto via a tune that fails to break any new ground but delightfully breaks a good burst of angry wind.  The whipping flatulence begins in turbulent style, throws itself into a mayhem for maniacs with utter abandoning spirit and all the while keeping things tighter than a Wigan man's grip on a pie.  It is a sharp sharded speedburst of power violence that somehow keeps its duds of decency hitched up but still lets us glimpse the grinding gonads within - a good fuckin' start methinks - spunktastic!  'Slick Witch' goes for a more bulldozing cum JCB (Jerk, Cum, Baboom) approach with heavier tonality injected, a grimier dialect to the dinnage delivered and a repeat beat thug punch thrown with repetition into your whining mush.  The song, if given speaker juice, is prone to causing pain and a passion for putting your fist in the rectal passage of the old lady next door - these can only be positive results.  Knock, knock, who's there - take that up the shitter you arthritic bitch!

I move onwards, the pills are failing me!

'Pollyticks' could well be a song about those pesky flies that hang around your pet parrot’s rectum!  Alas it isn't but squawks out against the overpowering pressure of the climate in which we live and the fuckery involved.  A breath taken, many breaths gusted - this frenzied assault on your aural nooks and crannies is immediately animated and happening with the whirlpool created inescapable.  The bass guitar is a crazed cunt on a very long leash and paves a fine lunatic avenue for his crazed cohorts to run down and commit acts of noise soaked vandalism.  The moments of sub-respite are only there as platforms from which the true excitement of the song can propel itself - it all works so ruddy well.  Next ‘Two Dogs, Six Legs’ and I must say it has been a long time since I have seen two canines humping in the street.  A long while indeed since I witnessed a brace of two eye glazed mutts bonking with enthusiasm whilst onlookers watched in a state of shock, amusement and, if the fancy takes you, arousal.  This writhing song is about no such subject matter but I just wanted a trip down memory lane as I am short of wanking material these days.  Anyway what we have here is a virile bouncer that forces one to join in the ping and get out ones lipstick and appal those of a delicate nature.  I am out of tune with this one, find it rather tame and, for want of a better phrase, lacking lushness.  The roar and attitude is dandy but this is just not for me and I go and kick a Jack Russell in disappointment!

'Fuck Em' Heavy' next, big strides, big effort and a deliberate grind crap that stinks with hateful shittery towards across the pond power perverts who suck many souls dry.  No-nonsense riff raping, full-on throat aggression that nails home its message in strapping, honest-to-goodness style.  The thick murky ocean of rolling rebellion is foamed up with sonic insistence and splashed our way via oars of vindictiveness.  A good one for the moshpit to cruise along with.  'Pizza Slut' is my pick of the peckers and stands highly firm and throbbing from a pack of dripping delights not to be taken lightly.  This jawbone shattering shard of volatile violence twists itself home via a guitar riff that is agonisingly spiteful and painfully exhilarating.  Bass and guitar are in sexual cahoots and orgasm as one filthy heaving mess that leaves your comforting cerebral blankets of decency...sodden.  It is a blitzkrieg of evil light, showering you shitheads with clot forming chaos - have it, bleed from every orifice, drop fuckin' dead!

3 swift shits - 'Town Clown', screams in, head fucks with weight, spaces out and strips bare with the throat dictating before the riffs intercut - simple, a song built on a virus with a final spite in the strain...damaging.  'Scumbag Boogie' is a great title for dancing trash and this will see the ragged and rugged enthused and spilling their cheap ales this way and that as they careen and clatter to the sonic shit thrown forth - and why not!  Tis a veritable hot potato to drop down your kecks and hop around with - I like it and as a result I have dropped too much medication and nutted the old lady next door - I take no responsibility officer, it was the noise I tell ya, the noise!  'Queen Of Ringland' finishes the terse triple twat thrust with a metallic opening, the usual sizzled forthrightness and the vulgar observational technique expected.  A foaming piece salvaged from the slums of mediocrity by a few good holler outs, a rocking bass tremble and the usual hunger - cripes that was close.

'Nuchucks Of Hell', dig that dirty bass, bathe in the blinding rectal examination, use your rubber ring carefully - ouch.  Next and a signature tune, 'Blowing Chunks' is a superb cutlet of cuntery that carves to the marrow with vindictive intent and insists you ping with passion whilst damaging your brain with some headbanging violence.  From organised chordage to wreckless fuck-riffery this contrasting and clobbering upchuck does the business and somehow arouses my vandalising streak that sometimes rears its untamed head.  'Piss Smasher' picks up from where its predecessor left off with equal effect but with an oh so slightly change of wind direction.  Still powerful and rugged but with less opposing tones and clashing tones.  It works though, the terseness assists, I have no pertinent problems with the heave ho so suck on that will ya.  'Three Kills You're Out' climbs the ladder of din, screams the title and tosses off amidst a maelstrom that for all its gusto fails to deny the fact that this is quite an orthodox tune.  It still pummels the listener’s abdomen with sinewy effort although the bruises left are somewhat transient.  The penultimate track, a sludge drip slagged down as 'Choruses Are For Cunts'.  This is a gloopy blessing that curdles the anal juices and leaves you shitting out a blasphemous soup of creamy corruption.  The straining is blatant, the pressure exerted tangible, the stench aimed for...achieved.  I like this dirty bastard, I like the way it soils the underpants of my mind - thank you dear Tramps of the Pizza.  Last blast and 'Petrol Chicken', a mouth organised street fuck up via seemingly pissed 'erberts!  Verdict - garbage - the review ends there!

A CD with force, fuckery and free-wheeling rage.  Nothing new, nothing unnatural but overall a good tear up to toss off with, a variable attack of hardcore diarrhoea to roll about in and annoy your friends with - ooh aye, tis the only way.



Oddbox Records keep this old noise gnarled twat on his toes with yet another 'outside the cerebral carton' snippet of noise from a band I have only just encountered.  Of course it isn't punk as you may know it, and sickeningly expect it, but I am not here to cater to labels - the fungus rots the punk, the punk invades the fungus, the conflicting paradox continues and takes all noise in its stride.  The band under the ravaged radar are from Cardiff, offer a form of 'diet dinnage', light, fluffy and not for fatheads.  I have only 4 tracks to mull over here, it may be too much or not enough, tha' will just have to read on and find out the final verdict if your juices of curiosity are already flowing (or use a mop ya sexy sods).

Track the first, 'Motorway'. Light cat's eyes flicker, progression is made at a mid pace, the escorting oral urges are whispery, somewhat placid and dreamy.  The dialect is of escapist essences and the easy, reclining drift is anything but offensive which, in itself could be deemed as unappealing.  I like this kind of lo-brow, alternative indie simplicity and in between more aggressive listening material, and that which is blatantly obvious in structure, these quirky obscurities go down mighty well.  Not bad but the innocent child-like sweetness of 'I Don't Want To' is a far better snippet with a more colourful tonality and a greater magnetism in the wrap-a-round delivery.  The he and the she copulate their oral utterances and give birth to a complimentary jaunt of porcelain wonder that is both sturdy and yet fragile.  The tune is tattooed deeply with an 'handle with care' motif something we should all pay heed of.  I do my bit, pass over my assessing mitts and come up with a verdict of clapping positivity - just a sweet moment that I smile along with and watch any clouds of misery get nudged away by.  Play and play again is my advice - twirl and swirl in the solar rays it emits and...feel mighty good.

'Best Friend' is a sinister little stalker that has me schizophrenically split down the middle of my thinking framework with one side swaying towards a verdict of acceptable and the other side fretting and wondering if there is an hidden agenda beneath the output.  I shake and shudder, I smile in a half-hearted way and fret about all the sycophants in the scene who have evolved into blinkered ring licking beasts with agendas best left unread.  This is the weakest link in the pack but the one that has the most depth - how strange.  I am in no way sticking the boot into this piece as it has its place and is played quite adequately and, with several spins of the silver circle, I am noting a subtle attraction.  Cripes, I best watch my back as this creeping song is not the only thing at my heels it seems.

'For You To See' opens with beautiful she-lipped poetry that kindly kisses our needful souls before languidly strumming forth into a feather-lite drama of thoughtful persuasion.  This is a lovely moment in sonic time with all the right ingredients for a reposing rhythm being carefully cooked on a low heat, stirred with consideration and served up with sincere insight.  A dew dropped cobweb caress that will ensnare unsuspecting musical buzzers and hold them tight in its sturdy embrace.  At any moment one suspects a mental and musical breakdown will come, it doesn't - hoorah.

4 tunes, a quartet of tickling investments of acoustic time that pay back good rewards.  Thank you to The Bellamys and thank you to Oddbox Records - nice work folks.



At a keyboard, in a time not so long ago, sat a Fungalised cunt who was bleeding from the lugs and ploughing through numerous CD reviews.  A brace of these sonic circles responsible for the aural bloodshed were from a fine band known as 'The 4130's'.  The first CD was a stormer, the second good but just not attaining the impact of the debut.  Via the listenings and consequent scribblings contact was made via the front lout, namely Ben Wiles, a good dude who was getting disgruntled with a testing scene and the bullshit therein.  The band played a Fungal gig, went down a treat and then fucked off into the filing cabinet of 'done and dusted' with the drawer closed for-seemingly-ever!  Now, after a period of acoustic convalescence the man is back with his new outfit Paper Champ and I, your Fungal Fucker, have been requested to review the bands first release.  The link to the 5 tracks came with the words 'Go easy I'm proud of this one', to which I responded 'you get what you get with me mate - It will get my good time and my honest words as ever'. And this what I came up with...

The opening spurt, 'Can't Stand Up', chugs slowly in with a firm hand at the helm before that oh so necessary pace infusion is given and so sets alight the whole acoustic framework. The first verse is nailed to the wobbling wall of success with accurate desire before a clattered sing-a-long chorus chunk is hurled into our personal space and left to do its thing. The collide and clash instrumental is absorbing, backdropped with saturating ambience and hoofed along with a professionalism that leaves little room for complaint. The rattle to the end tape is consistent with the lofty standard set and this opening burst from an new band on the block exudes experience, in-sight and...perhaps most importantly, desire.

I immediately try to change my tack for the second song, a case of non multa sed multum but it won't be easy. The title track 'Paper Champ' slams in on modern tonality, sets atmosphere, fist-pumps, flows with bass dictated liquidity. There are harmonies aplenty, the appetite is gaping and  a vocal solo section simmers with heat. Just off centre to be true to itself but a hefty tune nonetheless. It is outshone by the more impressive opener but shouldn't be spat into the tosspot with any haste. 'Modus Operandi' operates with a mode of hectic efficiency and barely touches the rhythmic rails on which it hurtles. Fascinatingly this is a hybrid between pace and clarity that packs an incandescent magnetism liable to sear more than our arses and eyeballs. This tight twat of a tune grabs you with its muscular intent, draws you in and drains you absolutely dry. A booming example of a band very much in a zestful zone who are pushing the throttle, humping with urgency and impregnating anyone who gets too close with spirited seeds of sonic excellence. A crackerjack!

Next to last, the last will be next. First we have 'Medicate Myself', a hungry git that follows a tried and tested formula and brings into play many idiosyncrasies found in this wealthy pit of toneage. Again the band opt for pace, choose to wallop all sonic spices together into the final dish and stir up with seeming abandon but with...ultimate control. The vocals are drafted by the back blast of the gushing noise and before we really get into this one we are thrown overboard and left to float in the oceanic expanse of the final ditty 'No Sense And Insensibility'. A powerful motion that heaves with frustration and that lack of 'get up and go' we all get niggled by at times (some more than others). The song is seemingly fractured down the middle by a bass invasion, some radiant skins and a dose slam happy stickwork and I am all expectant of a re-surge but, we are unexpectedly led into the final silence - perhaps this is master stroke to keep us intrigued - who knows!

I am now a Paper Champ fan, how easy was that! The band have pedigree, they have potential but....dum, de, dum, dum...can they tap it over a long period and get some major interest in what they do? The chaps know it’s a quagmire out there, they are surely ready for the fight and I for one, am happy to borrow them my meat tenderisers for the task at hand. Thwack!



My third encounter with The Dustaphonics on disc.  So far I have found very much to my liking and have had little to say as far as negativity goes which is fine and ruddy dandy by me.  The outfit are, and I quote 'a concept comprised of a rotating line-up of excellent London-based musicians and friends, specifically selected by Serrano to be part of his “Dust-A-Phonic Music Family” - now what do you think of that hey?  I crack on here, 100% immersed.

We open with 'You Don't Love Me Anymore', a song immediately buoyant on bounding drums, roughly used guitars of melody and a front wench all sexed and souled up and gushing at the gussets with sassed and spited gumption.  A fiery blend to say the least and one that jitter jives and nose dives beneath your quivering epidermal layers and into your very core of cacophony where anything with passion strikes a chord.  It is always well to start a CD with a tune that invigorates the very soul of the listener, this is just such a burst!  Title track, 'Johnny And Bo', a sneaky serpent trembling in the grass and gradually sneaking up on the listener and convincing whilst most unaware.  The initial emissions are crafted with care, bubbled with a deliberate ploy in mind.  It isn't long before the she-lead gets frisky and starts to drag all in her weaving wake - it is one of those songs that duo-delivers, swift and eager to please the subdued and on the leash - it works, it isn't my favourite but I ain't complaining.  And so...

Next and 'Q Sounds Groove' crisply sets a stripped down funk to prepare yourself with.  A brief cat call, a smooth silken howl from the back alley of feistiness and then a dirty low down strut of showy cockiness is had, brazenly paraded before your sensors with many polished and professional touches had to give you the maximum of sensations.  The vocals are thermally magnetic, the bass an imploring throb that desires your hips to thrust, the guitar a repeating offender you can't resist.  The additional acoustic accoutrements come to the fore as the song progresses and gives the whole construction life and, piped character - lovely!  'Listen To The Showman' surfs things up with a certain strain of exotica also added.  The shimmery sun-kissed gold of the radiated rhythm is adorned with remote tones of paradise that gets the imagination gushing.  We are taken to escapist lands and look upon solar rippled scenes stretching out before us and all I can suggest is that you switch off and dream.  No profound offering this, just a tune to mentally peregrinate with - whoosh!

Tickling forth and I deal with the fift, a song called 'Cachaca (Bossa Twang)'.  A hollowed out tune that gives suggestions of something Joy Division-esque, blended with a coffee steaming accent of beachfront cafes where idlers pass the time and talk pointless piffle (sometimes its needed).  An aqua-lilt is hinted at, the rhythm is regular and even though all is chilled and serene I can't help feeling this one doesn't fulfil its ambitions.  One that falls short of the expectations - it happens.  'Dreams On Screen (Dolce Vita Dream)', is tentative, another coffee swirl steam ascension that hits the senses in comfort cuddle perfection. The tones are wrapped and blanketed whilst the overlay of low-light vocals are seductive and cerebrally disrobing.  A slow sex-waltz, a moment perhaps for lovers to entwine and get all horned and corned - either way it is no bad tune.  'Gangsters' is a very adventurous cover that contains a certain audacity many may find fault with.  The band put in their own ingredients to this all time classic and make it a rather more funky shake-up rather than the desolate and unsettling soundscape it was always destined to be.  After the initial holler there is a lot to take in with flutters, flicks and fuck-arounds confounding the grey gunk but with the inner strain of the tune maintaining some semblance of steadiness.  The main question that must be put forth is whether I like it or not and the answer is as thus - 'No'.  I am not keen on the original either so there ya go.  'I'm Hurting' steps in on a bold and brazen platform before...sassifying the soul with slow-fuck hypnotica that soothes, inveigles and spits you out as a spent force.  I was expecting a real swift session of active liquid-draining and instead am slowly milked by music of a deliberately coaxing nature.  Rude, rhythmic soul with blue pulsing blood to taste - not bad at all.  'Tura Satana Tribute' is an episode in juiced up excitement as rivulets of rhythm flow, combine and lead to a river of gushing, needful exotic desire that the named actress could easily twist her booty too.  A full on sexual explosion of erotica that throbs, perspires and aches, all there for your wanton senses to get drugged by.  The sensual beauty avoids anything pornographic but is a whole heap more alluring than perhaps given credit for.  Switch off, let the muscles move with the melody, get yourself shook up, seduced and left...shaken and...stirred.  

'You Don't Love Me Anymore' is a feisty kitten of taloned tetchiness that is built on a catwalk of corrupting tonality that will suck you in, spit you out and leave you gagging for more.  The lead lass is on fire, the musical masters whipped up into a frenzy and I am having this 'big time'.  An outfit loaded with classy exactness playing out a tune here that thrives on its own momentum and moves itself up onto echelons of success rarely explored.  A zenith this one, a bewitching bout of irresistible lust - oh take me, just take me!  We shut down with 'Love Jinx', an instrumental to ease the strain, to cool down with!  Textured, honey roasted and moving with utter confidence this happy footed tinkle has assuredness, upbeat undertones and psychedelic nuances aplenty to keep musical peeps from many genres bustling on the dance floor. Alterations come, the flow is unhindered - a fine closure.

The Dustaphonics are a quality outfit and for me have produced their best release to date with a well-balanced, ideally timed offering that will stand the test of temperamental time.  A high danceable disc this and as I swirl and twirl to the heady beat I simply suggest you do the same - let it all hang loose comrade.



I have all the Urban Dogs albums, they have been long residents in my music collection and many fine moments have been had listening to the mixture of vibrations that have been radiated forth.  The band comprise of many famed heads of certain circles of which explanation is not deemed necessary.  Here we have the long awaited release of this sub-super group cum side-line and I'll be buggered if I am going to fart around with too long of an introduction.  In fact, fuck it, here is the review.

'Dancing On The Heads Of Snakes' begins the bevy of bomb-blasts and has accents we are all familiar with via a distinct hybridisation that keeps the zonal victims hypnotised and intrigued.  These leanings copulate and after the robust tympanics we get added space-ageism alongside Harper's recognisable tones that escort us through the first easy verse and into the instantly catchy, and wonderfully simple, chorus.  No fluster and bluster, a straight forward saturation of affluent acoustica that has subtle depth and fibrous, organic tones running throughout.  Efficient and effective without any unnecessary adornments.  Following up from this meaty opener is a cute and equally impacting number called 'The Little Song', here with Knox at the helm and plying his oral trade with yet more identifiable tonality.  The sprightly and sunshine tattooed opening leads into a stealth laden serenade that tiptoes with consideration through a gently swayed melodic meadow that appeals to the tender side of the eavesdropper.  This has many facets that I have picked up on that remind me of a few songs from a fine Vibrators album called 'Energise'.  This is a complimentary factor that I hope encourages your interest here and in the said album - both are worthy of your time and both get a definite thumbs up from this Fungalised Fruit.  

2 done, 2 delighted in and next up we have 'Sidewalk Baby, with I presume Mr Gibbs at helm doing his mouthy stuff.  A harsh clashing fist fuck this one, straight off the street and up your jacksie with hard hitting bassism, unremitting sub-angularity and perhaps the most bare-assed punkism shown thus far.  A rock and roll groove along with nerve tingling essences and a feeling of a cacophony on the cusp.  A certain blue light/red light edge manifests itself, the wielding of a corrupting blade seems imminent and as I await a true slicing I have time to hail this as a complimentary crack off that keeps the situation varied and happening - not a bad do at all.  'Pawn Shop Special' is regulated blues done a million times over and hot roasted up with routine manoeuvres and that old organ of the mouth making the usual cameo appearances throughout.  The energy input exuded is animated and healthy, the general gist sun-baked and very westernised (as you would expect) with the obvious tones blatantly unapologetic and of a very strict ilk.  I am 50/50!  'We Are Machines' is a better affair, a mechanoid push along that attracts the sci-fi streak within and moves with a computerised efficiency that is both cold and unfeeling.  The movement is regulated and barely moves above a critical flat-line that indicates an inner death.  A song that finds a life source and clings onto it with immovable need.  Don't look for any burst of excitement or off the cuff flamboyance - this is economical music and does just enough without sweat or breath wasted.

'Trick Or Treat' is hollered in, moves with steady grace and has an aspect of threatening horror that sees how players come across as a trifle idling and without any need to put in that extra burst of tension.  A deflated ditty that could be so much more and despite the pixies of terror harmonising and the odd scream here the song is a duff do indeed and just goes through motions best left to stench in solitude.  Tedious and too tepid - ouch!  'Goddamn Liar' is a snotty, snappy little twat and grabs you but the shoulder, spins you around and says its piece.  Again flamboyance is not the uppermost facet of the feisty fucker and this is indeed the longest running track of the lot but it gets by via the disgruntled cum acidic sharpness and the uneven pounding that comes in incessant waves before the storm is temporarily quelled.  It isn't long before the music maker’s throw us back into the turbulence and although much repetition is had the song gets adequately by.

Into the last 5, so far I am teetering on the edge of positivity but feel the expectations are not being met.  'Storm Over Golgotha Tonight' disco pulses in, finds its rut of rhythm and sets about a religious cum love copulation that has a spiteful edge as well as an unsettling anger that is kept on a low simmer but burns nonetheless.  Not a bad effort and throbbing with passion but again no zeniths are reached and the song stays within its safety zone and adds nothing new to the mix.  'You Can't Put Your Arms Around A Memory' is an upbeat episode despite the languid pace and drawling 'still blued' accent.  There is no rush in the rhythm, tis a rocking chair moment to swing along to, one of those moments where you can chew on a blade of maize, tilt your titfer forward over the glazing eyes and swing to the rhythm in a pure escapist mode.  Clashing, keyed up and swept along with a dust kicking approach never liable to break any fervoured sweat - it is what it is and that chorus will have you singing along before you know it.  'World's End Apocalypso' tub bounces, scurfs up with spirit, hits home its vibrations with good effect.  The inner guts are trembled, the appreciative flatulence that comes from both ends of the eavesdropper is well earned although those moments when the sonica planes out and appears to coast along on the ripples created are somewhat deflating and leave things free of praise.  Those upbeat throbs carry me and my end verdict in realms of positivity and those seemingly pedagogic spasms of critique that arise are banished beneath a good stamp of spiked spirit.

2 songs left and the penultimate party piece comes, a cover of the classic expulsion known as 'I'm Not Your' Steppin' Stone'.  A comfortable facsimile of an original effort first released by Paul Revere and the Raiders and aped by artistes such as The Monkees, The Merton Parkas,  Minor Threat and the Sex Pistols amongst others.  Here we get more of the same, albeit with excellent clout quality and age defying harmonies.  The song though is as per, brings nothing new to a well rotated turntable and has me wondering 'why'.  There are better versions, in fact the one by the aforementioned fun time primates is a pip but having said this, there is plenty to enjoy here if you are so inclined and like music that doesn't require too much thought.  Covers are covers and 9 times out of ten they need a definitive twist - we don't get that here.  We close with 'The Whisky Song', a dreamy float away drift with essences of old git hippification and adoration gone viral.  The swirl of sonic slush is mid-tempo, again we have a line reached and never swayed from which will appeal to those instantaneously tagged but will soon wear thin with those looking for fresh peaks to ping over.  Not the greatest finish in the world if I am honest.

So I have waited a long time for something new from the Urban Dogs and although a marvellous acoustic release satisfied my soul somewhat I wanted a full on band fix to take things higher.  Here it has not happened, I remain a trifle indifferent and not overly enthused by the 12 tracks on show.  Don't misunderstand me, this is far from a sloppy serving but, as a long term Subs and Dogs fan the expectation levels are set to a lofty standard.  One or two songs look set to grow and I am sure many other fans will love it but there will be some who no doubt will share my thoughts - it is all about opinions after all. 



And the Water that is Dirty spills my way again and I am requested to tackle another two track teaser.  The band under the spotlight are unknown to me and after a bit of web rummaging I see they dish out garage pop, have put in some nifty work over the years they have been together and they ping up from Italy.  That is it folks, the best I can offer and in I go with utter haste.

The side scrawled as 'A' comes under the name of 'Uh, Uh' - a countrified cookie that hotfoots in a reet darn tootin' style that is threaded through with zephyred coolness and liquid light earthiness.  The texture is more openly popped rather than grumbling from a garage and has many clean cut facets the more disinfected of mind will take to.  The gobwork is scrummy in parts and rose fresh in others but several listens reveal that there is no exact central core and a loose inner structure is noted which the song duly advances around.  Is this a flaw and does it take the concrete out of the end mix?  I ponder, re-spin, I raise a flag of favour and wave with gusto as I swing along to and indeed celebrate a soothing serenade of wholesome acoustic hygiene of a decently appetising style.

The reverse side known as 'B' is splattered with the song 'Standing The Night', a more clashing accent teeters on the brink between bouts of corned cruising that has me contemplating a fat-tittied country and western singer hybridised with a 21st century pop tart who is dressed in artists clothes of summer time shades (yes, I know but that is how it goes).  A waltzing song of languid manoeuvres that somehow just doesn't fit in any true place. This is one of those moments when I become perplexed and irritated.  Each individual aspect of the song is a joy but the end blend is just out of kilter and puzzles the noggin.   A summertime escape, waltzing through grasslands where flowers breathe hope and the head is all awash with silliness.  I will not be tricked by the happy-inducing aspect and nail this as a 50/50 snip.

Bright, well-played, sugar-puffed and fly away - I am tickled enough to explore further and just wonder what the band would be like over a full length journey.  Would they be able to proffer a variety of tunes that will keep me intrigued and would the solar flares be mixed up with more lunar lilts so as to create a crucial contrast factor?  You know what, I may get out my old cacophonic Columbo jacket and do some investigating - 'Can I just ask you a question' - again!



Pussycat and the Dirty Johnsons are a band I have seen on a couple of occasions and despite many lapping up the output I have remained rather unmoved and have always come away with a feeling of a good band who are nothing special to write home about. This happens, damn those egotistical and idiot thinkers who expect you to like everything and duly gush about it.  All I can do is let the flow hit me and see what sensations it provokes.  This band who hail from Basingstoke tag their sound as 'dirty rock and roll' and I plunge into this CD hoping to be more inspired than by their 'in the flesh' antics thus far.  No matter what though I will be fair and balanced and not shy away from the usual honesty - read on at thy peril!

'Burying The Bodies' opens the nightmare fiasco and comes with a trespassing creep mode that roams misted realms where untold deviancies take place.  The she-kitten teases against a fuzz wall of subtle threat before things develop into catacomb raping thrust that sees the band ascend with ease.  There is a tangible darkness here, a solid switch from the stealthy to the more forthright and that latter aspect is what gives the song its greatest winning asset.  The drums are splashed around the walls with bloodied zeal, the general pseudo-garage feel aids and abets the criminal cacophony no end and this, for me at least, is a very accomplished starting point on which the rest of the CD can be constructed.  The follow up number is labelled as 'Hell-Bent', an epileptic recurrence that thrashes and throbs with blind energy.  From the initial oscillation of the life support machine and the slap and slam free for all to the control of the cheese-wire strings this is a neat tune that avoids a full submission into the slipstream of the orthodox and whips up its own gratifying stormy groove that has, paradoxically ,a certain amount of uncertainty.  A surprising number that at a first...fails, but then, after several plays, seizes the decision of positivity and...runs with it.

'Livin' With Mum And Dad' rises and spurts out the buoyant title of the song before moving along through moments that are restrained and only just in control before exploding with effervescing sparkle. There is such a bountiful supply of youthful gumption and careless spunkiness that one can almost envision many washed up rockers pinging around in their bedrooms whilst wearing nothing more than a pair of duds and a denim jacket and having this songs vibrations big time.  This is a delightful eruption that enchants the fagged faculties no end - cheers me purring tinklers!  'Get Outta My Face' is really frisky fucker and has such a believable bitchiness and bounding impetus that even this old cunt gets caught up in the zesty tumble of the tunery.  The she-squeals and the retro back harmonies combine with great effect and the scurfy string work and jumping bean skins get right under all of my acoustic epidermal layers and fill me with a certain Joie de vivre not to be denied.

Happy as a pig in reeking rectal waste I move on and sniff out the fifth track known as 'She Don't'.  A stop/start entrance soon becomes a low-grumbling git of submerged swill that swirls with vindictive steadiness then oozes an aroma liable to intoxicate the ones who delve a little too deeply.  The braid of the belt out is woven with heavy hands and knotted up to pressurised levels that takes us into new sonic realms to savour.  A pulverising number and although the least tuneful thus far this one has much weight and outdoes its neighbours in many different ways.  The inner release of chainsaw brandishing is delicious and a moment to damage yourself to.  Next up and the creeping tones of 'Mirtazapoine' come forth, hold in check any potential depression and just stay on the right side of analysing reality.  A slight slip comes as the mind finds release and the song is given salvation from the mundane mire before we repeat the trick and scream into a breakdown that is mood laden and always on the cusp of a rhythmic regression back into the realms of...wretched madness.  The pondering moment cradles threat, the tension rises and we are taken to the end silence with mixed feelings.  'Why Do You Hate Me' tub tumbles right in with a feedback escort and transpires to be a titbit of troubled tunery that huffs and puffs with questioning irritation amid a crummy cacophony that seizures with more perspiration than uniformity.  The energy emitted comes in gusts, the track is rocky and fidgety, I, as a passenger, am tossed about and wonder if I am enjoying the ride or not?  One for you to decide upon!

'Dirty Li'l Dog' is a labouring track that spends too much time in contemplation, dwelling in a specific move rather than kicking on and going for a more liquid advancement.  The initial verse is skipping and flimsy, the inner guitar liberation gratifying but the chasing ponse about that sees the drums and gob go it alone is perhaps necessary but just not meeting the pleasure zones of my sonic sensors.  I can see the benefits of this song to the CD, the way it fractures the flow and offers a different slant but I am turning my thumbs down here with a certain assuredness and belief.  'Sort Yourself Out' has restless, activated gumption that twists in, briefly minimalises itself via the first verse before hot pulsing via a chorus that breathes greater life into the whole framework of the song.  The move from the stripped to the attired works well, the shift from liquid to the drip fed is nicely dealt with and what we end up with is a song with good drive and equal effective puissance!

The last two and a couple of dark bass warnings escort us into the flurrying friskiness of 'Souvenir'.  A song that adopts the usual methodology of combining the strait-jacketed to that which is let loose.  One has to say those hard flown moments are exhilarating in the extreme and the maelstrom of consuming madness is inescapable and I find myself pondering the prospect of a bout of indulgent idiocy whilst the wind blasted off by this one whips at my naked flesh.  The throat soars are wonderful and I like this one very much indeed and as a result I shall add nothing more, nothing less.  We shut down this CD with the song known as 'Hideous', a ditty that leaves with the chance of saying 'more of the same' but the nasty edged pertinence and kick back at the cunts who are doused in corruption is mightily attractive and I roll with the uneven drive and take comfort in the fact that some other fuckers are twitching with as much hate as me and kicking out a solid grind of noise to boot.  It is a very poisonous finish that perhaps lacks the instant magnetism of its neighbours but, with a little patience, snatches at the more awkward senses and has them...bouncing!  The final chant sums up where the band are at and where they may begin next time out - wound up and wild - I hope so!

That is your whack oh wankers of the sonic spectrum.  It has been a journey full of fascination and has certainly redirected my noggin in the way of the band.  The last 'kaboom' is apposite for those with anger to ignite - take heed, get yourself blown up and perhaps...away!



And once more I dabble outside the expected box that in itself is now becoming the normal way and so not as unexpected as it seems.  Here we see a London based band hit the Fungal airspace and bring forth a glam slam rock and roll accent very much neglected these days and always embraced by yours truly.  The bands influences are many and this is what I have lifted from their Facebook page 'David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Hanoi Rocks, New York Dolls, The Only Ones, Rolling Stones, Mott The Hoople, The Clash, Speeding Through The Night, Winklepickers, The Damned, The Ramones, Kohl, Johnny Thunders and The Heartbreakers, Flaming Groovies, Crushed Velvet, Alice Cooper, Christiane F, Lords of The New Church, Apocalypse Now, Taxi Driver, The Doors, Black Leather' - interesting to say the least and getting my juices of expectation...flowing!  I jump in and see 15 tracks awaiting my tender, critical touch, tis all go, go, go!

Firstly and 'Tonight', a song that is both highly polished and, in many respects, a complete package.  There is something finalised in the opening burst, a feeling one gets of a song that can hardly be improved upon which, is blatantly, a very good thing indeed.  The opening burst is metallic and gives suggestions of something more rocked than cocked but the glammed elements pervade the sonic scenario and take us down a route of exemplary plushness that sees gilded vocals soar over a panorama of hygienic, breeze fresh music which duly flows with consuming confidence.  The keys add that old school vibe that was Dolled up and delivered with gusto, the chorus is well whipped icing on the sumptuous cake and the panging for distant love forces out the necessary emotion.  A quite gratifying start!  'Iona' follows, lets the lead gob take the reins and be escorted by a shadowy harmony above a frosty morning melody that steams with the initial thermality donated by the players.  A scenario is set, visions constructed and further into the mystic matter we wander with a sub-erotica rising, a spiritual homage paid and a wonderful passage of rhythm had.  The band expose their advanced accoutrements and apply all with such professional exactitude that even this spiked bastard is taken aback.  I am notching this number up as the second triumph to be had, that's two out of two in case you are number incompetent or just a plain old thick head!

'Don't Be Afraid' brings up the next dollop of sound with an extensive drawl of slow curdling dinnage that starts with a saccharine swing of absorbing proportions.  The pace is indeed glutinous and made for a style that has repetitive riffery and drawn out deliberations which indeed is the result here.  Although I am initially enthused I feel my concentration waning towards the latter end and wonder if the construction reaches a little too high.  I judge this one as just above average.  'So Lonely' is a confident chuck-out with more pizzazz in the nucleus of the noise but again it oversteps its welcome time and travels into territory bordering on realms of tedium.  A shame because the quality of the production and general musicianship is spot-on the mark and generically exact to make this an 'in-scene' treat.  I blame my punk nature and its lust for short sharp spurts that spunk with the oriental eye always ready to squint shut as soon as possible.  Shaking off this sonic shittery though and I can pinpoint many fine aspects with this song and the colour creations of the guitar, the well-walloped drums, the throbbing bassism and the appropriate throat warbles all combine to make some really heave ho moments.  Darn my spiked desires!

4 quick ones to keep the flow of this review going.  'The Light Of My Sanity' is consistent with the cacophony already passed under the bridge, indulges itself a little too often but has a muscular passion that starts from the opening grandiose sky burst and assisting holler through the grooved and well moved verses and chorus cuts.  A fiery serpent with some attractive ripples happening within the sinewy framework - one to be happily constricted by.  'Another Time' adopts a style that strikes me as something sub-metallic and of certain AC/DC strains that are liable to shake you all night long.  This doesn't deflect from an nicely delivered tune that may perhaps get caught up a little too much in its own riffery and thus avoid reaching out for further flamboyances which I feel is a minor but distinctive faux pas.  I am not kicking this one though as it has a decent pedigree and is borne from crafted hands and bonses in the know.  'Sweet Sensitive Young Thing' is a solar jaunt of acousticised minimalism that leaves the front gob to expose himself further and see if he makes the grade.  Bowie-esque in part, barely touched throughout, very tenderised and somewhat fragile this is a choice inclusion that breaks up proceedings and adds that much needed angle.  Crystal clear and honest - maybe, just maybe, the pick of the entire pops!  '(Requiem For) Candy' pukes feedback and pounds, fuzzes up and briefly sex groans before cock-rocking forth on strutting platforms of glittering garishness.  From here the song rides on its own emotion, its own self-made levels of excitement that creams the crack of cacophony and at times gets a little too carried away for its own good.  It would be harsh of me to criticise a song for becoming too absorbed, especially when the band have the nouse to trim things at just over the 3 minute barrier, so I move on and keep the thumbs raised.

'Souls On Fire' is a consistent point for me and is a prolonged extravagance that begins with rumbled bass before steadily progressing through the greater bulk of the offering with the inner flame kept low and away from causing any wild conflagration that may singe the listener.  Towards the latter end the embers die down and we are left staring at a potential blazer that has fizzled out to become a smouldering let down.  I expected more when the song first sparked into life but those licking tongues never came and I leave this one behind feeling cold rather than fully defrosted.  'Drowning In The Sea Of Madness' is a drawn out song that seems to lack the production quality of its predecessors and for all its persistence, quality consistency and saturation of sound the song has its sheen removed by the lack of uplift and the totally unnecessary overstretched running time.  A shame because the general flow is good and the smoothness of all components is in keeping with the thematics of the CD - hey ho, shit happens.  'That Girl' is a murky affair, it changes the route somewhat and delivers a side to the band that is borne from deeper mists, more nebulous areas that always have something held in reserve and prompting the aural peruser to seek further satisfaction.  Not bad this one, roasted with the usual temperatures but just lacking that crucial sizzle factor very much needed.

We close with 4 'live' tracks, these being 'Who's To Blame', 'Soldier Of The Heart', 'Another Time' and 'That Girl'.  All tracks do the band justice but the one that is particularly attractive is the first track, a song that moves with force, has many magnetising power surges and is built around a sturdy backbone that allows the band to move in many cohesive ways.  The other tracks are as you were and are left, with great politeness, for you to dissect and decide upon.   Fair is fair ya lazy sods! 

A CD here by a band highly capable of more and who spend too much time indulging and prolonging certain matters rather than coming in quick, punching with spite and leaving the listener shell-shocked.  I suppose it is a matter of taste and adjusting to the general pace and my pointers may be infertile seeds cast in distant windblown arenas to land who knows where.  One can only try!



The Zipheads come, rock and roll with testes twanged and present here a swinging CD for ye olde Fungal Fruitloop to get his chompers into.  They spring from St Albans, present their wares on a classy CD cover and raise my anticipation levels to the level of 'idiotically hopeful'.  The review is imminent, hold they gonads firm, prepare for some myco-manic digitised mutterings from a cunt with an intention of doing his bit.  The outcome will be with no profit, no popularity sought but ,maybe some point had - thank you!

The initial tantalising (that may, in turn, get me fantasising) tune is a number adorned with the bands superb excellence of quality and professionalisation that embraces all the captivating facets of good, wholesome music.  'After All' is an absolutely pearling piece of honest and spacious rock and roll and is beautifully breeze blown, heartfelt and clean cut to the core.  From a dog with an ear-hole for dirty dinnage I can only yelp out my admiration for a sweet cascade of magnetising noise as the polished tones meld together and contribute to a stunning opening hit.  The sax attacks only add to the fluidity and flamboyance and makes this a contender for song of the month for sure!  'Damned' peeps and tiptoes - slowly does it.  Across the shaded landing we go with spectres hidden in every shadow and adding a subtle chill to our listening experience.  The song that escorts us is an equalising burst that puts us all into the same category despite our claims to sub-fame and worldly possessions.  Your points of view and current stance matter not one jot as we are pursued by classic tones of this articulate song.  The crisp wire ripples, that icicle fresh vocal style and the change from a graveyard creep through to a tumultuous skeleton clatter are magnificently conjoined at the acoustic hips and thrive together as one unit despite sounding as two separate entitles.  A flamenco twang is thrown in for further effect - clever bastards and as we ride the galloping horse of intent into the meat of the song and, the final thrusts, we remain generously gratified.

'Get Ready' roughs it up, grooves with slaggism, drills with direction.  The tonal accent is garish, posturing and full of pelvis thrusting crudeness.  These discordant dialects are kept on the leash by the some sharp musicianship and a heap of regularised routes taken by the players involved.  The crummy crispness and holler out that takes us into the riff route sets a standard, the band have enough nouse to maintain the level set.  My least favourite of the three fuckers kicked forth thus far but still a sweet trickle.  'Ill Repute' is straight from the misted graveyard where horror tones abound but here are given a love dose desire, a professional seeing to and an overdose of appealing acoustic accoutrements that are placed and played...just right.  Intoxicating noise with a jitterbug jive in-built to the whole exploding mechanism that is sugar for many soured twats.  'Instead' funk grooves, lays down an intro before taking a pause and...running like fuck on blistered feet of desire.  Stylishly westernised, cooked on a fast bubble and enthused further by a Motorheaded blast out, harmonica relish and blazing saddled spirit and the usual 'ooh haaa' thirst.  It keeps things flowing marvellously and leaves me little else to add.

To keep things pertinent, acute and happening I indulge in 5 quick draw dabblings.  'Last Man On Earth' invokes visions of Vincent Price and the living dead haunting his very heels.  A fast groovy start, gumption splashing spirit and a good gallop throughout with the melodic mare taken over both lush and bare ground - lovely and the thud aided flurry at the latter end is choice.  'No 2 Ways' begins with a throat soar before plummeting through fast-fleeing clouds that are glorified by a clear backdrop of sonic sky.  The pace is hectic, the rush in the rhythm needed at this point and although this is a song that you may easily forget it is a necessary, efficacious inclusion in a collection of lengthier offerings!  It adds opposition and contrast - like the bold outline to a dramatic portrait - at first not noted and then, when tuned in, appreciated for its sublime necessity to the overall composition.  'Only Yourself To Blame' is a fiery fucker souped up on needy noisemaking desire with the emphasis on reacting to each thrust with a ensuing instinct and seeing what comes into play.  A song that is 'more of the same' and all I ask you to do is decide whether this is a good or indeed a bad thing.  Shimmered, shaking and shooting from the slack gyrating hip - whoomph.  'Orca To Majorca (One Day)' starts with delicacy, jumps into a free-flown tickle that is fragile and embracing and has something sub-House-Martined about it.  A paper thin product, one that has me wondering if this is just feel good throwaway trash or something more robust - I still don't have the answer.  The rapido five are closed with 'Patron Saint', an example of why the CD has taken me so long to review - everything is so consistent, of one definite ilk and so ruddy polished.  These points always confound me and it is far easier to assess material that is warted, wayward and more raw-boned.  I am not overly taken by this track, it slips by with little recognition and yet one can't help but feel that on a CD of lesser quality it would stand out - says it all don't you think!

Into the final furlongs with my appraising nag whipped as per.  'Pet Rape' multi-twinkles and persuades before twat-rattling along on recognised tones.  I am dashing towards the headlights of the final crash here and so slap this one down quickly as a zippy imp with a propensity to maintain all shimmerings of quality and hygienic accents.  'Rampage' waggles its hips with a more traditional style and invokes visions of the King on heat doing his thing baby!  A song to be escorted by a scratched monochrome video methinks with colour flashes bursting in and adding a lashing of unpredictable sauce.  Within the weave we get tossed about and dragged into several situations that are certainly not the most fitting of bedfellows.  The cool cat swagger in darkened recesses, the full on tumult and the clatter cutlets all confound further - ooh heck!  Next and 'Revenge II', a snippet that gallops with a sturdy intent and kicks up some scuzzy discordance and leaves in its wake much ado about something.  The band move with kick ass intent and create the most nutsy and restless sound thus far.  The singer throws himself in as per, this time with perhaps a looser slant, the end metallic twang out is angular and we abruptly finish up reaching for the 'replay' button.  The track next to last, a foamed up rousing via the niggler known as 'Surfquake'.  A neat 'of its time' instrumental that moves with expressive liquidity and pukes up a flavoursome sonic spume that even the most generically hardened noise lover may be tempted to paddle in.  The core of the musical wave is strong and moves with an eloquent majesty whilst the upper sheen catches attractive light and appeals to the simpler senses.  I like this one, it would make a grand opening to a 'live' set - think on dear pluckers.  We finalise this collection of sounds via 'Welcome To The Real World', a movement that begins with sub-emotive guitars that ooze sonic appeal.  The first verse is utterly complimentary to the initial tones and brandishes a flag of soaring success.  When a CD such as this has been composed with such care and has attained a certain level of triumph a need is had to finish with a concrete flourish.  I feel that the need is met here with a natural abandonment given and the task at hand breezed through and given an inner boost to full stop matters in grand style.

This is a solid CD, in fact it is so solid that at times I was wondering if things were appearing to good to be actually true (ooh I am such a cynical git).  There is superfluity of talent here and lashings of generic vibrology that has enough clout to transcend those borders people seem to readily create.  I am recommending this CD to all and sundry in the hope of invading many comfort zones - here's trying!



Pop Threat are dead, buried and...almost forgotten.  In the world of music many things come and go and those that make any ripples in the foul water are only enhanced by the feeding leeches and pop culture parasites - such is my critical and reality based viewpoint.  One thing as a music lover that I hate to witness is a band fall by the wayside and call it a day - it is quite a sad occasion and when that band have not fulfilled their potential or been duly overlooked by the masses the sadness is increased.  Anyway, without going into a lacrymarial state I give you a review of a CD released back in 2003 on Mook Records and given a re-boost by Squirrel Records, a label dealing in the obscure, indified and testing.  I care not, tis all there for my lugs to behold and deal with when requested.  Better to create than masturbate...

We open with 'Sugar Fuck', a hazy she-mist that is blown by softly zested zephyrs borne from whispering oral orifices that seem shy, abashed, wary of the task at hand.  I would expect a more forthright approach so early in proceedings but perhaps this is because I am slightly out of kilter with the fuller indie scene.  The initial feedback provokes expectations of a grubby thrust but what we get is a smoke-laden serenade that is scurfy, relaxed but slightly unsettled.  The interest is provoked, 'On Full Speed' attempts to rise from filthy scuzzery and in some ways succeeds, in others fails.  The sonica is sub-radio fuzz that grates if one is not in a certain mood and as a result to decipher what the oral offering lass is saying is just too much hard work.  Maybe my aged ears are becoming jaded and my patience is wearing thin but I find myself frustrated throughout this wannabe pop song that just can't break free and become the sweet sugar tinkle it very well should be.  Harsh or fair, a bit of both I think - nowt wrong with a kick up the arse now and again!  'Ingrained' is the best track of the opening three, and is a good blend of the sandpapered and the smoothed.  Between episodes of sun-kissed icicles of many facets comes scurfy thrusts of dirty appeal - this makes for an interesting listen.  The 2 minute running time is over in the blinking of a bloodshot eye, the replay button is pressed and at the end of several more plays one feels still fascinated but none the wiser.  I don't mind being put on the back foot and disorientated - better than to stay in a safety net and gorge on the same old crapulence.  Next and 'Monochrome' is efficient machinery moving with aplomb through steam laden environs that reek to high hell of hard manual labour, warmed up oils and zealous focus to the generic cause at hand.  There is a gothic underscore of bassism that provides a platform for the searing guitar work and incessant skin application to operate upon whilst our mouthing mistress provides some sense of escapism that gives the song its only vestige of humanism.  The build up to the final overload is unstoppable and when the fuses blow and the wires melt we are left to contemplate a bold boomer that makes up for its lack of flamboyance with its relentless industry.  Not a bad inclusion at all.

'Shellfire' emphasises the combat between the potentially over jejune and the possible jump into jaunty joyfulness with a mix that is initially whispered and tentative before becoming more confident and taking to the sonic airwaves and finally soaring with some degree of success.  I get drawn into a cerebral world of indecision and there should be some criticism to spill towards this ambiguous ditty but, for the sheer life of me, I can't summon up anything disapproving to state.  If I adopted the bonse of a pedant and scoured the bowels on my grey gunk for hair-splitting text then maybe I could offer something hypercritical but alas I will not and just leave you to explore further.  'Semtex Vortex' follows up next, begins with a rising determination that travels down a cavernous vortex before getting well and truly stuck in a persistent swirling route that fails to meet expectations and just leaves the listener...deflated.  The inner to closing instrumental does pacify and take one to a higher plane but this segment of the song is drawn out for too long and I skip forth before I put too much of a critical boot in the midriff of the offering.  'Ripen' has more guts, more contrast in the tonality and with moments that free glide, lay on the sugary icing a little more thickly, move with bass driven focus and soar through dustbowls with dreaming desire I find there is a whole lot more to wallow in here and that the band are in their element and truly letting themselves enjoy the moment.  Nice work and into 'Hardcore Disco' I wander with hopes rekindled.  This one is a molten mix that moves with steady insistence and embraces the listener over a lengthy period of time and gradually intrigues one with its murmured undertones and nebulous susurrations that fall from hesitant lips just on the borderline of reality and fantasy.  Sub-dance floor pulses come, an animated underscore of 4 wired weaving keeps all fluid and the final hallowed ground that is floated over finishes the song quite adequately.

Into the last 4 proper and 'Dark Black' continues the sighed serenade with an eider-down soft lullaby liable to send the noggin into the nodding paradise many of us find comfort in and some of us find nightmarish.  Here I take the former sensation and loll with it as I lay back, adopt a feeling of quietude and let the tones tenderly caress my entire framework.  The outcome is one of supreme positivity and I float into the final three...chilled.  'Filth' screws in, strides through glutinous crud and never really elevates itself above the reeking substrate.  I am finding this a struggle, the fuzz, the scuzz, the lack of buzz - bah, bugger, bastard!  These things happen in music, especially when one treads out of one’s usual zones but never fear, I can recognise the in-scene wallowers who will like this and perhaps, with the Joy Division undercurrent, there may be a few more who will disagree with my unfavourable words - I hope so!  'Sludgy' promises more of the same and is in fact just so but here we get a greater acuteness in the wire application and more effective shimmerings that just do enough to offer light at the end of a very shit-stained tunnel.  Allow yourself to be tossed around here, let the tube use its faecal lube and throw you arse over tit in a quite defeating bout of perversity.  Don't resist, get smeared, this may in some small way help the accents and tones and increase the appeal of a short belch out.  We close with the cautious 'Rediffusion', another sweet dreams nocturne that sees starry skies slowly spiral and get gauzed over by light misting clouds on their way to places of languid wonder.  A switch out, a time to see each tone carefully placed and each utterance designed to bring soporific smogs across your brow.  Not bad but definitely a mood piece.

You get 4 bonus tracks, merely 7" versions of songs that have already come your way.  Here I leave you to judge for yourselves rather than plough over familiar terrain that needs very little dissection.

I am done, I am taken in part, abandoned in others.  Warmed in certain areas, left chilled elsewhere!  This is all trivial in some respects as the band are long extinct but I have been requested to review and review I do with all intention good, honest and hopefully revealing.  That's all folks, feedback welcome and if you get chance, have a listen and let me know thy thoughts!

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