According to the bumph that came with the CD request Frau Pouch are a sci-fi based post-punk-disco band played by a tattoo artist, a guitar tech genius and a nurse.  And if that isn't enough to intrigue you then I don't know what is!  I have dabbled with these deviants before and was acoustically aroused no end by an upheaval very much kicking holes in certain boundaries.  I am a wee bit excited here, I shall not fanny around prolonging an intro, you can do a bit of research yourself, whilst I toss myself into the bowels of the tunery!

'Biscuit Beard' begins with a dominating bass fizzle that bends like a robots nob in an orgy, and pulsates like a raw potato injected with sex hormones (close your eyes and concentrate, I am sure you can picture this frisky vegetable if you try hard enough).  The vocals are straight out of the DIY nut house, they rise above the wire warpings and head pecking tympanics before abandoning ship and letting the weapons of war culminate in the pre-set destiny of free-wheeling discordance.  The cock relief is immediate and impressive and leads into a repeat bout and then...silence.  This is a very magnetic track for all the wrong reasons, which is meant as an inside-out compliment those willing to think off their feet will understand.  A fascinating start and hands over keys to many possible doorways - where will we end up oh fellow adventurous acousticeers.  'Dracula Pukes' is an insane burst that jangles, throbs, invades and...nobs.  The doorways of decency are kicked all ways, the monster from hell invades your personal space and sinks his fangs into your aching jugular in no uncertain terms and then...fucks off.  A four statement savagery, a repeat escalation and straight outta here things go - an early warning shot across your bows of comfort - oh yeah.  'Ham Planet' moves in next, it borders on something almost normal but after the bastard mockery of a verse a chorus comes and reveals that beneath the deceiving epidermal layer we are first presented with is an idiot coursing of cranked blood, gushing with a desire to destroy all those pre cum mis-conceptions your enslaved minds create.  For me it is 3 winning offerings out of three - a triumvirate of titillating tomfoolery that exposes a superfluity of ability and a great refusal to meet expectations - up the awkward and the angular!

'Burn Baby' drunkenly jigs on the precipice of evil whilst baring its arse in the face of things parcelled and packaged for the weak gutted wankers that ruin all scenes.  A feedback squeak, a drum plod, a thumbscrew wire manipulation that causes glorious pain.  The gob remains almost aloof, in fact indicates a diseased detachment that surely needs further observation and ultimately, treatment. This fourth episode of 'outside the box' impishness ends up being joined by a bairn in seeming pain - the flames are lapping at the new born flesh, the tender tootsies and freshly slapped arse are blistering, are there no boundaries?  The complaints from this end are absent, into 'Witch Fingers' I go, thoroughly perked and jerked and looking for yet another sexually sonic invasion - ooh mammy me ring is rockin'!  More heavy bass molestation, an increase in the thermality of the mental disorder, gnome-ish utterances arise from the garden of malevolence and finalise with a threat to indulge in self-amputation - cripes!  This adornment of foolishness is one that fractures the CD in half and nails home any doubts we may have had regarding the bands cerebral state.  A curio this one, nothing more and nothing less - now where's those pills.

'Ghost Fire' invests itself into a framework of opening sub-chaos before marching along like an utter nut into a wall of rusted razors.  Not only does one get cuts to ribbons but the wounds get infected and then scabbed over and it is these scabs that we find ourselves picking at...over and over again.  Something perversely attractive emanates from the cacophonic cruelty, something you just can't leave alone.  Maybe I should masturbate more often and get this thing out of my system or maybe...I just rub my own faecal matter into the wounds and take joy in the resulting pus-sodden infection.  'Erotic Clocks' invokes visions of a time keeping device with a cock for a pendulum, a sexual groan when the strike comes and the face itself adorned with forever changing liquid images of well-oiled love.  The sonic radiance that comes is once more regulated, has its own strict beat from which it never strays, no matter what turbulence is farted out.  A straight forward, fuck focus slice of frivolity that pounds you into submission with nothing more than repetition.  Beat me baby, beat me!

The last 3, the cranial aberrations continue.  'Gotham Piper' is a whispered wander, aimed to unsettle, undress in an unapologetic way.  The creeping sinisterism gets under my skin, I want it to end sooner than later and when the release comes it is only to be tossed into a tumbling whorehouse of copulating colours borne from a psychedelic dabblers head gone AWOL.  I leave this one in a state of physical sickness, it doesn't sit well, I guess the guys at the helm will be pleased by this - oh them ruddy satanic shits.  'Cat Curfew' is back at the bending and banging - something akin to a romantic rubberman methinks.  An uneven, higgledy-piggledy bounce about that interferes and gives sound advice.  A degree of uncertainty is apparent, the feline fuckers seem to be in charge, the band give themselves therapy, they push their musical methodology in the tightest of holes and rip it out again - they seem to take great delight in inflicting discordant displeasure.  Not bad at all!  We finish with a final stealth, a dream invader that moves in the shadows, writhes under your bed, and snuggles inward into your somnolent anal crack.  A bit of rummaging ensues, a collapse of the bowel walls, a defecation of the mattress and we are done - what the hell just happened?  Oh yes, a song called 'Sleepstalker' I think it was called.

Red alert, red alert - we have a breakdown going on here, calling all sonic sensors - tune in, strip off, get down on the sick bed and spasm. This is nifty labour, a good old blow out with many unpredictable predictabilities.  Terse and tuned out, tetchy and very testing - twats I request your attention. 



A sextet of serenades from the DIY dabbler who operates beneath the exacting nom de plume of 'The Underdog'.  The fellar at the helm of the good ship SS Scabby Mutt is as real and earthy as you could wish for and does his stuff in natural style with a rock and roll heart not to be denied.  I have reviewed a few efforts by this man and he has played a Fungalised show down Stoke way and I am pleased with what I have witnessed thus far.  The fact he only offers 6 tracks here is a wise move I think, it kind of gets the focus more intense and lets me scrutinise matters a little more closely - ooh heck!

Firstly and 'Something About Clowns', a song that travels along with trembled cables of the guitar and nudges home a tune that is loaded with trepidation and a certain fear as regards those face-painted, multi-coloured jokesters who subtly unhinge the mind and add a sneaky chill factor amongst their titter raising tomfoolery.  The groove used is consistent, of a true rock and roll essence and repetitively persuasive.  Ascents and descents come, moments of warted wanking wonder are partaken of and overall what we get is a tale of a troubled tinker who really needs to get over this phobia of his.  It is an average tickle that outstays its welcome and is immediately outstripped by the fine unsettling creeper known as 'Dead And Buried'.  This disturbing ditty is beautifully delivered and a real high point for this mental minstrel who here applies himself with such convincing attention and articulation that I am thinking of ringing the authorities and asking them to check out the dudes garden.  The slow detached drift that the guilty player puts forth is perhaps more horrendous than the crime committed and the casual explanation of the deed is just plain old scary.  Despite the goosebumps provoked this is a lovely little piece of madness and crawls along without fuss and does what it sets out to do - entertain and disturb - ooh aye!

Soundbite, rising rhythm, first verse delivered with fine hearted smoothness and 'Where Will It Go' is the most complete song of the lot with a superb fluidity dragging one along whilst our artist keeps his cool and states the way things are and the way things may end up.  The complete shittery of the situation is laid at our feet with cucumber chilled matter-of-factness and like it or lump it we are all to blame as we spend our time wasting away on social media or getting what we can as quick as possible in this short, pointless existence.  This is a track to ponder whilst enjoying the incessant ride to...nowhere!  The organ of the mouth adds texturisation, the vocals are accented and clear and the pulse in the method is most gratifying - a fine understated piece of work.  'In The Name Of Greed' is next and is a subdued number that follows in the shadow of its predecessor and in some respect loses some of its identity.  The colours here are more matt, the sheen abraded and less impacting.  You need to take your time and strain at the sonic bit to get any gratifying juice from this acoustic offering.  The weakest track, not enough character and suffering as a consequence of its position - I reckon if was a judge and given 10 cards I would be raising the number 4 here - oops!

'Home' is the penultimate track, a dour moment with an abundance of soul-searching and inner contemplation in the oral donations.  Heavily sobered and with the plucks carefully positioned, low key and almost submissive to the leading gob work.  The rises are slight, the lapping of each uttered wave gentle but wearing and, if one takes up a prostrate position on the regularly washed sands and lets the slow hesitant movement inch over the attentive carcass, a response of gratification can be had.  I appreciate the mechanics of this song and like the almost crestfallen wretchedness that pervades the listening arena.  Delicate, damned in some respects but...delivering the goods.  We shut down with 'She's A Bitch', a bitten-lip number that sees words spill against a wicked wench that is seemingly out of reach.  Almost like melodic masturbation cum scrotal therapy this final jack off seems a personalised tune that leaves the eavesdropper quite worried about the preachers desires ha, ha.  The mistress of cruelty is yearned for, it all seems hopeless, my judgement on the tune is that it just needs a little more 'trousers down vulgarity', a little bit more lust in the thrust but other than that...not bad at all.

I have come forth, been honest and gone away with a head full of melody.  The underdog at the helm is a merry plucker who knows his style and does it well.  I would like to get this bugger on another gig soon, my digits are crossed as I like his style.  That 3rd track is a veritable must for my lugs to hear in the 'live' pit.  Go on check out this pure busking underdog – it’s as DIY as you could hope for!



No arsing needed here, 2 songs, 2 swift accounts.  An Oddbox Records release, as part of a series don't ya know.  Suggested Friends are only just over 1 year old, they of an independent leaning, an alternative aspect that has many idiosyncrasies of yesteryear when indie pop scenes were much more noticeable.  I hear there is a debut album in the making however at the moment, I am happy to just tackle two songs for now.  To add, the single ‘Chicken’ will be released as part of the Odd Box Records 100 club series on 7” in a run of just 100.

Track the first , 'Chicken', a song that sidles in from stage left, robotically whispers against a precise bass pulse.  A scarce guitar touch joins the flimsy fray before an unexpected blood rush comes and the head is sent reeling along many tangents.  A sub-respite comes, another flourish, this time gob free and we just wonder where the hell we will end up next as a holler out fills the headspace with glory and expectation and then...train wreck time.  A very multi-faceted escapade of fragmentary potential that has one thinking of endless possibilities.  For me the song is a semi-avant garde collage of mis-fitting components that are carefully adhered into a situation that somehow gives them greater presence and greater effect.  Is the end attraction borne for mere luck or insightful design?  I know not!  The end verdict is of a very exciting moment that I find worthy of my over-stretched time - nice.

'Called Her Out In The Worst Way' is more fragile, more routine and perhaps more throwaway.  The lack of risk, the subsequent lack of danger has me initially struggling but I stick in and come up with a final stance of undecided.  The liquid drop caution, transparent ambiguity and lack of any concrete definition has me floundering somewhat.  At first the barely touched essences are loaded with fear, hesitancy, perhaps an overwhelming emotion.  The tear-filled misery that unwinds is far from magnetic and I am feeling that this is a very moody piece that will win greatest favour for those wanting a lazy, introspective day rather than a good ping and pogo session.  It is beautifully structured and the combination at the latter end of he/she orality is quite applaudable.  I still remain on the precipice of a verdict though!

Oddbox come, tantalise, tease and piss off!  No doubt they are scheming for their next release and dabbling with something as equally delightful and equally disarming for a punked soul.  Overall this is another intriguing release and yet again I am provoked into wanting to hear more from this band.  That is all any label can do and as long as people are willing to give their time there is a whole bounty to explore via this DIY organisation.



By fuck the Angry Scenes Compilations are now on Volume 6 and I have reviewed the first 4 to date and only missed out on No 5.  I have been ruddy impressed thus far and am expecting to be tickled pink again although as I browse the list there are an overabundance of familiar bands on show which is, on one hand good, but on the other not what I am hungry for.  I like compilations to bombard me with new vibes, expose new bands to my lugs and to tear me a new acoustic arse.  Having said this I trust the man at the helm of these products as he is an 'erbert with the right idea and the fact he his selling these CD's for next to fuck all is testament to his ethics.  I mean 10 copies for £13, 25 copies for £25 or £35 for 40 copies - hardly capitalism.  So in I go, you know the scabby script, fuckin' have this...tri-sentenced strip-downs, off the cuff and natural - no favours, no fraudulence!

In Evil Hour kick off the CD (an unenviable task), the song is called 'Progress', a razor-edged mule of melodica that carries fleas of metallic effect and rhythmic rectal wasps that sting with questioning spite.  A streak of US modernisation invades the general pulse with an overall tightness in the cunt of cacophony quite tangible.  The inner switch off impedes, the throat scorches are passionate yet routine, the whoa hoa's and fuzz flow will magnetise many – a slightly above average start!  Flicts next and the indecipherable Euro effluence entitled 'De Onde Eu Venho', a song that reminds me of so much 'off-shore' shenanigans and leaves me with little to add in the way of a verdict.  It is regulated affair, street-ready and with certain traces of terraced chanting bands who have flitted my way in bygone years. Nicely produced, played with pounding ease and with appealing facets for the ones in the specific groove - nowt new under the sun for me though.  The Murderburgers are a band I supported over a terse period before they fucked off to fresher pastures and I stayed flinging muck in my usual DIY manner.  Their first albums were choice and over time a progression has been made, culminating in the accuracy of such offerings as 'My Bones Are Full Of Holes'.  This track is advanced and professional but for me loses the innocence and raw flavour of the old offerings..Although it is free from technical criticisms it is a dweller in a pack that has little to make it rise above - good but not good enough, or am I being too harsh?  3 tracks in, Fungal is unimpressed, he is waiting for the big one.

Left For Dead come and seem to follow a set scenario with 'Why The Caged Bird Sings' being an articulate piece but running along a similar flat-line to what has passed and being a song with one trick and no treat.  Again it is well produced, played with exacting simplicity and has all components clear and in tune.  My gripe is there is no angularity, awkwardness or challenging facets although the wind down is quite meaty - decent but lacking the spite in the punch.  The Autopsy Boys donate the first decisive delivery with a slab of shifting sonic shit that stinks strongest and has a certain futuristic mania that surges into the veins and provokes an inner disease to die by.  'Town Full Of Microdots (featuring Al Skull)) is a tearing arse of electro-vitality that oozes hardcore elements as well as plugged-in distemper that overloads and fuses its own nucleus as well as the soul of the sonic browser - quite alarming in the most pleasurable way.  Revenge Of The Psychotronic Man next, a band I am more than familiar with and one who puke up their simplistic fast fuck style with focus.  'I Wanna Be A Spaceman' has many elements that have been done many times over and goes through motions that are obvious but coated with a grand cream of pace that gives the song magnetising life.  The methodology is basic - plug in, repeat beat, rape your weapons with spirit (and Vaseline) and have it - I shouldn’t like this one but I do - tis in the blood squire.  Brassick are another band I am familiar with and are one who seem to get good press aplenty from various sources.  Here they offer up a track called 'Strung Together' which strikes me as a piece that is neither here, there or anywhere.  An unfinished work that needs extra frills and spills and something akin to an orthodox framework (oh DIY dogs forgive me).  A rough piece with many opportunities missed but with much potential to feed on and grow into something more robust and happening.  Maybe it is just me but despite the earthiness and perspired effort something is just missing.

So at 7 tracks in and I am looking down a long stretch to keep me abused, enthused, mis-used - bah.

Healer Of Bastards join the fray with a song that has a very identifiable thread of life and an ethical leaning that is more than a little noteworthy.  'What Is This Place (Not On Your Own)' is a construct that moves from the clattered and string screwed to the sing-along whilst getting an encouraging message across and keeping one hopeful.  Barbecued and blitzing in good measure with a spiral severity that adds weight - a good effort from a relatively new band on the buggered block.  Black Volvo drive up next, 'Lazy Bones' is up for examination and gets me pondering words such as rambunctious, unruly, bitched and tetchily tumultuous.  The first eavesdrop is unconvinced, the second slightly more forgiving.  More spins result in something of an epiphany as the true realisation of a sturdy track comes to the fore.  This is a good tear along, it doesn't fuck about but whacks the listener in the tender privates - it is a good feeling albeit rather perverse of me to admit.  Who fuckin' cares anyway!  Spirit Bomb jump up next and offer a clear thrust of defiant tonality via the neatly impressive 'Achilles Heel'.  A gobby affair that runs along with something of a well-trained and strapping style that reflects a band with much more in the tuneful tank than first realised.  A wealth of effective manoeuvres manifest themselves throughout this emboldened boom out and with all elements ablaze,  riled and uncontainable it is quite easy to get roused by the marauding melody that provokes...animation.  A fine work-out and followed by the sinewy blow-out 'Blood Red September' by those Scottish sonic slags, Shatterhand.  Starting with an embracing holler out before cutting a dash through tunnelled routes that sees the players work their bollocks off this is a throat-tearing, muscle wrenching sweat surge that works darn hard to get its point across - heft man, hefty!  The SLM flash in next with a 1 minute 15 second blow up called 'Atoll Incident'.  This is a machine-gun rattle off that comes and goes without leaving me much to say.  The opening rumbles, the slip into things coolly cruising is spot on and the rawer moments add that extra ingredient much needed.  I flick on and leave this one with a 60/40 swing towards the right side.

Odio Social catapult themselves to the tip of your attentive dong and rip forth a heavy duty blitzer known as 'Muralha De Hipocritas', a muscular riot that wastes no time in roughing up the membranes of the eavesdropper and leaving them utterly fucked.  A song that combines the wayward and the walloping - not bad but outshone by the lunatic madness that is always effective, pertinent and mightily gratifying coughed up by a band known as Slab.  Here the blistering white heat of 'Cult Of Ignorance' tears the CD a new throbbing arse with its brutal violence and relentless use of razorblade tones to really carve up a frightening assault of nightmarish proportions.  It must be noted that within the crushing cadence the band are playing things mightily tight and the stick man is hepped up to complete fuckery so as to maintain some kind of stability.  A cracking inclusion from a band with a wealth of know how.  Next and Opposition Rising and their inclusion known as 'Riot Starter'.  The pendulum begins to swing and clatters with increasing moment before being ripped off its bracket and used to club anyone within reach to utter buggery.  The drilling nag of the noise is delivered with demonic mania and the pulverising spite that these inflammable bastards pour into the mix is certainly bordering on the illegal.  One for the real headbanging punks to do yet more damage with.  Go on, brain bleed and be thankful ya gits.

I am flying along here as the CD reaches its true zenith and has me lapping up the abdominal blows that come in rapid succession.  'Killbite' drop bombs from 'Cloud Nine', with riffed warnings and a brief distant grumble failing to protect us from the harmful avalanche that rains down and blasts the senses to smithereens.  I like this damaging dog and the overall upheaval it causes - a very full-bodied brew!  The Domestics are certainly not going to impede the advancement of this CD (and review) and thunder along with expected gusto whilst blowing out of their rear end a pollutant puff of smoke that breaks no new ground, offers nothing challenging but...gets by due to the fast fuck passion thrown in.  Par for the course as is the following 'Inanimate' by Rash Decision, a song that in many ways is similar to its predecessor and has the same acoustic aspects as mentioned.  Again it is the sheer gumption that gets the song by and of course the 21st century DIY production many take for granted but which, back in the day, lots of bands would have killed for.  Not a bad inclusion but part of a pack with too much in common.

Another breather, a dip into outside genres (as I do most frequently because that is proper punk tha' knows) and back at it!

Cybernide thrill me, offer up a raucous thrust led by a scorched she howler that adds a dimension very much needed at this stage of the CD.  The guitars are abrasive, the tympanics twatted, the style bustling.  The throat that invades is pushed to a good extreme, it just helps a well played song be something more and you get a chant along at the end to keep thee upbeat and involved.  Next and Inner Conflict flop out a serenade known as 'Zimmer 13', a song that is rocked along on robust music and then glazed on top with lighter tranquilised utterances that throws something different into the mix.  A good inclusion, anything to break the hardcore deadlock and keep the eavesdropper...guessing.  Almost suggestive of an H/C moment bleached through, filed down and then thrust out with a slightly more unimposing slant, albeit still with enough weight to grab your attentive todge.  Nice.  Onto Angry Itch and the bouncy beef-bite coined as 'You Me Us'.  A cracking cutlet this, one that avoids all out tonsil tearing and keeps itself composed whilst leading with a good jab, moving up the tempo and then eventually whacking home with more authority.  I have played this one several times, I am boldly judging it as the best song of the lot - it has much depth, breaks the mould set and blends calm mono-control with robust unified hollers quite splendidly.  Following on from this satisfying showing is the expected skanky quality of 'Visibility' by the long term noise junkies known as Culture Shock.  A groovy upbeat offering with those recognisable vocals and of course, pertinent lyrics that shout for nothing more than recognition.  I listen in and take note, the construction is sound, the move from the orderly to the sub-chaotic, the slip from the skipping to the more stubborn and may it be said, satisfyingly shapeless, is learned and I note this down as worthy of more attention.

The last 4, Matilda’s Scoundrels chuck out an angry splat of folk punk with all the necessary and time-worn trimmings that comes with this kind of sonic shizzle.  I can take or leave this generic noise but hold my hands up and admit this lot do what they do pretty well.  Soul scented, glowing with a passion and drifting in charming accented sincerity - many will lap this up.  Eastfield hop on board next with ‘Jesus Christ Turbostar’ and play a stunner with their recognisable style radiating a lyrical route that is highly enjoyable and somewhat cheeky in its methodology.  The crispness in those initial guitar strikes, the honest lilt to the front chaps warblings, the crucial she-escorts and the regulated rhythm of the bass and sticks is a delight to a long term fan of a band who just stay on the right track and chug to...well who knows where!  The last track bar one is a bout of simpleness from some sportive soniceers called 'Leech Bleeders'.  The track is ludicrously called 'I Am Not The Drumer In Eastfield', a tale of mis-identity that seems to be aggravating ones mans teets to the point of where a therapeutic musical release is the only way of dealing with the on-going situation.  A bit of fun that has a ring of old school eruptions from other bands liable to throw out bouts of tomfoolery.  It has its place tha' knows.  And, to the last blast, and about time too I hear you holler (what a set of bastards you are ha, ha).  Indecent Assault bring proceedings to a shut-down with a blast that points out the state of play in the shithole of a country we call 'home'.  'Breeding Ground' is a roughshod shitter crapping out its noise with irritated rustiness and eternal disillusion.  A matter of fact number that has all the elements that appeal to those long term punkers who like the bread buttered well and the blatantly unpretentious nature of certain punk spillages - here is an example.

I am outta here folks!  I have done my bit, said what I think and am now leaving you to decide.  Fuck, if only many others would chip in and do some reviews, wouldn't the scene be a whole lot better - hey fuckin' ho!  My final advice - get this, get the collection - it will reveal many good sounds, support a ruddy good effort and all CD's are darn worthy of being in your collection. All I have to do is chase up Volume 5 and, of course, review - cripes!



I have partaken of some Oh! Gunquit produce in the past and, if the jizzed and jazzed memory serves me right, I was tickled in part and turned off in others - this shit happens.  The band are named in part to a town in Maine US which was an artists’ colony in the 1800s originally coined by the Abenaki Indians and also in part to the idea of all guns quitting - I like it.  So in I plunge without haste to a two track tickler, the back log of CD reviews builds, here is my latest spillage to try and ease the load and encourage others that music matters.

Side A - 'Nomads Of The Lost', is a deliciously sub-quirky jaunt of caroling craftiness that cutely infests the attentive membranes and gets them all a quiver.  The swing is brass sass that is simply swung along to, the vocal kitten at the fore is bathed in diamond cut clarity glistening with eye-catching acuteness.  The sparkle in the songs eye warns and warms, the overall magnetising flow is inescapable and after multiple whirls of the chicanery I am a victim to the groovy dogs magic and am more than happy to remain spellbound thank you very much.  If one cares to inject a dollop of volume to this opening treat I am sure the whole street will be joining in the jig and having a piece of this good old escapist jivery.  Lovely!

Side B - 'Walking The Street' takes a turn for the sable side with a nook and cranny shadiness making itself apparent amid noir-ish scenes of monochrome character that sees the primary colours abandoned and replaced by the subtle shades of the Oh! Gunquit palette.  With collars turned up, titfers pulled low over the watchful brow the minstrels lurk and leak out their suggestive tones and, with some degree of success, turn on my tonal todger and get it...wriggling!  From the first pulses, via the shifty backdrop of sound and the tempting tonsil tones of the lady of the night to the final wander down a back alley to nowhere this one conjures up lustful visions and steaming street shadiness.  It is a nice counterpunch to the opening gambit - good move dudes.

2 songs, if you weren't intrigued by this lot before then you may well be by now.  Tis a scrummy teaser with a crammed core of fizzing potential to examine at thy leisure.  Rather than wander around the same old sonic shithouses and daub your cerebral walls with the usual fare, have a delve here and see what resonations come forth - you never know, you may have a new band on your listening roster which is always a fantastic thing to happen.



The CD's are coming through in waves and I am making little progress.  Thank fuck we only have 2 tracks to deal with here.  Lucy and the Rats come from Australia, have some mighty hot talk escorting their output and come my way and catching me wearing my usual duds of neutrality.  Talk is cheap, tis the vibes that count!  Here is the Fungal lowdown on the transpiring tonality!

'This Situation' mid-paced melody, orange drop sweetness falls as the first citrus verse unfolds.  A lo-fi donation that is reminiscent of many girlie-based pop-outs with the rock and roll charm enhanced by the sweet utterances from the lass next door this song has many tasteful ingredients to examine.  If taken as a piece of teenage innocence that is easily tossed into the trashcan then this embryonic, pseudo-pubescent lilt of basic music making can be enjoyed at its full potential and the crisp and shimmering twinkles, scatty skin tickles and oral freshness will appeal all the more.  For me it is a rather tame dabbling that I have come across too often for my own good and no matter how often I rotate I am finding rather little to gush about. It is clean to the point of sterilised and something is just not registering on my popometer – a shame and maybe just a personal thing but there ya go!

'Melody' - dreary popsicle sucking sonica with the emo-potential shaken off with a thrust of hope injected via more sweet resonations that are only hindered by the rather constraining pace and somewhat colourless cum funereal condiments that are thrown in and rather jade the end flavour.  Add to this a running time that doesn't know when enough is enough and a lack of inner flamboyance and I am once more turning the old Fungalised thumbs downwards, albeit rather hesitantly.  The song should be a whole lot more satisfying than it is and for me, if the content regarded something more positive and the band reacted to it by using pace and perhaps (Heaven forgive me), a few corned nuances, the end result would be all the more appealing.

2 songs, this reviewing git is unconvinced.  I hate reviewing at times and although I can see many shiny elements within the weft of these two offerings I remain quite uninspired and, may I honestly add, disappointed.  I would like to check out this lot when they have a bit of rapidity in the mix although after reading this I bet I won't be offered the chance to. There ya go, better to be bad-mouthed than be a liar!



Tickturd twat Rik Spanner is doused is DIY attitude and here coughs up a 3 track tickler of destitute discordance that is stripped naked, unmolested by productive elements and left to flow from the speakers in all its under-processed glory.  Is this a good thing or is this a desperate slip up that leaves the solo swinger wanking in the dark and only amusing...himself!  I go in on the shot-through ship of Honesty and do my bit whether I end up sinking or swimming!

'Drug Bomb' is hippy indulgent pootling with a low-brow, almost unplugged (both electronically and mentally) accent that gives impressions of a man with too much time on his hands and instead of throwing one off his wrist uses his guitar as his choice of wanking tool.  This is mere bedroom dabbling, lacking any weight and of a unwavering rhythmic style that would be better cut short at the minute mark rather than trundling on for close on 3 minutes.  Tis too weak, too under-produced but totally DIY.  That final aspect is important but in this day and age you need to have 'ooomph' to make any impression.  'This Song Isn't Very Good' sums up the first offering but is the name of this second snip.  More roasted than the opener with extra weaving in the wanderings.  Again it is a shallow effort, a pottering in the dark that ascends slightly but never really meets any lofted strata I perhaps foolishly expected.  In the flesh, this one would be ideal for crooning along to on a sun-baked porch at the day's end with plenty of ale to slurp and grass to inhale but, other than that...this is a buskers do and one you could be hearing outside a Poundstretcher near you very soon.   What you do with your loose change is up to you - I am off to the bandits to chance me arm.

Last of the testing trio, the title track 'Rock 'N' Roll Jesus', a contribution that croons with the same vibes and trembles away in an almost detached manner. Sub-groovy, absorbed and a sniping dig at wannabe Gods who need clattering back down to size and their ego's kicking to utter fuckery.  There is no straying from the set track, the low simmer never boils over, the route is built on a rhythmic repetition - make of this what you will!



With 250 copies worldwide on black vinyl you better get your arses in gear if you want a copy of this one.  Prins Carl are a streetpunk band, they come from Sweden and have plenty of wallop.  Released on Rebel Sound/Noise of Sweden Records this 10 tracker moves with passion and a certain controlled ferocity that makes one sit up and take note.  I have no choice in the matter, I have to take note as I am requested to do so - oh the perils of putting yourself out there as a reviewer.  Anyway, here is my wordage (for what it is worth) and I hope it helps make up your mind as regards the spillage!

'Teach', feedback screech, Thompson-Gun spray, forthright ball-kicking advances.  The grimaced and gutsy glory of the relentless action is stripped to the bone and although intrinsically bog-brush basic in its build it has a direct effective clout that appeals to my cacophonic caveman instincts.  You know the instincts I speak of, the ones so many find it so clever to deny.  Those unshakable neurones that are twitched and spasmed by the most brutal and unassuming of sounds and are forever delighted when something uncomplicated clobbers away.  Job done, I shall not hang my head in shame!  'War' twinges in, flies along a twanging route before becoming pebble-dashed with steaming gobbage and twat happy sticks.  The verse travels with true direction and is catapulted straight into the chorus without a breath taken.  The lungs are drained, the sweat produced by the bucketload and the impact of the song is irresistible.  A surging episode, never pausing to piss about and happy to go at it until all guts are spilled. Proper job!

Boom, bang, rumble - repeat - advance, tear down resistance and let the fuckers have it.  Such it seems is the methodology behind the next song, slapped in yer mush under the name of '2015'.  A questioning eruption that once more gets its boots laced up and its running legs pumping.  This flashing song kicks in the skull any resistance you may wish to propose and leaves a ruddy mush for one to ponder further.  Tighter than the lock on Jimmy Saville's personal diary this track-tearing trundler powers along and doesn't care who gets in its way.  Hard-hitting honesty straight off the cobblestone - like it or lump it, it is what it is - I reach for the replay button, so suck on that!  'Damaged' is a beauty, forcibly thumping home its point with a generous helping of mean driven tunery that stays on a simmering tempo, moves through the first verse with scrunched up focus before colliding into a repeat slam chorus that is simple, short but perfect for the job at hand.  The approach of the song is to march forward without taking a backward step whilst making sure the listener is bruised and battered by the unrelenting noise - I think the job done is a fuckin' good one.  The best song out of the crop I thinks and in I go to the next one, drooling.  I am met with a traditional drinking escapade that has a euro-jauntiness and often repeated formula I have come across from bands of a more sozzled and soccerised leaning.  'I Only Had A Few' is what it is, predictable, traditional and routine - it has no real highs and no real lows - tis just an average flatlined escapade that will go down well with the beer soaked crowd methinks.  My judgement is of a two track moment that leaps from the highest point to the lowest in one confounding spring - bah!

Onto the second batch of five, 'Little Puppet' is back to the head down and do it methodology that sees the song progress from A to B with no fuss, no stress and no lack of focus.  Relentless, of middling pace and without frills - the band do this kind of stuff so ruddy well, the only thing that is missing is a bit of frill to add to the thrill.  A sinewy song nonetheless that stretches no boundaries which perhaps it doesn't really have to.  'Rats' comes out of the sewer with the usual style, all paws scurrying, the sound scratching at your senses and the bands snout zoned in to sniffing out a good response.  Again a very strict verse/chorus structure is donated with the din made very, very tight, uncompromising and in some ways...strait-jacketed.  Of course it goes without saying that the brew is served with success and sincerity but I do feel the squad are playing within themselves and not risking their balls in any way whatsoever.  A very watertight number whose main flaw is just that - too tight to allow any imagination methinks.  Not a bad song though and again with much muscle on the framework.

And to the last 3, 'Refugee' opens, power cracks, rains molten lead of stark reality onto the eavesdroppers bonses.  Fiery, crushing and totally saturated in raging angst at situations soaked in shit that sees unnecessary suffering in many walks of life.  All areas are blistered, beaten to a pulp and reconstituted with a spittle of spite before being gobbed forth with bulls-eyed belief and overspilling belligerence.  It bites hard, you better get your ass prepared.  The penultimate puncher - 'It's What I Want', has a quick skip, a twang thrust before getting its bulldog head down and showing a yearning to get away and leave behind...much hassle.  Fully functioning, that formula used is further abused, the clear and well defined components operate as well as ever and here we have perhaps the most emotive essence exposed to date - not bad squires and seeing it is a 4 minute plus escapade I think the band do well to avoid a dig in the ribs from this impatience git.  Things come to a silence with the bare waisted 'Submit', a fine acousticised effort that sees crisp and constant strings delightfully applied as a backdrop for the raucous, barbecued gobbage to sear over and give this end emission a certain thermality.  The swollen chest of the song breathes heavy resistance and dogmatic defiance that is tenacious and bull-headed in its stance.  One for those who are feeling ground down, those who feel it’s time to cop out or give in - never say die you bastards, never let the fuckers have you.  A great satisfying finish!

Prins Carl are well-drilled, well-oiled and ready for war.  There is a grim unyielding flow of blood gushing through the veins of these street warriors and this whole CD is what it is - without pretension or apology.  It deserves a peek, some of these songs will get re-rotated by this fucker and hopefully this review will arouse some interest within the over catered for rank and file.



Who the ruddy hell are Playboy Manbaby?  Well, in response to the set poser and after a bit of trawling via the electro-cobwebs I see that they hail from Phoenix, Arizona, make many claims on certain genres, have a sound that is fruity and not liable to run smoothly down already well-worn ruts and...entertain no end.  Dirty Water Records have requested a review and a review is what I shall do!

'You Can Be A Fascist Too' rises. I am expecting nothing, it is an approach that has served me mighty well.  What I get is an incredible piece of arousing commotion that trampolines all over my melodic membranes, has an orgy whilst pinging and leaves me positively activated.  The song is a hectic maelstrom of rotating rhythm forever in search of new discordance debris to toss about and leave ultimately...satisfyingly shagged out.  The disgust and irritation effervesces from a nucleus of noise that is fascinating and thriving.  From the first this one oozes life and bounds with a sub-lunatic slant that sees the front man almost explode with his agitated energy.  The fist in the face of those who claim to know better and who demand you step in line and agree is beautifully slammed, rammed and crammed into one gob filling chunk of meaty, nutritious angst.  Choke on it or chew real slow and...enjoy the sinking of the bolus!  Baboom baby!

Switch flicked and onto...

'I'd Like To Meet Your Parents' is a smoother track with a possibly confounding combination of sun-kissed calm inducing guitars working alongside a lead lout very much wired up to channel 'Seizure'.  The lyricology comes in incessant gasps of autistic observation and as a result is highly coloured, natural and, most importantly of all, sub-puzzling.  The activity levels remain high, crescendo in a chorus of light-flicking, brain zapping outbursts that really satisfy a sonic soul always reaching out for new vibrating thrills.  The angularity, experimental suggestions, unpredictable cohesion and just tangible living and breathing essences that explode from this number and its neighbour are fuckin' magical - I am rating this another perky pantomime of spellbinding sound to absolutely adore.  The excerpt of hallowed out drama is genius, I love the whole shebang.

A new band to me, a fucking winning result.  This is what my life of noise is about, seeking out new rackets, tripping across them and not being afraid to give them the time of day.  And when one unearths gems such as this I feel very justified.  One word - brilliant!



Oh Oddbox Records you are keeping me busy.   To keep things swift I quote the label - 'Peaness are a trio from Chester in England - making beautifully melodic indie-pop that is sure to be hit with fans of Standard Fare, Belly and Chorus Girl'.  How's that?  Fuckin' hell we have 2 tracks, yet again part of that sporadic 100 Club Series and I go in salivating despite the build up of CD's to do.

'Same Place' flows straight in on bass tilted tones that prepare, rise and get caught up in a dew-kissed cobweb of lightly billowed tonality to ensnare those wandering sonic spiders.  The legs may tiptoe over the gossamer cables and a neutral stance taken but the light and fluffy emanations have an adhesive quality that makes sure ones presence is semi-permanent.  I get stuck, listen and ponder - the angelic tremulations from hygienic larynxes come with a perpetual persistence and offer a form of salvation from the sticky situation.  The pop tones remain water-coloured, swirl over the body with slow hypnotic effect, the only critique I could offer is that the artistes stay too long at the easel and maybe overdo the end cacophonic painting.  Emphasis must be placed though on the fact that this is music to slow down with,  a radiance to laze with and slowly roll around the palate.  My end verdict is a resounding - yeah, why not!  In the midst of many other rambunctious rock outs I find that is tune can be considered a welcome shift in style to sooth the nerves.

'Seafoam Islands' is a delightful title to a song that could indeed invoke mental visions of escapist realms where one can disappear and have that liberating claim of being well and truly 'lost'.  This is again an unflustered outpouring, a state of play where all those who input are wandering in the land of semi-Nod, applying themselves with soporific slants and not allowing themselves to get carried away.  A mistake? Perhaps, but the band have their style and who am I to knock it?  The waters are rippled rather than splashed, the spume created is without crud, the essence emitted is love soaked and maybe this is a wet lettuce of a song but those greens have much goodness don't ya know!  Ambiguous - of course!

There you have it, a two tracker that hints rather than imposes, it comes as a draft beneath your attentive doorway rather than blowing a gale through one of your gaping windows.  Repeat spins reveal deeper charms and various subtleties - my advice - have some patience ya buggers and why not keep your series up to date - nudge, nudge!

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