Stat attack!  4 songs from a band that used to be 3, went up to 4 and are now back at 3.  The band have played many Fungal gigs, I have always enjoyed their input, they are always in my thoughts and are darn decent gents to deal with.  Bubblegum rock infused with harder spices and many metal splinters the output has chomp, punches its own weight and more often than not keep this Fungalised critic in his kennel with his arse whipped (it needs to happen as this lowly dog doesn't suffer shite).  Here we have a release coming on the back of the band's trim down and after the loss of their delightful she-imp at the fore who has succumbed to a medical problem that is keeping her out of the warzone (get well soon Chimpy one) I am hoping things haven’t been rushed.  I have reservations, but the main bulk of these were banished after a recent catch up at a gig where the band vibrated testes and trembled todgers - it were a good do tha' knows.  So I go in here half expectant, half wondering and hope the progress made is not hindered in any way whatsoever.

'The 99%' opens the 4 way account and is a well-worn affair with orthodox essences given and in brutal truth lacking that amazing spark they exhibited at the last 'live' viewing I had of the band.  The problem here is obvious - I have a liking for low cut DIY production levels and I have a spirit that loves cheesed poppy punk cutlets and here The Mispelt fall into a crevice somewhere between and have a distinct unsuitability for the production style given thus leaving me out of sync.  The band are doing themselves a dis-service and are far better than this - very annoying for a fan but worthy of total honesty and not some cheap fib.  The song is a decent affair but needs the bands skills to be accentuated and given a double squirt of polish to lift the applied layers.  Fuckin' hell I am rankled.  There are some groovy manoeuvres here but at this stage the crew need to give it a full quality kick.

'Locked Away' gets more from the production style due to its angrier chomp and more urgent address but the guitars are too subdued, the drums smothered and the bass underwhelmed - only the vocals seem to get a good thrusting - not fair.  Crank up the volume and examine intensely, listen in and feel my frustration at another song that could have been so much more.  Some tub thumping moments, good riffage and the usual professional stick work need care, ooh if I was a millionaire this band would get the best of my investments and I'd show the doubters out there.  I crack on, still uptight and foaming with frustration.

With a slight turn upwards (very slight) in the last two songs I am hoping for more ascension, it comes with 'No Sense, No Feeling' a scurfy scrawl along the arse of silence and complete with a sing-a-long chorus.  I could easily sum the song up with a sub-ditto but that would be rude and yet I really am struggling to add more.  The Mispelt have given me many momentous moments over the years and I am now a demanding dog, this is slowly getting back to the level I want but still far short.  The usual gripes are being posted by Fungal chaps, take advice - hold yer horses for a while, invest in a super duper studio and reap the rewards - I know it ain't easy but the quality is in there.  Here I like the clattering approach, the lyrical liquidity and easy, pick up and ping basicness but...aww fuck it.

Closure time, 'N. Y. E. I. C. (Blue Light Taxi)' is a suicidal based push with the artistes at the helm working hard to keep the tumble affair lively and kicking.  After a sub-DK twinkle the first mucky verse gallops over our senses before a chorus comes that is catchy but just needs so much more Mr Sheen attention.  Bass wanders, guitars screw, drums dictate and with that extra rub of the productive cloth we would have had an offering to admire - now I am just scratching my bonse and getting niggled - grrrr!

4 songs, 4 decent efforts all damaged by a marring mix and uncomplimentary acoustic assistance - The Mispelt need to realise they have some hum-dinging tunes and talent and need to reach out and grasp a full on partner in sonic crime to showcase their stuff.  I am still right behind them, but this time with my toecap polished ready to give em' many a kick up the arse for encouragement.  Watch em' 'live' then listen to this CD - you will understand my gripes and why I demand more on the silver circle - I ain't here to kiss the arses of good people, I am here to get the best out of everyone and keep em' chomping - If I get hated or loved for that so be it, but I hope the artistes appreciate my efforts.



The third release from Orchestrated Dystopia Records and one that is fully titled 'At The Heart Of What Is Wrong With The British Establishment'.  Again we have a more than adequate amount of tracks that gives everyone a fair chance of the listenability factor before one gets jaded as is often the case in longer compilation releases.  As per, the tirade that spills is socio-political and hits home many a point we should be all clued in with.  So, another 8 tracks in the playground of noise and I pound forth doing my small slice of sonical heave ho whether it matters or not - never let the braindead drag you down.

The first swing to be hopped on is a wild unforgiving affair by Fear Insight, a song that turns guts to slop with its manic and incessant turmoil.  A sludged wire spurt and introduction of amphetamine stick work are accompanied by gruff raging throat rapes that scream forth and shatter all asunder and bring apocalyptic death downpours even the most hardy will be stupefied by.  Harsh, angry and tight as fuck - if you can't hack it hop off quickly but take heed, it will be your loss entirely and the 'Wall Of Shame' will be daubed with your cowardly name forever.  Moving forth and onto a more routine structure by Second In Line, an outpouring that is a tough climbing frame of cacophony on which to rise high and feel stable due to its strong foundations and organised design.  'Standard Generic' has an easy pick up and play methodology, hits the zone and has competent production values.  The slight barbecued tonsil labour and the overall tidy style make this a fine escort to the first piece and a perfect contrast to the opening wildness.  Talking of which, we hop on board a mad dash roundabout and duly get punctured by the feisty fangs of The Twin Dracula and the approximately one minute frenzy scrawled as 'Blue Jeans'.  Scattered skin and cymbal caresses make up the initial rotations with wire work whinging and chugging forth before all disorientating pandemonium breaks loose and spins our head to anarchic hell with a hardcore streak prevalent throughout.  Damaging lunacy with testes of tonality scabbed and sizzling, this abrasive effort is a decent discomfort in the underpants of opinion and I bow down to the racket made.

Next up and a very pleasing thrust scrawled with the name of 'Believe' and posted into your aural pigeonholes by the seemingly capable hands known as 'Knock-Off'.  A great song in fact built on the most simplest of tones but delivered with a delightful incessancy and ensnaring vibe that has skater gusto and early US poppishness as well as a direct zoned in relish that convinces me no end.  A nice inclusion and my applause are given in abundance.  In opposition to this zippy surge we get the brutal atrocity known as 'Shame' by the weighty unit 'Dis-Tank'.  A 1 minute 11 second invasion that throws itself full tilt towards the finishing line from the first stagnant breath and sonic slap in the face.  High roasted, almost burnt to a cinder in fact, I detect metallised edges and numerous shards of noise from varied pits but all in all I am finding nothing to offend or gripe about - another fair body blow I reckon.

Racing on, into the last three with arse enthused and lugs on red alert.

Public Order Act puke up 'Breaking Point' – a slightly more stripped down, acoustically resonating, stop/start fast forward cut that is effective via the verse as and more urgent during the spacious chorus cut.  This song has many exciting elements and goes from the first unhindered riff undulations through the main agitated effluence of the song to the final stink up that has a gratifying desire and overall sonic thirst – this is a more than ample slab of reliable discordance. Overdose chase with 'Opportunity', here we hear new school cleanliness with riffage dictating the underscore and good sanguine oral work at the fore.  A more processed number and one from pits Epitaphian in flavour with a certain amount of more boned out anger.  One of those that suggests a band who have ears swayed towards tones from across the pond with desires to make more audible offerings and less gutterslutted filth.  Either way you look at things the song has its place on this CD and offers a subtle change to the general theme.  The Domestics fly in with 'Against The Wall', a blast from the current trend of troubled mad fast fucks who slam heads into brickwork and see how the resultant mush will be viewed.  A decent band this on their usual short jaunt of wild untamed ill temper with no cause to hold back and no reason to apologise.  They keep their song tight, blast forth with grenade and granite power and surprisingly hold all areas in some semblance of decency.  A testicle rupturing, twat tearing, anal grating onslaught - you get the drift, I hope so?

Crackin' compilation...again.  3 in a row and perfect well timed slabs of noise that introduce the old and the new and keep things moving very nicely indeed thank you.  Everything about the whole venture seems right and as long as the bands keep changing, the styles vary slowly and steadily I can't see why this label doesn't go from strength to strength.



From Livingstone, Central Scotland comes a force I have guiltily overlooked thus far and who have been strutting around the block for nigh on 3 years at the time of scribbling.  I received the CD from their bassist Eck and have dutifully spun several times over to try and grasp the gist of the juices that are dripped my way (sometimes the hardest part of the reviewing process).  From the initial spin some crackin' tracks stood out, and they, up to now, are standing the test of the short time had whilst others which were deemed to be definite growers are now indeed...growing, a recipe it seems for a darn good album.  My horses of verdict are always held in check though and rather than gallop away with a gushing end decision I sit tight at the rein and keep everything in order on the sobered saddle.

A crack of the whip, a tickle of the Tobies and I am raring to go and aurally gobble up some more noisy nosh (glutton I be for punishment tha' knows).  A rising car crash crescendo, an exploring bass vibe that is far from invasive and then the liquid honey harmonies come forth and spew up sweet oral tirades splashed through with a hidden ingredient that has scalding affect to arouse your acoustic inquisitiveness further.  The songs swinging cadence and foundations of assured string and tympanics give room for our undaunted and deliciously driven front lasses to expel a highly textured and emboldened womanly power that insists all positive senses are sought and radiated.  The fist in the face of things depressive makes for an initial outburst that is impressive - I find myself with aural nose twitching and ready to sniff more of the whiff.  Heavy drums tumble, preparatory guitars enter, a firm unstoppable zombie mode is taken with chorus chunks slapped in with abandoning, undebased naturalness that slits the throat of the meat industry and let’s pour forth the guilty blood of the involved.  'Aw Right Pig' is a harsh track, an unapologetic stampede through the death laden slaughterhouse of indifference that relies on substantial tones that hold no favour and are determined to make an impact and help get the  point across.  The leads become possessed, chant and rant with zoned zeal and bring horror to your table as well as a dish of poisonous sonic soup to choke on - oh the nasty bastards!

'Teenage Suicide' is frustrated, at a loss, a mind melt of confusing and conflicting collisions that constantly bombard the brain with destroying discordance.  This is a seemingly eternal squabble of emotions with the agitation of the mind torn open with hatred, blade lust and downright horror.  The exactitude of the material and the subject matter dealt with is mightily magnetic and the dark recesses from where this construction has come from is something many will be able to relate to always a good thing.  Onwards and into 'Dabs' a yarn of naiveté that spurts in many ways and initially has this reviewer darn confounded.  A plodding, twanged, harmonised, docu-style noisy narration that comes to life with council estate reality and unassuming eyes-wide shut innocence.  All that isn't what it seems comes to light and the song, comes, goes and leaves a head scratching moment to reconsider - an odd one this.  'Luxury' begins on King Kong drums, carefully explores with barely touched string strokes before the full gush of the number comes with 'join in' juiciness that is immediately sobered by vocal spillage that dramatically upturns the expectations.  Again we have articulate acoustica that refuses to thoroughly travel down regulated avenues of orchestration and so keeps the listeners alert and fully involved.  There isn't a lot more I could add here so I won't - a thoughtful song that has more meritous points than first deemed.

'Parliament' is a virulent gob off that sends a real heartfelt fuck off to those raping and taking politicians who take no prisoners in their self obsessed march to crush the less fortunate and keep the fat greedy fucks like themselves well fed and watered.  Cameron and his crooked cronies take the brunt of the spittle roasted slagging with the controlled verses erupting into majestically irate chorus blasts that suck the shit out of the situation and splash it right back on the doorstep of No 10.  The rage is nicely tempered by mockery and spite that comes to the fore on purist unsettled bitchiness that is ready to scratch out the eyes of the disagreeable.  This is a real bold and effective song and incredibly gets overshadowed by the behemoth that is 'Corridors', one of those songs that just twats you between the lugs and makes you think 'fuck yeah'.  A real stand out moment of the year thus far (oops it's only March) that will stand the test of time, this wonderfully delivered song captures the bands gratifying dynamics and throws itself forth with delectable exhilaration.  The tones, hunger, professional composition and the driving she-spirit all drop into place at this juncture and make for a liquid slab of mouthwatering excellence.  Strings confidently cut a swathe whilst sticks punctuate with energy and the superb female unrest that froths up in crushing waves is there to get drowned by.  A sure-fire stunner and reinforced by another wondrous upchuck, namely the title track 'Nine Bullets'.  A spurty skank affair with much animation and political slamming against the murder of the misidentified and the trigger happy twats who have too much room for comfort.  The sincere poison ejaculated from she fangs, the incessant puncturing string strokes and the skipping heartbeat of the drums all capture the attention of this listener for sure and I reckon will ensnare many, many more.  A more than credible track that has me chomping at the well chewed bit for more and more (and there's only 2 tracks left the selfish bastards).

To the final fling and the penultimate song scrawled as 'Bridges'.  A steady and withheld opening probe, a scene setting sonic foundation build before numerous power pumps awaken the senses and vicious she spits hit us in the mush.  Following on and dream girl powderings are backed by acidic spices with the song ending up as a real fully functioning confusion of anarchic appeals and abandoned mental bewilderment with many ad hoc angles taken and emotive avenues wandered down.  Escapism seems desired, a saddening melancholy is well fired, what we get is a song with a whole load of aspects to dwell upon.  It keeps the idle eavesdropper involved.  'Looking For You' is the closure, we need a capitalised finish, a hard punctuated number that lets us know the Nine Bullets crew have been and left their mark, and that is exactly what we get.  The cultured undertones continue to invade the thought processes and one continually gets the feeling that this band have a wealth of potential to keep on tapping.  The number under scrutiny here starts by cutting your throat with rusted blade strums before thumping harder and nagging your noise neurones with embracing repetition and free swinging irate chorus explosions that give the song extra life, extra presence.  Another feather in an already overloaded cacophonic titfer - love it!

A quite delightful CD this with some kick arse elements, many well orchestrated outpourings and some general passion poured in with utter flowing naturalness.  In summing up I may be so bold as to have this one earmarked as an early contender for Album of the Year and believe it won't be far off the mark come the end of the annual listening period - a CD I have much respect for and with a couple of songs that really rise to heady heights - go get it!



Skank Agenda are a hopeless cause, there is no salvation for such wayward wanderers who somehow have managed to come together, repeatedly collide and bandy disjointed wordage in such utter unpredictability.  Never fear though, as a lack of hope generates a certain excitement and the crew’s off-hand, sincere jigsaw jumblings that are delivered with high fervour and anarchic generosity are something to behold and have this ragged rock and roll lover utterly captivated.  Many, in a blurry scene, claim to be dripping with punk kudos but when it actually comes to the crunch many fall short. Believe me though, this is as close as its gets folks and if you have any inkling of that toxic trait left in your body then please give these rum buggers a bit of your time please.
We commence this CD with a cinematic special, a tune all film buffs of the retro age should be familiar with, a veritable tuneful classic many will have a particular squidgy spot for. So after the Skank Agenda dudes have molested it, scathed it and brought it back down to our grubby planet reality it is time to get your carton of Kia-ora pop, a packet of Mojos and Burtons Potato Puff Crisps and settle back and await the main feature.  The lights dim, the usherettes disappear into the darkness, the deviants unzip their pants. Here we go, A Kurt Wood Production, an 11 section feature that will be abstract, angular and wonderfully irritating - my fingers are crossed for a cracker, I want to finish with a boner not a slacker, I plunge in as the reviewing attacker, my poetry gets cacker and cacker - oooh errrr!

'Kids Of The Caribiners' is the first ejaculation of madness from this flickery rhythmic reel with a frantic wire wank off and wordage I am afraid I can make no head nor tail of (nowt new there then).  In between these cable trembles mouthy goodness foams and unified whoa hoa's of haunting madness leak from cracked and corrupt skulls.  Images of the band 'live' are had and the busy artistry and effervescing belief they exude - the Skank Agenda unit should be confined to a rubber room with the only visitors they get those suffering from Post Traumatic Noise Syndrome, surely a form of cruel therapy but most apt methinks.  No matter what my drivelling assessment says, I am fuckin' in line with these noodles and am happy with this first spillage.  'Dog Operation' next, a strum, 4 count, more string stretching before manic, unhinged oral-atrocities cum (deliberate mis-spelling there) with jowls juiced to the max and invested attitude all bared and blatant.  There is a delicious overspill of desire here with the itchy arsed invention showcasing an ear-opening delight for dogs under the radar trying their best to biff out something believable and away from the suffocating routine.  The stuffy inflated fatman and his circle of friends or the new school jerkoids who remain so niched must all be shitting in their suitable uniforms whilst this lovely airwave anarchy disjoints their melodic neurones - yeah!

'Gary Oldman' a mere glut of name-dropping nonsense done with such consuming gusto and pepped pizzazz that has a wonderfully eccentric swerve within the fibre of the flow that culminates many times over with glorious tendencies to fire off from varied crude corners of untamed DIY devilishness.  Purely natural, unpolluted and so wonderfully abstracted and distracted - Skank Agenda are hitting new highs.  'We Would Like To Apologise For The Poor' is a sniping dig, a very vicious attack, a 'had enough' fireback at the misdirected and ultimately, easily deflected, that sees the ones at the bottom of the crumpled pack get increasingly neglected whilst twats elsewhere remain comfy in their own ignorance.  A nice burst of ill temper and with some mean stringwork that dazzles and razzles with euphoric endorphin inducing sub-highfalutin (in the nicest way) goody goodness - lush indeed.  'Me And George Clooney' is madness, idle minded drifting from heads soaked in too much sonic sun and acoustic ale with the upshot being a cerebral rupture that releases fuckwittian fantasies that are both absorbing and thoroughly intriguing.  The crew throw in these mirthful ecstasies now and again and rather than deflect from the focus they seem to zone it in even more - I must be cracking up!

'Numbers Game' continues the anarchic multi-faceted gushings with a flamenco-esque wire manipulation making way for a plenitude of ardent wordage that falls from ascending hearts with a reason to put the boot into the face of the furtive fuckwits who maintain a bewildering detachment.  A song with extra creamy layers in the intent, more sonic stodge to chomp on and with a certain directness to rouse the most perpendicular ponses within the rabble.  Good stuff dudes.  'Educating Richard' needs very little spouting from this constantly dripping tap - a wondrous song attempting to permeate addled-headed pachyderms who are sonically dead and indeed failing miserably.  The brassy tones, twinkled wire trembles and defiant mouth ascensions all combine and win my untold favour - lovely.

'Stuck on Destroy' is a slapped arse, itchy ring number that glows red, fidgets on many fronts and has the trollies pulled harshly into the crack thus negating any serious under-carriage activity.  An annoyed number (as it well might be), a harsh listening experience due to its explorative meanderings that always seem to be hell-bent on dismembering itself - cripes.  It still contains the anarchic goodness though and one should appreciate that before putting a dangerous critical finger in the ring of rhythm.  Appreciation had, jab, jab, jab.  'For You' is juicy elevation and gets the CD back on the happy feet it so often finds itself pinging about on.  Abstractedly distracted and fragmented with many vigorous wobbles of the tonal clitoris thus giving this song a muscle tensing, mind relieving attractiveness that culminates in many orgasmic pleasures all based on raw, earthy open-heartedness and general belief in the cause.  I like these aspects and if only so many more would take heed and just let themselves grow with the flow and gush with the flush - oh how we can dream.

We are in the back stretch (sounds painful) and 'Pete On Drugs' hits us, a very lengthy affair that intertwines crystal fragility, firm reality intrusions, resounding resoluteness in the face of adversity and suggestive matter of factness.  The angel usherings, the floating departments of careful contemplation and the inner anguish that is contested is all magical fare for we seekers of challenging noise and still we see Skank Agenda pushing their own limits and succeeding.  A veritable curiosity this, a minor self-examination and a song with a greater sense of deliberation - It works folks and that is all I ask.  'Atonement' is a nasty fist in the face of those political parasitical leeches who care not for...consequence, unless the profits are all in their own pocket.  There are many characters to name, many contributors to war and death and many who don't give a flying fuck - the band deal with the shits in question and after a break and a mentally corrupt imitation of the opener they fuck off into the ever waiting silence - bastards.

So I have been skanked and wanked again, read through the agenda, been on a musical bender and come out of the other end well chuffed at the progression shown, the impression made and the depression avoided.  This lot have reached a pinnacle, climb aloft with them and enjoy the view!



A new band to me and one that dabble in rhythmic Russian roulette via that generic danger labelled as Hardcore (oooh the silly bastards).  They seem to pounce from Cornwall (last time I was there I was in a graveyard in the middle of nowhere catching moths in the dark – I love it) and I hope bare their pasties with perverse pleasure and let the temperamental gravy, gristly meat of malevolence and potatoes of passion get flung this way, that way, whatever way.  I have 11 brief tracks to get my choppers involved with here and I bite hard and deep and see what manky juices flow.
New style, what style - grim and have it, another one off the pile.
Fractured sub-rupture, a dislocation comes, the headlong she-bitch driven tumult is unyielding and tempestuous.  There is no androgyny here despite the lead siren being tattooed with a ball baring accusation - get over the sexism, pigs.  This short shit splat stains the blank canvas and cultivates immediate interest - 'I'm A Medical Doctor' is signed out with a mighty swish of the sonic pen, we have little room to get lethargic.  Skin thump, screeching invasion, hollering claims of visions, raw gristle larynx work eventually gets the support of the gruff ones - all action strings and tympanics come together and fall apart in vicious violence that leaves the piss basin smashed and all sense of hygiene raped.  This second cutlet of brutality stinks in all the right ways, I bow down to the 'Little Green Men' and understand they won't appeal to everyone’s palate.
We grab two more abusive attacks, brace ourselves for a couple more X-offending bastards of belligerence with the first spoonful rammed inward and swallowed with gagging joy.  'Fire' does indeed burn, hazardous and unwelcoming, the flames though almost have an uncertain tongue lick and rather than sear our privates off they tease and tempt and pull away much too soon.  A number hard to grip, a slippery eel that fidgets too much in the short running time given.  Pass! 
'E. B. E.' starts a batch of 4 I am gonna fly through (hey, if the band can do it so can the reviewer) and lets rip with a twinge, a heavily laden bass line and then a crawling grind out that is roared over with 'positioned' sears.  Impetus and tempo both rise, crescendos come when he and she join forces and combat your deadened senses with true determination - a sexy and convincing cutlet.  'Tooms' stalks its prey, leans on the shoulder of atmosphere and thus shadowplays in suspicious patches of darkened undergrowth like a serial killer in murder mode.  The act of crime comes with numerous pulverising hammer blows to skulls unprepared.  A sickly number that alters the pace but as a standalone I find this one somewhat tame and insipid.  'What Do You Want From Me' is more like it though, an animated and agitated upheaval that begins with epileptical fever running high and never letting up until a more riffed out grind offers trifling respite for a head nagging onslaught.  Enjoy the sweet riff break because we are soon tossed back into the hot-roasted maelstrom and battered to the last - a fuckin' crackin' number.  The closing cunt of the quick quartet is 'Who Do You Believe' an upchuck that starts with much musical mud flung, a slower section chasing and of course, contrasting, some meandering into off kilter driftings (yuck) and then back up to speed with disharmony wonderfully draped in colours of chaos.  Not the best, not the worst, all in keeping with the theme set.

Suddenly the home stretch is upon us, I tickle the assessing nag along in gentle fashion (ban the whip, ban the whip) and look to come home in one knackered piece.  'Black Oil' is the first sludgy splat onto your lap with a searching and seeking style loaded with problematic tension and spoilt brat kick-off explosions.  A very uncomfortable number, one that doesn't settle and so causes disagreeable consternation within the noggin of noise whereas 'S. T.' riffs things up with more deliberateness and screwdrives its intent through skin, bone and marrow.  A severe bout of tonal torture helping the band to excel into heady zeniths of cruelty and crazed dedication to the cause.  They don't neatly slice to the bone here, they vulgarly tear their way inwards and expose happening flesh that surges with concurring blood - each throb and spurt is in tune with the string stretches and I like that a lot.  Closure comes via ‘The Erlenmeyer Flask’, an X rated number that boom bangs in, scurries like a shit-house rat with its tail on fire and gnaws and gnashes with double emotive passion.  The guitar cut-out is an error in my humble opinion and hinders what should have been a full on blast out to turn your eardrums to ash.  Still, we have plenty of thermality to stand back from or get crisped by - your choice.

A dip into the hardcore world is always a challenge but more often than not one comes away with something to spout off about and share with fellow noise lovers - such is the case here.  There are some bits I find not delightful to my aural palate, a few areas that could be improved upon but let those small blips not deflect from a well-meated bone of back kicking noise that will turn many headbanging maniacs well and truly on.  You know what you get with hardcore, don't dabble if you can't hack it! 


2 sonically dangerous elements here I have a whole lot of time for and who have played a few Fungal gigs in the past, although not nearly enough, something my over-pecked head needs to put right.  Both hail from the Manchester area, deliver harsh bomb blasts of unapologetic rawness and are made up of quite delightful chaps who really don't have any pretensions or any fuck wit delusions.  The style is angry, colliding and not for the ones with delicate natures or ideals of fancy fuckery on a platform of piss arsing - no, this is earthy irritation with guts exposed and spirits blazing - get over it, smell the foul shithole of gutterpunk.
Evil Eye pounce first with a double headed dildo of disease that you will either jack recklessly off with or toss in the bin (as if the band care).  A real infecting bout of gorgeously disagreeable malevolence seething with doom laden military marches paving the way with snarling spirit and colliding thirst.  'No Man’s Land Part 1' blooms with rage like a tempestuous nuclear shroom that clouds the senses and corrupts the realms of decency.  As skins are rattled with disciplined death slaps, the bass throb nobs with restraining necessity whilst guitars wildly improvise and flourish in free handed glory.  The grimaced and gutted vocal drive is delicious and finalises the impact the band are obviously aiming for.  A brief break and 'No Man’s Land Part 2' screws it up the jacksie of silence with piercing blue light warnings and gratifying wire abrasions.  The band are in a furrow of purist punk grime here and have a production to get the best out of the sodden and saturated blanket of roaring sound that I find most fuckin' appealing.  The band are a crackin' bunch of gents and create a certain chaotic cacophony that is artistically kept on a leash and pulled into line but that still retains a danger, a potential 'nasty bite' and much rabid fury.  I love the whooshing drive of this song, the overloaded drainpipe squeeze out that ends in a splash crash affair to be applauded. The two opening bursts here show all the bands excellent aspects - the intensity, the naturalness and the inner aggression and fury against all things stupid.  A beautiful brace of well fermented fuck offs and leading into the pollutant nastiness of 'Shitbag', a fave of mine, one that holds no apology, a sub-tune that isn't built on crafty cock arsed pretence and certainly doesn't explore any avenues of lyrical affectation.  Again the sound is utterly soaked through with many thrashing elements all up for the racket and living and breathing the drug of noise.  Minds fracture as well as the outer shell of the sonic cage in which these beasts belt out their noxious produce.  Total incessancy, mind melting lunacy and topped off with a statement that sums things up and puts in place any of those reading too much into matters.

Eye Licker follow and make an initial impact with the reckless shit splatting basin cracking mania known as 'Cosmetic Con'.  38 seconds of untamed chainsaw wielding, nail gun assisted screamoid madness that ends with a final primeval holler cut off in its prime - a delicious aperitif to get your palate ready for a nasty oral treat.  'Russian Roulette' follows and is a real organised bout of H/C with the musical maestros adopting an organised stance and allowing the front chap to flourish in his own ever-hungry style.  Yet again music borne from Dystopia, where kickback unsettlement rises its attractively ugly head and vomits up a prodigious amount of fuck-filled frustration and tetchy tantrum throwing - and fully justified it is.  Here we see a sweat filled spew out with the clattering vibe neatly mailed into our receptive noggins and left there to fizz away and do its pleasing business - oooh sonic head sex!  The door is slammed shut on this excellent taster CD with 'In Extremis' an outpouring that sidles in, snuggles up close and insists you swing along with the initial rhythm set.  No sooner settled than we are pulled kicking and screaming into a blurred melee of flying fists and feet with a pulverising soundtrack for company.  We get moments of respite, with Stanley knife guitar work multi-slashing and glinting in light of bloodied neon - the threat of more throw-around antics is always apparent though and we soon get tossed into another rockin' rabble and left for dead at the final full stop of sound - phew.

That's it, 2 concrete back to the bone bands who fly fast and hard and really don't give a hoot for your more gracious and luxurious listening preferences.  These are what they are, bands delivering vital noise that some cunts in the scene think they are too progressed and clever for, a noise that rings true in the hearts of those who just recognise the purity punk can sometimes bring, a racket that some will love and some will abhor - so fuckin' what!  All I can do is slap down what I feel, with pimple arsed honesty and unaffected naturalness - I hope you get the gist!



Hardcore mania spilling from a three-piece built on sexual deviancy, chip butties and draft dodging - take yer pick guys.  All three chaps involved are thoroughly decent eggs though and entertain the suede no end both on the and off the stage.  I have known the members for many a year and seen them in several other outfits (dresses, policemen’s uniforms, cowboy outfits, panties and bra to name a few) and seen them strut their stuff with ever growing conviction.  Here the dudes combine their efforts and produce a maelstrom that quite often results in rhythmic rape and musical molestation that leaves acoustic anal realms well and truly rogered - 'hey, if it feels good, do it' (Bartek Flange 2015).  So into the mush I go, with rectal passage bunged and ear-holes cleared out - I may not come out of this all in one piece, please say a prayer for me dear peruser.
'Open Your Eyes' initially crumbles and tumbles like dried dogshit between the fingers of a turd eating fuckwit before the disease within the dirt comes to life and sonic fungal spores are released, inhaled and ultimately regretted.  The lively seizures that follow are grim, heavily scabbed with corroding pustules and forever exude a glutinous pus that isn't for the mentally weak.  A low down filthy episode this with dual tipped vocals appearing from the acoustic epidermis that is looking more corpse-like with each and every spin.  The episode offered comes in two parts, broken by a musical interlude that lets the players drop their tuned trollies and waggles those purple tipped pythons (why not).  This interlude is chased by a holler off in traditional hardcore style and the end feeling I get, when all is zipped up and silent decency ensues is of a construct with much weight, fair forethought but just slightly off the boil and out of complete sync.  I have no such critical sensations with the next in line, with 'Ordinary Man' rapidly quivering the low slung scrotum of sound and making the inner seeds of spermatic discordance dance like buggery.  From the opening spunk surges we get a stop start repeat beat occurrence that is a nice effort but isn't as clear cut as it should be - just something about the invading slices of death that seem almost affected and overly processed - maybe it's me but if the cut off points were slightly more scruffed the impression made would be greater - something to ponder I reckon.  Like I say though, it is a decent gamble and keeps the song angular rather than just a routine creation - nowt wrong with that.

'Newspeak' is less controlled it seems than the Orwellian language named in the title and maintains a good red alert level throughout and much natural ill tempered, sweat inducing spirit from the lead lout with clout.  Drums are slam fucked and then groomed whilst string work is regulated with typical attention.  The mix is pure Manifest meandering with much to admire and spasmodically get off to.  There is a precipice being balanced on, a teetering on the brink passion prevalent and that for me keeps one intrigued.  I like this one as I do the following jerky juiciness of 'Unity'.  A rambunctious happening built on initial seeds of threat that germinate, emerge from blood soaked soil and eventually, after a brief budding period, explode in a bounty of snagging thorns and reeking short-lived flowers of black.  A demanding song that isn't easily escaped from with burs of belligerence sticking in the rattled grey gunk and somewhat scratching the outer shell with malevolent hooks of hate (and hope).  The CD hits a zenith next via the pure maniacal driving hail slagged with the name of 'Be The Best'.  A slap happy chappy that is necessarily aroused by slamming its incandescent guts right into your mug and screaming its absolute bollocks off in an orgy of delectable visceral violence.  Those verses are fist-flying, fanny punching, nipple bursting, anal tearing delights that atomise the cacophonic mind into a million white hot free-flying fragments - wow!  The chorus rage is complimentary and breaks up the lunacy into digestible chunks that helps us to avoid the ultimate aural death - phew.  Massive man, massive (and that's just me todger after listening to this 'all out' affair).

I take stock of the situation, wipe the excited sweat from the rear cleavage and drop into the next song ready to produce more aroused perspiration.

'Who Do You Think They're Trying To Control' is the first of three rapido rundowns (come on, you should know the script by now) and has a misleading opening string sprinkling that suggests impending delicacy rather than all consuming discordance.  Oh how easy we are fooled.  The initial touches are polite, pampering and only abraded by the gravelled gobbage that comes into its own when all pistons are pumped to the utter maximum.  A robust animal that propels itself forth on muscular limbs and raged infused haunches, a beast that is easily provoked into a mode of violence and a bastard to be very wary of indeed.  'Famous For Nothing' is a more effective predator and chasings down your potentially fleeing attention, digs in fervid fangs and rips and tears with monstrous and vindictive malevolence.  The prey are the ones who'll sell their souls to Satan just to be a stand out face in a pack of foul fuckwits the nob rotted masses look up to.  I don't like celebrities (on all idiot levels) and encourage all to mentally murder their idols and get something resembling equality back in to the mix.  This is in keeping with my outlook and is a mightily effective heave ho that cuts a dash to the crux of the problem.  The fuck off of the fast three is the convoluted, meandering toss about known as 'The Modern World'.  Starting on uncertain legs with a following gait to match this staggering sparsity of sound however is a nice alternative to the constant brain barrage we get overly fat on.  Rough-house mouth molestations are left alone with lightly dashed drums before the hotplate is given a thermal boost and the focus is zoned in.  A clatter effect ensues, one that is somewhat dislocated and not as fluent as I would like but the vigour and vim levels are just right and maybe, just maybe, with a little more forethought the impact could have had greater effect.  As a reviewer one needs to remember the 3 P's - push, prod and praise - I hope I am doing that in equal measure here?

Last two, 'Wallowing In The Muck Of Avarice' is a nicely titled track and begins with much wise worded that is warning in effect and held on the leash by strained care.  A plume of powerblast filth comes, further upheaval before the song collapses into a heap of raging insanity with a twinged invasion and a last hammer out to full stop matters.  We close with 'The Yes Man', a structure built on a cross-wired, taut twat twanging and clod-hopping rampages that flurry, hurry in part and unify with vigour in others.   A final animated fist swing that will get the berserkers blowing it out of their temperamental tubeways.  A clanking and clattering fling that punctuates the CD in the theme set and with scrotal globes still swinging hard.

The lowdown of this CD goes something like this - a good CD that, despite a slightly out of sync production level and with one or two songs just not maintaining pure fluidity we have here many moments to get absorbed by, nay to get ruffled up by.  The band are pouring in their all with much room to progress and, given the evidence on show, progress they will.  As of writing the band are in the studio and bang at it again, I expect an upswing, if care be taken it looks like a pure cert - we will wait with baited breath!



A long journey, a trek down many tuneful dead ends, a whole heap of seeds dispersed and wasted day...fruition comes.  The Senton Bombs have been through the dead eyed mire where many watch, take no real heed and move on to more acceptable sounds.  Eventually one or two heads turn, a few follow and suddenly a vibe arises - and about time to.  As the band develop, fine tune their skills and slowly build something resembling a fan base a stage is reached where it all seems worthwhile - we are now at such a juncture, with the rock and roll artistes from the spunk laden blemish known as Blackpool all ready to climax.  They have a fine chap helping them along in a managerial role and this will hopefully KO a few obstacles and get them more 'out there'.  As per, I like to do my thing when requested and here is another CD review (honest and with warts wanked).

Title track, skies crack, a heavenly twinge paves the way for a mouth-watering, melon juice treat arranged with high rock and roll articulation and gushing desire to snatch at the attentive neurones and keep them...hypnotised.  The band immediately adorn themselves in raiment’s of sonic war, pick up their reliable weapons and fire off in utterly glorious unison with a distinct invulnerable and secure essence more than a little apparent.  Once more we are treated to the frontman's gifted, natural and oh so credible tonsil work with a superb savoury and sub-sexual lust for the noise coursing through every syllable uttered.  'Phantom High' is desirous, ravenous and unstoppable and my advice to anyone with doubts or anyone with virginal ears for the SB pack to just plunge in and let them consume you.  There are far worst ways to die.  Musically tight, generically embracing and one for those in or out of many, many pits of noise.

From a straight ahead trampling to a more heedful and acoustically observant serving that has a certain crepuscular quintessence within the marrow of the melody and a sincere hefty application of considered ambience. 'Lights Over Phoenix' is sub-operatic rock, a deeply gilded and ornate offering tattooed with the bands new level of confidence and song-writing instincts that are there to salivate over.  Whispering ripples expand outwards from a delicate splash of tonal care with all players holding themselves in check and just applying the right amount of assistance to the overall end result.  Perhaps one of the bands most mature songs to date, a real coming of age exhibition of a crew in a groove and heading straight for a collision course with success!

An alteration in approach next, a scorched and westernised drawl of cool assed standards with the coming of 'Black Chariot' and all its emotive triumph.  Strutting in on superb sanguinity, with spurs digging into the initial senses and drawing attentive blood.   Vocally superb and, surprisingly excellent - musically exact and so perfect for the style sought.  This opposing factor to the usual Bombs produce is most choice and is delivered with aplomb and advanced insight.  More doorways will open on the back of this number alone and as I have always said, if the band avoid getting slogged down in a punk pit and stretch their wings they will undoubtedly find many zeniths.  I find myself loving this song more and more with each rotation and feel for the victim, get more involved and more appreciative of the delicacies included.  The power smashes, the gentle string work, the backing murmurs, the narrative methodology - fuck yeah!

Back to level 'expected' next with the lush and lively 'Passions Of The Passive Aggressive', a song that begins with punctuated positivity and zoned in accuracy before hot-footing into further excitable realms with all components getting dragged into an orgy of fully aroused acoustica.  Wild perspiration runs free, subtle ascensions of erogenous activity manifest themselves, firm muscle thrusts penetrate with irresistible passion and a consuming blanket of sound is thrown over the entire writhing heap of effective rhythm.  A multi-faceted copulation of colliding and complimenting bodies producing moments to drool along with.  'Surf 6-66' closes this thriving 5 track exhibition of tamed excellence with the band flowing like molten gold through cast iron veins and thus firing life into those both internally and externally.  A holistic bout of consummate clarity and professional success that fucks the true membrane of all music lovers for sure and leaves behind a sensation of draining satisfaction.  Perhaps one of the most improved bands I have ever dealt with, certainly one of the most impressive and a crew destined for genuine appreciation from the most ignorant of bastards.  The acuteness of the strings is beautiful, the throb and firm application of bass is fulfilling and the direct, well clattered tympanics are done with superb attention to wham bang detail.  Another fine song, another feather in a crammed and well worn cap - yeah.

That's it, to gush further is not needed.  If I have told you once I have told you a million times and it is a pure insult to ignore this crew any longer.  The Senton Bombs ooze class, the time is now to give them your 100% support.



Hefty choking bilge water via the open gateways of Denmark where sable sonic shit pours from an open anus of hate and showers those corrupt converts whose souls need no introduction to these crushing tones.  Last year this band clocked up almost 150 shows worldwide and this flexi disc is, no doubt, just another step in the direction of triumphant oblivion.  Hexis seem to be on an upsurge and on this 5 Feet Under Records release they aim to take no damned prisoners.  My verdict on matters goes something like this:-

'Sequax' is a pitch black pouring sickness that falls from silent skies and causes untold vesication of the chosen victims flesh.  The heavy scorching, diseased ridden rain that falls in foul sheets of nailing horror is destructive of decency and design and cripples any semblance of rhythm and routine with choking, overwhelming and downright damning malevolence.  The nefarious noise needles flood the soundscape, the ghastly utterances from submerged Hell flutter the spinal nerves and send chills upward to the melting cerebral gunk - we crawl outward on bended knees whilst the world splits and the next gravitational pull towards doom comes forth.  'Desalotum' is a beast that flattens all in its path and leaves behind it crushed and bewildered husks that are lost for all eternity.  The thermal radiation emitted turns eyeballs to glutinous dripping wax whilst eardrums are fist-fucked and left to rot within the aural canals.  Unforgiving and thoroughly saturated this hardcore fear inducing tirade is borne from suggestive Lovecraftian catacombs where only the ones cursed with madness dare tread.  Gruelling, of a more than specific ilk, this inbred demonism will cut a swathe through the music loving populace - prepare to die!

We close this satanic 3 tracker with 'Exterminati', yet more pit borne steaming shot through with almost submerged hollers from a conflagration of chaotic order.  Visceral violence, ejaculating nothing more than broken glass filled blood and really making a mess of anything resembling decency in the immediate spunking area.  Molten lava moving in an unhurried but unstoppable fashion you know the score by now - if you are of a gentle nature keep well away, if you are a connoisseur of this coughed up demon fire than please step forward to get burnt to a crisp - bastard!

That's it, 3 songs and, in their own damning right, 3 impressive fireballs of unapologetic fury.  It is pointless preaching to the uninitiated as this will more than likely go over their seared heads or beneath their dripping undercarriages.  It is equally pointless telling the ones drowned in this discordant disease as they may well already be clued in but, one or two of you may have curious natures and no sense of health and safety and may plunge headlong into this - be warned and don't say I didn't warn you - a whole bucket load of pain and pleasure awaits.



An e-mail came my way from a plucking gent who needed some feedback on his under-produced constructions that many are not even aware of.  For me, DIY artisans such as this that will not be denied the chance to make a racket are the ones who always ring the bell of my interest and due to this fact and also the e-mail being so sweetly composed and reflecting what I deemed to be a humble and passionate gent I offered my textual assistance and lucid opinions.  Our creator, who springs from a border between Chicago and Milwaukee coughs up a considered mix of skank, fun, cheekiness and most importantly, fleet footed naturalness that comes with much melodic purity and punked invasions of methodology.  One thing I always deem crucial for any constructors of sound is to keep it varied, it seems that may be the case here.  So we have 9 home-made brews to tackle (6 and 3 gifts) and with the underdog soul bared I slurp hard and taste the first tune which is splashed as...
'The Fugly Song', a lo-fi donation awash with piquant spices that smack of complete earthiness and relaxed, natural informality.  Borne from backstreet home-made reality with a poppoid undercurrent that really brings the song to life and adds a certain distinctness to the quite obvious character lines.  The overly rusted guitar scathings are complimented by the lively and lush vocals that are fully immersed in the consuming corrosion which attracts the sensors of this seeker of all things scrubbed down rather than spruced up.  Sometimes plush production values and tweaked and twanged nipples of noise are not necessary and such is the case here - a gratifying example of dustbin discordance in all its unclean glory.  'Something To Me' is the chasing shadow and keeps the unwashed approach with a tentative poke through of brassage and sub-skanky free floating, all offering new acoustic avenues which to investigate further.  Explorative tendrils are sent forth from the jaded grey gunk of reviewing turmoil and desperately donate time and patience to the flow offered.  I come away with a verdict of acceptable when fully versed in the mode taken.  The attempt at pushing soft tones and liquid melody through a crummy substrate is admirable but unlike the first song, this one doesn't seem wholly comfortable with the situation and would be far better suited to a lavish mixing process.  I know what I say contradicts my opening opinions but I must flow naturally and go with what comes and goes rather than try and attain a fraudulent consistency.  A decent ditty but could be better!

The next brace of songs is commenced by the squishy sugar coated sweetness of 'Full Time Dummy', a smoothie stroll on cushy vibes that all work with open-heartedness and complete transparency.  It is of a certain fluffy ilk and is played quite ideally despite the scruffed overlay that once more doesn't suit the style.  It is all about picking out the ones that need a complete valet and those that are best left fouled.  This is an example of a song falling into the former category as is the confident and enthused cruise of 'Fake I.D.', an semi-agitated splish and splash of honey assisted effervescence that shows our artiste is fully animated and in-line with his output and has much talent to boot.  The energy levels rise when necessary, the input of vigour is exact and the sub-generic flavour is again one many will like to lick at - I am liking what I hear and despite my concerns with the mixing process there are constructs here with much promise.

Two more and into the slightly more angular 'I Don't Care', a title that is traditionally youthful and punked with a thread taken here that is abraded and in a state of almost seeming disrepair.  Reminiscent of very old-school embryonic new wave dabblings that were propelled forth in dusty dives reeking of fresh piss, spilled beer and rank perspiration.  The submerged naval fluff that rises through is familiar to my long worn lugs and despite knowing it is not par for today's course I still have a fondness for this style of fiddling.  To succeed further though the song needs stripping bare, given a syringe full of tempo and having a wire wool rub down with quirkiness the main end target.  Beneath the grubby scuzz though is a decent ditty.  'Julezz' runs along in unison with its predecessor and suffers from the same acoustic ailments has mentioned.  Here though we have a more slushy number and perhaps a more position-laden number with each and every stroke and clash given extra forethought.  The cymbals foam over in parts, the skins regulate and roll when necessary whilst the strings fuzz away and the oral cords are tremble with sugary sincerity.  Within the brickwork is a cementing sturdiness and if harshly steam blown a better overall structure will undoubtedly be revealed.

And so to the closing partners in crime, the melodic masqueraders who bombard us with finalising bombs of flavour and leave us thoughtful not thoughtless.  The first song is a demo, is known as 'Trying' and keeps things as per, here with a crisp opening, a murky push along, a spiteful blade edge, a new school incessancy and an inner toss about that fights for air.  Like an exhumed body brought to life but never shaking free of the underground horrors and displaying many facets that hold back full on acceptability but...ah well but.  'I Wanna Be Jerked' off is a number that fumbles, fiddles, writhes and in some respects spills out a good abundance of spunkiness and in other ways fails to reach total orgasmic highs.  There is much effort here, sincere thrustings and proddings with balance and consistency upheld, again just that added 'burst' and bell-end sheen is lacking.

You know the crack here, many good efforts only marred by the production values.  With bit of vavoom, a careful touch on the mixing desk and some minimal quirks a pop punk package to savour could be had, the embryo's are here, we now need to commence the growing process.

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