Forming in Kansas City in 1995 this lot play their brand of noise with a mix of the commercialised, the home-made and the Americanised all soaked into one hard-fought pot of saturation that, in the main, will appeal to those not entrenched in sub-scene mania and rut-forming rhythm.  Others will come, partake and go, scattering opinion to the wind upon which many may chew or, as is the norm, duly ignore.  There is nothing outrageous stepping out of the shadows of silence, no new-ground-breaking discordance to turn my innards to excitable mush, what we get is...this. 

A screw twist, a thump and a rhythm as sharp as a nail.  The first song 'Maybe' unfolds with a desert-blown cactus flow - sending pollen forth onto heat hazed dust-floors where heels are awaiting to kick up a storm.  The movement is sizzled from the inside out, the application of intensity is kept up throughout and the tympanic eagerness is the prime driving force.  The blend has a distinct US bleed that stains the soundscape and gives it an edge that many may find unappealing.  Saying that, I know a few who like this kind of move and groove accented noise and when all is said and done the band drive matters home with a certainty and effective dynamism.  Not bad, I travel into 'Better This Way'...expectant!  A machine-like pulse begins, takes us through the opening sequence where the vocals enter in lucid format, the drums skip along and the bass applies itself with strict discipline thus laying a substrate on which the rest of the movement can flow.  This flow is easy, accurate and of an accent to traverse the boundary between that which is DIY and that which is more commercialised.  Being a down and dirty dog I turn my nose up at the cleaner and perhaps more popularised elements but I ain't fool enough not to recognise the fresh execution and quite amiable sound emitted.  There is a place for this relaxed music, I can dip in and out and not get too hung up, others may be more ardent in their outlook.

'I’m Sorry' ponders the starting option, decides to hit a vein and carries on in magnetising style.  The opening verse is well posted, the band display a consistency and, may it be said, efficiency, that involves an erudite forethought and technical know-how.  The gist is of a well-shaven, spruced up package of sound given extra weight by a certain saturation factor.  The professionalism may not be my thing but it works mighty well and when comparisons are made to noises of a similar ilk I can really find no negative points.  The liquidity of this one gives it an edge - an edge soaked in sincerity, even this cantankerous pig can't argue with that!  'My Own Reflection' finalises this 4-tricked pony of tunery and begins with an attentive and considered delivery before gently simmering upward to a boiling point very much under control.  This one is perhaps the tamest tickle of the bunch and goes for a more dream-float style that is further away from that which appeals to the Fungalised sensors.  I re-spin and pick up the aural hand lens, thus scrutinising deeper.  The start promises, the promise dissolves and I walk away...unconvinced.

The circles have been crossed yet again, I have dipped into territory foreign and come away with vibrations anew swirling around the clattered bonse.  This is music I can easily pass by but not before I give a nod of appreciation and state that age old adage 'each to the own'.  The band are hygienic, without spite and very clinical - but they know their onions, like I say 'each to their own'.



Approximately 3 years as a unit, a few releases achieved and gigs here and there under the belt and Lucy and the Rats are a moving and grooving outfit who play pop tunes to please and to lift the spirits.  They have a gentleness that has a resolute edge and once hooked you will do well to break free.  I am looking here for an upsurge on previous dabblings, progress is always the key.

'Pills' is a bright and buzzing opener loaded with happy-inducing sensations borne from players a little too boosted.  The harmonic delivery of the vocals is perfectly delicious, the persuasive pleasure cascaded over our eavesdropping bones is generous and juicy and this, if anything, is a pure uplifting summer-time special destined to make you think of all things cheerful, cuddly and comforting.  Tis pop punk played with precision, gently boiled up with a care not to overspill.  For me this is an absolutely stunning moment and I repeat, repeat and...repeat - thank ye!  PS - I have chosen this as Song of the Month - tis lovely!  'Make You Mine' is a droplet laden lilt of summer-dress charm, a tuned-touched raiment shot through with solar sincerity and wafted delicateness that both warms and cools in one soothing glance.  The tonality is gentle, a comforting arm goes around one's shoulders and gives a squeeze of reassurance in the most sincerest of sonic terms.  This isn't an instantaneous hit as found with the first track but man, it gets brighter with every rotation.

'Lose My Mind' is a perked little tinkle obviously swayed by 'silly billy' emotion that has a certain endorphin gush enhanced by a feel-good essence and carefree adoption of all things fancy free.  The chemical imbalance is obvious, the joy of a release very tangible as is the worry of something 'on the other side' of sanity.  Once again the winning formula is the light skip of the drums, the juicy fruit vocals and the solar-kissed guitar - I love it.  'So Simple' has dreary undertones I feel and a slant that is more sobered than what has tunefully transpired thus far.  The opening string strikes are idled and set a tone.  The impetus is picked up but all the while the previous colour scheme is subdued and one has to adjust.  The effort to retrain the lugs is worth it and this move into slightly more monochromatic avenues is well received.  A wariness, a suspicion, a deeper emotive carpet is trod - all the while consistency and clarity is maintained.   My least favoured number thus far but an adequate and crucial inclusion.

'Melody' is a combination of elements that rise from a sluggish depression and clutch at rainbow kissed sun dazzles whilst growing in sanguinity and inner belief.  The hope springs eternal as the glistened guitars, relished drums and honey-dripped vocals work in mesmerising union and bless our bonses with a tuneful gift of advancing happiness.  There is no need to fret, no need to dwell on things of yore - move on, embrace what comes and sit in the present with this fine tune as your only company!  'Night' is a distant glow that first radiates in crepuscular fashion.  The early bats of tonality take to the wing and a flutter builds with all in one accord and a direction achieved.  The full sable cloak is never truly thrown our way as the band, as per, provide their own source of light, a light that fractures all bleakness and keeps one chipper and moving.  Not the most 'in yer face' moment this, a song built on light suggestion and pre-planned orchestration but one, with time, that makes its own unassuming mark.

'Fall' is a smitten soaked tickle, a confessional from the arrow-struck heart that crawls along on submissive knees and almost pleads for your listening mercy.  Tender, tuneful but overly soppy, it is far from a manly tune and so I call upon my womanly side and get out the plastic tits from Blackpool and tape down my todge to give that much sought after 'fanny look'. It doesn't work, I get myself sorted and skip on.  Despite this being a sweetly played song I have heard better - sorry folks, and we were doing so well.  'Hold On Me' has a serious opening rumble, the bass playing with a furrowed brow and assisted by a drum grumble in suitable style.  The guitar touches remain subdued, the vocals wary but fear not, the song lifts up, moves with a honeyed grace and withheld flamboyance through a verse that wafts the curtains of your indifference and clears any in-head negativity.  A room swirling eddy of delight is generated and into the waft we must go - smiling, dancing, at one with the music.   The penultimate song, 'Girl' is a glacier kissed waterfall flowing against gravity and forming lofted mists were moments of thoughtfulness occur.  Amid tranquil female thoughts a concern appears and as a bloke I am outside the ponderings.  This doesn't stop me from appreciating the luscious lemon-drop lilts and cerebral ripples of worry that are played out with a certain sickly sweet accent - I do trip on though in fear of exposing too much of my femininity.  'Can't Surf' is a tale of carelessness and played out with the usual uplifting strain that is free from cloying chordage or ring-ripping riffery - which is no bad thing.  It is a simple popsicle of sound to lick or leave, there are no profound flavours to uncover, no inner surprises and no blatant angles - just a simplistic drift to close the door on a rather stimulating CD - and who can argue with that...well...!

I like this one, this kind of stuff sits well with me and adds a much needed variation in my listening material.  Hardcore, Oi, Ska, Northern Soul, Retro and New Punk, Pop Punk, Skater, Stoner, Rock and Roll etc. etc. all get thrown into the mix and make for a happy slab of cacophonous cake I am happy to munch on over and over again - that you to Lucy and the Rats for adding to my musical waistline - hey fatty bum, bum!



I have given Eye Licker a few gigs over the years and then they went on a hiatus.  Recently they have popped back up and I went and witnessed how things were going.  Lovely lads and worth the effort and man did I get a treat.  The show rocked hard, was delivered with an absorbing vitality and really impressed this 'stick in the mud' no end.  They threw themselves into the racket, did so with a strict adherence to the hardcore ways and made a deep impression on the few who took time to absorb.  I have booked them again and in the meantime have this CD to meddle with.  Come shit or shine you will get the truth, sway and bias is a disease in the musical world and is eating the goodness alive, from the inside out - blah, stick that rotten way.

'Schmintro' opens the gateway, a musical aperitif to whet your appetite and moisten parts perhaps previously unreached (you should call the local vicar, he'll sort you out).  This initial episode is brief and rocking but gives hint at the mix of matters and how the band have got things spot on the mark.  We are soon into the meat of the music proper with the sharp fangs of 'The Safeword Is Harder', a fuckin' rambunctious and ripping tune that skewers deep, turns with a spite and draws out visceral reaction from this reviewing git at least.  The tight application is down to each and every component within the string section being in unision, the drums indulging in some good old clobberin' time (In Grimm-esque style) and the throat abrasions searing with frightening fury of a fired up and unpredictable kind!  The inner strip down and brief spartan wire-wank is cute - it splits the song nicely in two. 

'In-Sanity' is a blister-inducing mind-fuck.  A proportionally large lump of lunatic discordance that is best calibrated by the incisive cut of the mental cloth, a material that is shredded to fuck and thrown around the rubberised room with shit-flinging abandon.  The output is obvious, a mere madhouse of vulgar aggression venting a spleen tattooed throughout with ravenous frustration - fuckin' enjoy it ya cunts!  'I Don't Fit In' is a serious shitter baby and clobbers away with Hulk-fisted brutality, making sure that the initial attack is fast, angled and of varied violence.  The mouth work is as expected, foaming with frustration and cutting deep within the consciousness.  The rapier thrusts of the noise are enhanced further by heavy bass lines and hefty sticks, all joining together to make one bowel moving blast worthy of its place on this CD.  We have a consistency, a clout, an exactitude in the mechanics of the noise that produces a hurtful product in a smooth and efficient manner.  Sometimes hardcore can be rough around the edges (no bad thing) but here we have a freshly stropped razor of sound as sharp as you could wish for.  The feeling of the outsider too many punks don't recognise anymore is well re-puked upward - nice.  'Choking Hazard' is a perpetually turning thumbscrew that applies a pressure with cool, confident ease.  The band have missed a trick here as this could have been an opening gambit and a closing sound that could have made the CD a complete, enclosed package of high octane explosives - surely a must for the 'live' set so as to add that oh so, polished touch.

'Death And Taxes' is a more prolonged bout (or so it seems), tidies up the hardcore act somewhat and comes across as a more orthodox and regulated song.  For me, an essence of recklessness is lost, a very essential ingredient in the Orb Licking mix and one that elevates songs from the decent to the delectable. Despite this, the song grows, has a good concrete foundation and cuts to the core with direct action.  The overall feel is as you were, that is not a thing to complain of.  Talking of complaints - my nuts are sweating like buggery in this hot weather, this darn sizzling music ain't helping either!  Next up, 'Clean Out The Way', and after a clinically-cut and well prepared opening sequence the madness pervades all areas (ooh, now that's arousing) and gets parts trembling I only recently discovered existed. The horses gallop against the numbness of the charge of the shite brigade and trample down any complaints beneath rattling hooves.  The musical gubbins exposed are good value, the band adhere to the strict arrangement and clobber ones knackers with worthy clout and that final scream...ooh the head doctor needs calling for sure!  'Dumbstruck' bass vibrates, skin skips and eventually erupts with guitar scarring boils.  The arse of the song is slapped hard, the tonal todge wobbled well and the nippled neurones tweaked with a rough-handed readiness.  No new sensations arise, they don't need to at this stage, the band are back at it, walloping away and laying new foundations - I have had a good aural walloping here, I take it in my stride, it feels mighty good.

So a fine band are back in business, I have said my bit - are ye intrigued?  I hope so, it would be a shame for you to miss out, then again, you can do what the fuck you want and kiss my arse in the process.  I think this is a decent dig by a strong punching band - go on, put your chin out there and get ready for the knockout blow.



Self-described as 'brutal orchestra' this Japanese band throw caution to the wind and tear out a terrifying hot-bed of noise built on nothing more than nervous tension, passion and some niggling frustration.  The cut and thrust is decisive and I have 4 songs to get my assessing mitts around.  Time is spent, I avoid an error by preparing myself via a multi-spin routine - this ain't easy!

'Winter Ash' burns bright, so bright as to damage retinal fluid.  The song is built on a whipping sun-wind, laden with flying razorblades that hurtle in many directions and leave one shredded.  The intensity is tumour inducing and from these tumours maggots of cancerous evil crawl and spread a truly infecting disease one may take perverse delight in or one may hurry and seek serious treatment for.  For orthodox hardcore (an oxymoron therein lies) one can perhaps find a certain historical zeitgeist when the strain leached deeper into the substrate of many minds and sent them truly AWOL - here we have perhaps a snippet of that ilk, albeit in a more advanced and dangerous style.  This opening gambit is twisted, unsettling, but has an ugly beauty that appeals.  What it appeals to is the age old day answers may be found.  'Back To...' is a follow on, perhaps with more drama, perhaps with further glass smashing fury added to the maelstrom.  It is a fuzz-ball of rotating ill-temper although a final pacification of ornate delicacy throws all potential assessments out of the broken window and leaves one...delightfully confused.  The merest touch of orchestration is a marvellous tease - I peel away...reeling.

To track the third, 'Ggggzzgggzzz', an experimentation that flies in on white heat shards of vehement hatred whilst an underscore of ivory-manipulation operates and keeps one guessing.  This is a sonic squabble that goes too far and involves a vicious gallery of demons akin to the followers of Pendragon, that nefarious ruler of all souls sable and lost and who were a persistent thorn in the side of the giant slaying hero, Jack.  Beasts tumble, curses flies, garish plumes erupt as magical decadency adds to the violent display, each burst a bloom built on focus and destructive desire - the band at the core are operating without slip - tis a form of madness.  We close and gasp with 'Hell PM', a tumult of gargantuan proportions that sees incessant piranhas feed in a white-eyed frenzy and shudder in a devouring mass of blood-splattered mania.  We are the victim, the one who has swam too far for our own good and from the first nip of the sonic teeth we should have known better.  Now, our last vestiges of humanity are being raped by maws of malevolent need, we feel the pain but the pain has now turned to a numbing pleasure - we are dazed, acceptant and sink to our destiny - beaten.

I am ambiguous here and for a very good reason.  Do I like this, do I loathe it, do I really give a fuck?  Well the latter poser is easy - of course I fuckin' do but the 2 former questions are up in their air.  I feel as though I should loathe it and know better, but I don't and yet I am unsure if I feel favourable towards the discharge given.  Tis a veritable boil on the bottom, one you keep reaching to squeeze and feel relief when the pus flows but one which nauseates all the while...but when it finally goes...oh and when!



At the time of key-tapping Missiles of October have been on the boom banging block for 6 years and are described as 3 Belgian old guys playing dirty rock, heavy and powerful sludge.  The band have 2 albums under their low-slung belts, 3 EP's to boot and many shows clocked up and are said to have an impressive 'live' show.  Sounds good, the only gripe I have is that 'stoner rock' label - fuckin' hell man, some of that stuff is hard going.  Nevertheless, in for a penny, in for a pounding - this is my take on the racket.

'State Of Crisis' begins with bog-clogging guitars that are eventually escorted and forced to pulse with glutinous and poisonous passion.  The travelling tonality has impetus but remains unwashed throughout and the voice is shit-stained, smoke hardened and rasped from a reptilian orifice awash with vindictive venom.  The whole mess leaves one brutalised and feeling raped, some may get off on this, some heavy duty stone-fucks will indulge, I am ashamed to admit that I can see where they are swinging from.  'No Brain, No Headache' is an elongated effort of hard-hitting vulgarity, one that takes a little getting used to and even then, one is still left unsure.  The running time is a problem I never truly overcome but along the way I am aware that the song has a tight and efficient viciousness with a gruff and grinding incessancy that, with a little lack of care, may get well and truly tangled in the cranial network and cause something akin to...ahem...pleasure!  This is a billowing bugger that disturbs the listening leaves and blows them up into a swirling tower of indecision, the wind behind the devilry has a spite, I am not sure where it is aimed at, I take due precaution.

'Satisfaction In Nothing' is a dirty creeper that works inward, sets a steady scene before twang-wanking in deliberating aggravating style so as to provoke the nervous system into something akin to...edginess.  The gnawing edge to the sharp angled wires cuts to the core, the added weight increases pain, the density of the musical mush is perpetual, the motion created self-motivating - there is a nastiness here I applaud.  And increase in effect comes via the next expulsion, namely 'Better Days'.  This quick worked cough up of disease sound travels with purpose, grabs the gruff and rough applicators by the short and curlies and twists and pulls with a likeable spite that causes a curious clash between that which is painful and that which is pleasure.  A ruddy glow is left behind, whether or not that glow displays fondness or disgruntlement depends on your levels of depravity and discordant tastes - I am rating this one the best of the lot thus far.  'Everyday' is a treacled affair, glutinous slutch that I find a difficulty to wade through.  It is of a sticky and cloying nature that pulls on the reviewing feet and keeps one from making any progress of positivity.  7 Minutes 7 seconds doesn't help the cause and as I flee for cover from the incessant heavyweight mush I can, despite my lack of pleasure, say the band are ploughing away in a tight and tidy manner - at least there is some light to behold for this awkward Fungal git.

Ugly fuck vibes begin 'Loser', a taste of things to come.  The band delve deep within the murk, riff it up with the usual beefy mitts and in between fly freer and let a certain fluidity invade and dilute the thick sludge that dominates.  This cleaner and more fluent moment causes a deeper appreciation of all areas and so I come away from this one more than a trifle intrigued.  'Chainsaw' is a thrashing boar of hefty restlessness that bulldozes with pace and snuffles out a reaction if played with extra power in the speakers.  The increase in tempo helps the band make a greater impression and the rapier swishes and general knuckledust aggression combine to leave an aftertaste many will find appealing.  Saying this, this is still niche music and not to be served up at the table of commercialism where all the lightweight fucks nibble and remain vacuous - I think this is a good thing (he says confidently).

The homestretch consists of 3 songs, each one pounding away like a humping misfit on a vulnerable slab of leaking meat.  The first penetration comes from the aural vaults of 'Problems'.  This is a highly troubled outburst, a nob nagging indulgence of head-melting foulness that eventually breaks down into a shattered mess of 'gibber, jabber' wankery.  Somehow the band find it within themselves to summon up one last seizure - I am sure it will do them no good in the long run.  'Blah, Blah, Blah' is a gruelling grind out that appeals to my stinking nature.  It is full of disgruntlement, old fart cantankerousness and exhibits an intolerant level from the title right down to the tunery.  A certain snottiness is suggested, the noise is a testicle squeezing treat and as my attentive gonads are gripped I can't help but concur with the cruelty - I must be weakening.  'Two Feet In Sludge' is a wonderfully entitled piece and sums up everything about this festering unit.  It moves in with slow care, indicates plucker fuckers immersed and has a irrefutable submission to the chosen acoustic artform I find quite applaudable.  The song is as you would expect, the band are in the groove and wallowing in the muck created - I can take it or leave it but man, I admire the absorption.

I am through and out the other end folks, I survived the molesting and have lived to tell the tale - has my honesty appealed or appalled?  I am happy to indulge myself in some of this noxious noise now and again and I reckon so should many others.  Some, like the players, will be thoroughly immersed, I hope they are on medication.  



I put on a gig, Boggy Formby was in attendance, oh how I tried not to catch his eye.  Alas before I knew it our peepers made contact and a CD was in my hand to review, what the fuck had I done to deserve this.  The kid I ran over on my chopper survived the ordeal and the Nun who I bumped into had only slight bruising to her mons pubis.  Perhaps it was that I time when I burnt off that midget's member for charity - surely raising money for one-eyed monks is no crime.  Well, no matter, here I am with a BF CD to be dissected.  I have recently overcome a period of anxiety, I hope this circle of lunacy doesn't bring back the symptoms!  I shall take this CD in reasonable batches, the doctor of simpleness has warned me in advance as regards the dangers of overdosing and becoming 'Formby-ised' - I take due care!

Tonsils cleared, 4 count and 'Ain't She Sweet', 'Feeling Peckish' and 'For The Good Times' are a trio of contrasting efforts that show sub-lusting naiveté, a night time hunger manifest itself in the most basic of terms and a soft and gentle bout of touching remembrance of times glorious and etched in the noggin.  The opener is a chirpy chap of tunery that walks with a strut along monochrome highways where well-to-do ladies turn up their noses at the common ogler with a glint in his peeper.  All seems innocent enough but the eyes are soon tit-bound and an inner core of the intent is uncovered - oooh nasty.  The second effort is a gem, a song about the most common of occurrences and turned into a terse tootle that many midnight munchers will be able to relate to.  It is that aspect that wins the day and one that conjures up many visions of some fantastic sub-surreptitious feasts - oh yummy.  The latter of the opening 3 is tenderly delivered with 'tears of a clown' comic effect that captures the attention with its application of carefully strummed cables, its persuasive powers of pathos and the all-round alternative approach that it offers against the opening two gambits.  A sound start if tha' asks me fella!

The next 3, 'Armarillo' is a piss-take cum homage with a bit of lunacy as per.  The start shows the DIY home-made madness and gives one a brief look into the man at the helm, plucking away on his semen soaked chair and making a mockery of a song that, in its original form, is pure corn.  Neil Sedaka was responsible for this monstrosity, I will make it my business to have him assassinated.  'Babyface' is cute pie of mishapen sugar-daddified madness that dissolves into a lollipop licking session of harmonised youthfulness that then develops into an exposure of the inner black man who does his bit, fucks off and leaves us bewildered.  'I Can See Clearly' is a relaxed rock in the cradle of the mentally crippled with the deliverer seemingly toothless and absorbed.  I like this one, the assortment of devices, the hope offered through eyes that are maybe away with the fairies but are ones that see the light at the end of each and every tunnel - except the one leading to wanky Manchester of course.

The next four are summed up in the waggle of a wombles willy with ' I Saw Her Standing There' a mellow tickle of besotted buffoonery touched and tampered with and given the usual angular edge.  'Reach' is a surprising high and delivered with a Freeman-based lilt that grows from a cared for verse into a chorus of capturing joy.  It is a softly delivered song, tapped by tender tomfoolery but all the while still taken as an uplifting moment to really settle down with.  'Summertime' has a slow-simmering style and it is during these moments that I feel the true cretinous nature of the artiste is revealed.  He is certainly immersed in the disturbing art-form and even adds his own background utterances to enhance the output.  The song just gets going however when the creator folds under a self-induced apathy and calls things a day - ooh the idle git! 'Susie Wants A Wee Wee' is the last of the flashing four, a crude number that leaves little to the imagination and features two local miscreants, one of whom has a problem down below unlike the other who has a problem up top ha, ha.  This is a great tickle only marred by the urine-based audio that does nothing less than turn-the stomach.  One can almost taste that liquid gold - fuckin' hell, what's the number of my psychiatrist!

The classic that is 'Take A Walk On The Wild Side' takes the next molesting as our warped fiddler wraps his clammy feelers around the backbone of creation and bends it to his highly warped ideals.  This is a grand cover and although taking a serious song and turning it into a farce there is still much pleasure to be had for the connoisseur and not forgetting, the cunt.  The subject matter takes us into dingy realms where characters lost (occasionally found) lurk in murk - sounds right up this pluckers street. 'The Old Bazaar In Cairo' is observational acoustica gone mad with a stroll through a foreign market where wheelers and dealers sell their crooked wares and many dubious undesirables lurk and try to make a quick pound.  For me, the best way to enjoy this one is to put ones feet in a bowl of sand, get a picture of a sexual camel and throw one off the wrist whilst being wafted down by a wannabe pyramid fucker.  Tis par for the course, get over it and relax!

The last two as listed, '5 Foot 2' and Lisa's Little Jellybean' are still out of line with straight-line thinking and chuckle pluck along in fun-time fashion.  Tis a veritable vaudeville act that we are witnessing, brought forth into the 21st century and dusted in a spice of sincere goonery.  The second song is the better of the two provided you can stomach the innuendo that is glaring and leaves very little to what frazzled imagination we may have left.  Oooh there's goosebumps on me sausage and a priest awaiting my confessional.  After these latter tracks we get three bonus balls, one an old fave concerned with transvestism and two about the by-product of the anus - I will leave you to delve in the diseased discordance and make up your own mind.

Look people, I have taken my time here, put myself beneath the sonic sheets with the artiste in question and risked my ring-piece of sanity in procuring for you something akin to a review.  I am ashamed of myself, I need counselling and, I reckon it will be some time before I bend down in a public urinal again without clenching my duffelbag and keeping one eye on the door.  Such are the scars left behind when dabbling with music such as this, the problem is...I actually like what I hear...oh Mother what have I become?



Brian from the Bordellos contacted me and after previously reviewing the bands output requested me to have another dabble.  The text with the offering exposed a joyous DIY element and I was informed that the CD under the spotlight was constructed with only the following stipulations regarded - the whole shebang was created on a four track tape recorder using microphones and other recording equipment bought from pound stores or junk shops, not paying over five pounds for any of them.

1/ no song must use more than the four tracks 

2/ all songs must be finished on the night they were started

3/ all vocals must be one take only, even if the mics stopped working that would be the take used

4/ would record only songs written that week and other band members having never heard them before the night

Now this to me is ambrosia, is in line with my way of punk thinking and will no doubt bring me a mix of delight and discombobulation, I wouldn't have it any other way!

We begin with the subdued 'Fading Honey', we are switched on, fed feedback on a rusted spoon and led by the hand down an oral avenue of twining tendrilisation that leads...unto dreams lost, friends just remembered, ambitions pondered.  The plug in and fuck it style emits a constant tinnitus that may test your resolve but one must embrace the lowly production, envisage the scurfy intent and gloriously bathe in the waters of the DIY trough.  The delicacy delivered is honest, the murmurs heartfelt, the caress of sound sincere - an interesting opening that has me wondering if they will grace a Fungal stage anytime soon.  The follow up is the slow meander of 'Spirograph'.  A softly tiptoed number that reveals a love, a loss, a heart stripped naked.  The slow anguish kissed modulation seems at first a trifle insipid but there is a rising radiance that emerges from the general substrate of sound and it weaves its seeking way with quite alarming slyness.  I have listened many times over, there is no rushing this and any other song offered, I am more than pleased by the outcome.  'You Better Run' is a montage of abstract thoughts and visions, each one thrown into a tuneful melting pot of angled intent that moves with a suggestion of a clockwork toy arrangement and perfectly pleasing naiveté.  One thing punk brought to many wannabe's was hope, this is a fascinating facet found here but still executed with a DIY dog’s insight and, dare I say it, talent.  Very natural, very opposing to the idiot dilution invading all areas - nice!

'Rolf Harris' is an eerie creeper that unsettles and upsets if the temperament is delicate and unable to see through the deliberate spiked ambiguity.  Again we have a collection of transient mental tinkerings, carefully licked and stuck into an audio-photo-album of no real order with many pages well-thumbed and some best left unturned.  Interesting indeed and the ad-hoc weavings off-line can only keep one guessing, is there anything wrong with that?  'Sealhead' is a meandering drift down River Somnambulant with a lazy, hazy ripple drip a bare minimalist accompaniment for a voyage to...who knows where!  I struggle to stay alert during this one but can see the aim and, through lidded eyes, I salvage some hope, albeit only for those already heavily reclined.  'She's My Artform' is a song with an attractive title but is a real dirty low-slung dog of sound that comes from a bowl of stagnant water where the ripples barely register.  Not my favourite song this, overly murked and crummily worked - it does have a naturalness and for some reason, I find positivity from the mire.  'Homeless Bound' is a better splurge of shittery and trundles from cobwebbed archives where spiders of doubt lurk and hope to find weak points and flaws on which to feed.  The vibrations that wobble the webbing are subtle, somewhat hippy-doped and drifted but the groove is soothing and brings weight to the peeper lids in a most simplistic way.  We are dealing with a pure strain of DIY here, get off your high horse and digest - you may miss the point.  One of the sincerest highpoints comes via 'I May Be Reborn', a quite generous trickle of introspective harmony that sees a soul settle and become one, detach, re-join and...remain with questions aplenty.  The application of this song is done to perfection, a real slow-cooked stew of subtle flavours, simmered for your delectation and served up with a very noticeable care.  Yes, a big 'yes' at that from me, a very special moment.

A fistful of four next, I skip with tempo to keep thee intrigued.  'Dead Friend Don't Leave Me Hanging' quietly rumbles, takes time, picks its purpose and refuses to inject pace.  The output is tortured, there is a burning agony torturing the creator, the restraint used is muscle-squeezing and the hurt on show is tangible.  'Cloudsounds' is a passing parade of softened touches that are best listened to out in a meadow, away from man-made noise, man-made sway - I need a fuckin' Walkman baby.  'Merseybeat Memories', for me at least, has a chance to throw a rock and roll vibe in the mix and send the CD sidelong on a tangent.  The band miss the chance and adopt the same methodology to execute a song that is a trifle too dreary at this stage.  The need to escape is prevalent, the effort though appears too much like hard work and the end result is of a dismal affair built on wishes that are too much trouble to put into action - a shame.  ‘I Dream Of Jimmy Campbell And Rocking Horse' is a homage to a lost artiste who slipped under many radars (guilty as charged).  I dip in very briefly, uncover an ex-Merseybeat meanderer of capable talent and one who has obvious influence on the band here.  This little ditty is a tenderised treat with dulcet emanations egged along by the merest touches.  A poignancy is created, a feeling of what could have been works its way deep into the soul and creates a thought pattern about the whole sonic shebang - 'thought' is never a bad thing!

To the final curtain we walk, ready to close out the light and have time to collect our thoughts.  Before the swish and silence we have several more efforts.  'Captain Coma' comes from a miasma of murk, gets to grips with a thread, travels with four-wired assistance and scuzzorama slant and somehow manages to make the final tape.  'New York Girl' appears dead on its feet and suffers most from the very DIY approach.  Barely audible and submerged in its own murky machinations I find myself struggling here.  I listen over several times, the lack of volume and vigour leaves me numbed - it was always liable to happen.  'She In The Sun' is artistic hypnotica constructed on mystical touches and accoutrements blessed in choice gold.  The embroidery of the artwork is cared for and woven with a slow and idle touch.  The end blanket of acoustic delight is serene, comforting and of a weft to be unravelled.  I start to disentangle matters, come back in six months - I may be some time.  'Fine' offers a chance to up tempo and provide a shock to the system.  The band however stick to their usual patternisation and I suppose, miss a trick.  I play this one and imagine a good powerhouse recording, a zip in the zest and a pace to get the juices flowing - oh lads, you need to go for it.  I like this one anyway but wish for more - in fact I demand more and throw down a Fungalised gauntlet and challenge the band to produce the baby of thought I have duly impregnated them with.  I am already waiting, surgical gloves are donned!   We close down with the lengthy escapade known as 'Honey Pie', a lovey dovey roaming across a field of swaying verdancy where thoughts are thrown forth, left to go with the flow and allowed to create a sensation of dreamy escape.  The running time is best left unexamined, the way to approach this one is to switch off (not literally of course), and absorb the song and the album overall. 

This, as always, has been a challenge, a tangent and a joy.  The Bordellos appeal to my inner DIY demon, the place where I get my drive from and the core of this crusty old dog who likes oddments, awkwardness and individuality.  I would recommend this to any bugger of the same breeding, there may be errors, there may be matters under-processed and there may be things to furrow the brow but there is much reality, much rhythm and a great abundance of success - it is a mix to examine over many sessions.



What one must understand about CSOD is that they are not a punk band, have members who are not right in the head and have more talent and spirit coming out of their arse than Jimmy Saville’s nob in a cemetery.  They have a dark side, they spurt their sonic seeds with red-eyed mania and whilst throbbing with fervour they hypnotise mere mortals like myself and have us claiming that we are fans.  A shameful confession to make I know but there ya go - CSOD have power, have talent, have an album that needs my attention - imagine my shock before putting digit to keyboard when the band proclaimed they were splitting up - ooh the cunts!  So in a situation of horror and disappointment I plunge in and do my best (as per).

'For Your Blood' tympanically tumbles on a slow regular rhythm laden with poised threat and eventually escorted by oriental guitar dreams kissed with solar gold and caressed by soothing thermals.  No sooner are we settled than a riffery ripples the inner framework and we are called to critical action.  The band pound, punish and pulverise with their own heavyweight formula of metalised mania, a mania that transcends the apathetic and in-scene confinements and crosses necessary borders for those interested enough.  The strings, skins and verbal leader all belt out with booming belief, this comes across in the final product, a product that I am very much convinced by.  From here we get a clatter batter, a string flourish and then a pronounced and mid-paced advancement led by the ever throaty frontman.  'Reborn' is the follow up song, a more jumbled and patchwork affair that takes many sonic segmenst, places them side by side and somehow tries to merge into one end mush.  Personally I feel this doesn't happen and one or two things are disjointed and sticking out of line further than a king-sized dong in a parade of 'Mini-Membered Men'.  The band exude class, play with precision, just some bits need a bit of extra glue and slotting more firmly into place - one has to be honest at all times tha' knows.

'Manipulated' is a beefier and more flowing effort, albeit riding along on the bruised back of many a beaten bastard who dare defy the CSOD advancement.  All inner guts are twisted inside and out in a visceral mayhem of steaming ill temper.  The song wallops along, the chorus cuts are all built on a repeat ramrod of shafting sincerity, the verse violence held in check and given a contrasting smoothness to the more corrugated moments.  The legs of the listener are kicked to clotted hell, we stagger, we fall, it all becomes too much and the band are left to batter us unto discordant death - they do this shit so fuckin' well.  'Named And Shamed' savages your listening lumps with a dense, dictating kicking given via the steel-capped sonica the band so readily provide.  The song is soon free-wheeling and wind-milling against your framework with aggression, heavy duty attacks and vicious intolerance.  This is a fuckin' good do folks, the roll the crew are on is coice, right up until this last release it is dynamic and powerful - I am absorbed, I play over and over - my knackers are black and blue – I have a smile on my face!  'Devil's Breath' is a mauling, a nasty mauling at that!  The intensity is grinding with the stick work perspired and battering, the bass deliciously nob-throbbed and the guitars, as ever, incandescent and inspiring.  Together the musical mayhem raises goosebumps and hackles in unison and fills one with an urgency to get up, fist fuck a demon and kick to fuck every doubting soul.  The oral operator is ideal for the attack, the band are something to be reckoned with and vary the output with ease.  This is violence, this is victory - go fuck yourself if you disbelieve!

Into the final three flings of the bloodied rag.  'Sea Of Rage' is damaging, rolls in on ominous skins before unfolding with texture.  As I am drawn deeper into the labial folds of this cunt of cacophony I get the taste of something very erudite and advanced, perhaps indicating one of the best tracks the band has produced to date - and that is saying something.  There is a growth pattern that sends out seeking tendrils that choke away any discernible doubt and leaves one utterly convinced.  Haymakers, gut pummels and downright tantrumised outbursts follow with a free-flowing magnificence apparent throughout the mayhem.  The satanic force will thermally scar the ones of already blackened heart and anyone of a virginal stance will be turned to a crippled crisp in no uncertain terms.  The final lick of the flames is wonderful - yes, this is a classic!  'Bring The Fight' follows up, seems to be following a typical route when a holler from Hades rouses our soul and has us 'gagging for it'.  A very vindictive piece of noise this, metalised up without apology, ground into your face with a weighted belief and rifed and raped with an assassins skill.  What we have on our hands is a molten heap of volcanic fury that bubbles and blisters with aggressive vigour that really does get the head banging and the fists clenched.  Resist with pride people, don't let the fuckers grind you down, play this one loud and prepare - I think that about sums matters up.  We finish with 'Dead Awake', a blustering bastard of banging noise that has depth, power and insight all slammed into one engine of hard-working, fuck functioning dinnage.  It is in keeping with the methodology of the band, a punishment issued from artistes hands well-crafted in the chosen musical voodoo - we are mere victims of acoustic evil - it feels good.

So, with a twang in the ticker, I bid CSOD farewell and have to resign myself to the fact that another good underdog band has fallen by the wayside.  The full stop that ends matters is done in grand style and each and every contributor will no doubt be dabbling in some way or another very soon, there is always light at the end of every tunnel.  So, why not get this package of power and enjoy the vibes of a band that certainly proved themselves to me, and I hope too many more as well.  Did you get your fill, did you help them along or did you miss out – oh man, the latter would be a pure tragedy indeed.



More dabblings from the Hi-Fi Organ duo who spit their noise out from Cleveland, Ohio.  This is my 4th review of the booming brothers and it would be idiotic of me to plough through an intro just for the hell of it.  All I can say there is some hot talk out there and on several occasions the band have proven themselves to have the capabilities to meet the thermal wordery - can this continue?

'Bill's Bad Day' is a confused frenzy of youthful spunkery, all thrown forth with a jerked, heavily worked friskiness that knocks seven bells out of the eavesdropping framework and has one reaching for any nearby support.  This open attack is spasmodic, untrustworthy and of its own style but, despite all the bluster and banging about, it still has its roots stuck in a rock and roll substrate and coughs up a certain rebellious streak I know only too well.  Is it smooth enough and melodic enough to open this CD - I am unsure but it does have gumption, you decide ya bastards!  'You're My Pacemaker' begins with a superb groove, a haunted house angularity that attracts the lovers of the bizarre, the admirers of the odd.  The opening verse pours out a panging heart, it reveals a ticker trapped, trapped by the unforgiving tendrils of love.  The emotion spills over and the band up the ante and via a swifter chorus make a disclosure that reveals all.  A very catchy bout of funfair mystery that exposes the truth and tonally treats along the way.

'She's A Rockin' Machine' is overloaded with nerved up energy and rising ball juice but, has a certain stiff-spined approach that forces me to hold back on the embracing positivity.  The initial trepidation adds to the wariness but the bounce along follow-on is lively enough to get the toe-tapping and the noggin nodding.  As each play reaches deeper into my dustbin of notice I stir, ruffle the feathers and spit out a feeling of a song that ain't as bad as first thought...then again!  'The Cutting Edge' slaps in with orthodox style, key-scratches in, hits a superb swing move and incites those tootsies into serious action.  The vocal arrangement is the most regulated and routine yet and the back hollers a mere predictable touch  I find this the most 'sane' offering so far, one that has an inner backbone and lacks the roaming experimentation found elsewhere.  This adds a different appeal, it gives a suggestion of a song more palatable for the masses, is this a deliberate plan and will arses be sold to the horned one?  Forgive my reservations, one has to be honest though but having exposed my worries I still admit the song works mighty well.

'Riot City' wastes no time and kicks up a fuss with high dash.  The battery power is functioning well as the duo propel themselves along on strong vivacity where the arrangement is lit from all angles and multi-dazzles the eavesdroppers sensors with a great storm of solar rain.  There may be an insight here into where success may be found in the greatest abundance - put the two-piece up against a wall, give em' a short playing time and tell the fuckers to go for it.  An interesting poser methinks.  'Fire Walk With Me' is down on its knees, almost pleading with the listener to sit up and take note as the opening bars struggle for any positive impetus.  Eventually a spurt of spirit comes, it is a relief and nicely executed and leads us further into the song where desperation remains, a gothic arrangement is glimpsed and the tonal talent of the band moves like melted polyurethane and emanates a distinct thermality of recognisable scent.  This is a grower folks, stick with it.  'The Roaring 20's' has upbeat tympanics welcoming the punter into the punchy party.  The keys are somewhat counteractive and numb the sensation but we soon get razzle-dazzled with good pep and the general gumption exhibited is youthful and laden with sanguine belief.  The band are in the groove of success here and seem to be laying eggs of consistent cacophony with ease - they are pluck-fucking and doing so with perspired zest.  This song nearly breaks all oval expulsions during a frenzied crack up, it kinda shows the energy bursting through the veins of the strutters.

Into the home stretch, I duly gallop.

'Laura' is a wounded animal, pining from the injured heart and pouring forth an adoration awash with anguish.  The arrow of Cupid has hit home, pierced the ticker and sent the rhythm of life askew - one can feel the mistimed beat beneath that which is more obvious and delivered on the dot.  This is a subtle change in some ways and works well, I advance, slightly touched.  'Lost In Today' oscillates with a quick pumping action before nervously moving through the motions with a troubled cacophonic countenance.  Something disharmonious is delivered but at the same time a coordinated regulation is achieved - odd I know, but it is the feeling I get nonetheless.  I am not griping, it keeps me entertained and that will do for me.  Next to the last, 'Midnight Attraction' pogoes in on a single stick before waltzing around on the usual wank and weird ebony and ivories.  The song unfolds, falters, jerks and carries on with a troublesome limp in the gait.  There is a lack of adhesion to the flow, I feel that this one is a veritable slippery eel to grasp but towards the latter lilts gain some kind of hold and recognise something that may appeal.  We fuck off and flip the finger with '122 Hours Of Fear'.  A sharp gothic piercing of cathedral cruelty opens as visions of white-eyed masturbating monks come to the fore and suggestions of unholy disorder kiss the ring of the inner devil. As we stand poised and await deviancy we are given a gush of distressed music spunked through vessels of eternal frustration and semi-smothered rage.  There is an awkwardness, a spiked belligerence, a refusal to follow the norm - these 3 facets alone keep me still involved and interested - perhaps being an ornery cunt helps.

The lads do well again here, they are sticking to their style and sweating out some aural oddments for you to be entertained by.  Sometimes they miss the mark, sometimes they nail it, more often than not they do themselves justice, there ain't a lot more one can expect or indeed, ask for.



I saw Hummer a fair while back, I am sure it was on a Horn and Hoof gig but then again QC Sherry is a cruel mistress and leaves one quite absent minded don't ya know.  The 3-piece hail from Warrington, they state that they play catchy, melodic punk and they seem to be building a bit of an impetus.  The label they are on is trustworthy and will do their bit, all they need now is a good review - alas I can't guarantee nothing until my lugs are loaded and the vibrations have been well tossed around the inner gunk.  I do my duties, I ponder and press a key...and then...

First track, the substrate of silence breaks and 'Daisies' erupt.  The song is indeed verdant and has a certain toughness, not unlike the said plant.   A flourish, a strong surge and a clatter all make the opening bars highly intriguing and awash with energetic vigour and make us take immediate note of a bold intent to make an impression.  Tones are mordernised without being marred by over-technical tossery.  The machine-like coggery turns with honest radiations of riffing goodness and the general production levels get the best out of a band keen to cut to the quick and open with 'fuck'you' flamboyance.  The bass provides a healthy foundation for the slappers and strummers to thrive, this ain't a bad start folks.  'Budweiser And Bitter' courses along like a bold and lucid river with the initial waters tepid but gradually warming up via a good current of bubbling energy and compacted crashing.  Here we drift far more into territory 'new school', as termed in a paradoxical retro fashion thus indicating whereabouts in the history of sub-scene noise this expulsion would best fit.  There are many flavours out there to partake of, this is one of those that always tastes well prepared and sometimes overly cooked.  I get both essences but the flow is interfered with a little too much by some unnecessary meddling.  The blend again is spot on, the arrangement just slightly off kilter with my Fungalised favour – it happens.

'Turpentine' is high activity from the off, a caffeine soaked burst of adrenalin that at all times remains nicely controlled rather than let free with the potential to overtip the scales of sonic goodness.  The band hold the reins with care, just manage to keep the tones travelling with direction and create a mix of exactitude ones lugs easily digest.  I like my fare more rough around the edges and with unpredictable scuzziness but am genned-up enough to recognise a tidy effort when I hear one.  'Workahol' deals with the usual work and play conundrum many battle with and try, with all their might, to find balance with.  Having had my retirement early (15 years in fact) I am now a worker but reckon I am judging things right.  Many aren't, it causes frustration, it spills over and sometimes...causes one to write a song.  This song is wound up, kicking against the routine and galloping with a good gusto - I feel that the band want more time to play - ooh the greedy buggers.  This is the freshest song of the collection, the aerated feel and sprinting application grab my attention, I run alongside and hit the finishing tape with a smile on my rubicund face - gotta be fair don't ya know!

'This Won't End Well For You' has threat in the title but lets it go via the song which I find too similar to many tracks I have heard over the years, a trifle directionless and of a blend that, although articulate and clean, is just to mellow to raise any hackles of positivity.  I listen a few times over, perhaps things here have dipped too deeply into the professional piss-pan of sound, I am just not with the vibe but hey man, if I was in line with every vibe I would be stretched further than the many dicks of a rubber octopus - ooh tentacle-astic.  No, not for me this one but those who like a well-scrubbed cut with weaving ways will disagree.  'Stone Cold Wasted' shimmer shines in, gives a brief hint of something 'Elvis-fied' - shudder, shit, shudder!  The grasp of the sonic straw comes, is firm and shakes out a tune that has good life, an accuracy to be applauded and a running time that is a bonus and keeps things trim and tidy - I have no complaints although I do have a pimple on my cock causing a little consternation. 

The last two and 'Invested' is fresh melodica, seasoned with summery herbs and spiced up with condiments of care.  The dish is tossed in a regulated manner, the thermals that create the upper flavoured steam are mellow with the odd flame rise adding a subtle singe factor.  All the while relish is kept in check and no ingredients spill frtom the final plate of production.  We diners are given good fare, we may need to add a little extra thoughtful sauce and vinegar of volume but all in all, our bellies won't be rumbling after the indulgence.  'Unreasonable' closes matters, is a verbally sharp piece, vocally alert and musically moving with all the usual elements thrown together to give those in the zone one last zestful zip and farewell foam over.  The leaves of tonality are kicked high, a decent vivacity is created and the end coming together of all facets is decent enough - you have had your standards previously set, there is no change here, perhaps you feel there is no reason for anything new to occur - I shall leave thee on that ambiguous note.

A CD that has fluency, feistiness and good production values and one that falls into a certain niche that many, who wander far and wide, will recognise.  I have done my bit, suggested and hinted and left you to go one step further - can you be arsed?

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