The Chocolate Watchband cruise in from California and play out a psychedelic mix that is blended with tonal shadings that transcend time and make their proto-punk vibrations highly relevant in today's multi-faceted musical world.   Formed in 1965 the crew consider and copulate a range of musical arrangements and let it slide forth on naturalistic angles that flow to the heart of the eavesdropping enthusiast.  I am a great believer in mixing the vibrations and many 60's sounds are spun amidst modern offerings and I hope, that some semblance of insight is had - who the fuck knows?   Here I pootle in robes of swirling majesty when hazy, lazy smoke chilled bones and things seemed…less uptight!

'Secret Rendezvous' scuzz strums, heightens itself from a perspective of elevating persistence with the inner rotation of the rhythm embracing and with a call for unity done with sensitive charm.   The colour chart of cacophony is carefully deliquesced and as each shade converges and  each tone drifts into its neighbour, a montage of delightful warmth radiates from cushioned application of yore.  The band have the mix exact, the embracing qualities are multifaceted and the scrunched aspect of the vocal delivery adds a character that could have been easily lost.  A song from the substrate of reality, followed by the exotic tonality of 'Judgement Day'.  This sweet sultan of serenading charm comes from hazy distances and approaches with a reclined sun-burnt effect that worms its way into ones listening framework and leaves an impression of something more commercialised and perhaps a little too westernised for this punk bastard.   I can see where the rays are shining from and what areas they are attempting to light up, I remain in the shadows.  'This Is My Voice' considers matters and themes set, follows the course and is in no great hurry to define anything new.   This is a slightly exotic slice of soothing noise and is a mere foamed accompaniment to things far more mellowed.  The song breaks clouds, showers the children, opens vistas of splendid joy and celebrates with a sound that is the best so far.  A very reclined and rhythmic methodology is used with a slow caress of the soundwaves had.  There is, within the mix, a stubbornness and insistence that things will remain in a status quo, this solidifies the backbone of the song, I think it is an element that works quite surreptitiously and also successfully.

'Trouble Everyday' enters on cushioned soles, wanders a highway draped in bluesy tonality and struts with westernised smokiness that adds an atmosphere of subtle shades.  The approach is once more reclined, leans back and ponders, the sun-touch on the skin is clement rather than harsh and no matter how you look at this one, it is a completely inoffensive offering (which could be offensive in itself).  'Take A Ride' cruises in, taps away and carves out its own runway in mid-paced style and without a seeming care in the world.  I find this one a trifle insipid, I try to ride alongside but veer off in search of something more lively.  There are many who will jump in the vacant slipstream, I just wanted a wakeup call at this point and although all textures are nicely blended and the quality of the mix is spot on I find myself out of kilter.  'Talk, Talk' quietly tiptoes in, poses a question and delivers a tamed and restrained groove that is considered a few notches up from the last episode.   An extra energy and unpredictability is thrown into the box, the vocals have more authority as does the general gusto of the song.  'Bed' is the best song of the last four and replicates a feeling of over hung-over idleness that no matter how one tries, one can't escape when the booze has flowed and the blankets are just oh so fuckin' comfortable.   The creeping crush of an overwhelming emotion is dealt with in usual Watchband style and the pushing pressure to move ones arse is tangible throughout and the recognition of a situation snagging is spot on the mark.

Mystic tinklings come next via 'Bombay Pipeline', an instrumental based on foreign climes where heat sears, snake charmers summon writhing serpents and flying carpets climb on thermals supporting genies of joy and magicians of mystery.   This is a moment to recline to, to puff on the Hookah and duly absorb. No  aces up the sleeve here, just a respite from the vocal assisted rhythm and a chance to dream.  'Desolation Row' is a melancholic snippet that is borne form twilight kissed memories that look back with a paradoxical favour.  The folked drift is gentle, unflustered and with a tear in the tonal peeper.  The words weave, become ambiguous, lap upon your shores of consciousness with warm favour - dip your cerebral tootsies folks, there are no crabs of consternation to fear.  The pinnacle of the whole album comes next with the Stonesy blue tint of  'I Can't Seem To Make You Mine', a quite marvellous masterpiece that gets each and every applied shade just right and exemplifies how good this band can be when everything falls into place.   This has been chosen as the Song of the Month on my website, I need add little more, there is something just so comfortable and thermally gratifying here and I love it.  The final effort is 'Til The Daylight Comes', a song that starts with the chilling idiocy of President Trump before a tender tonal peregrination takes us to the final silence with hope still in our hearts and a subtle defiance not to be underestimated.  This is a definite finale piece, one that will suit a 'live' set for sure, I would have opted for something more flamboyant, angular and upsetting but hey, that shouldn't deflect from the consistency captured and the style that will have won much favour so far.

The CD as a whole is a complete package and although I am not thoroughly taken in by the vibrations I have enough nouse to acknowledge strong musicianship, a flawless application and many a good tune, one of which stands out with great prominence - my bit here is done.



Another CD review, another ear-buggering and more work for fingers getting fucked.  I enjoy what I do but it gets harder and harder to keep up in shit-spiral of general indifference and distracted indulgence.   The Sentence offer me some bog-brush punk done in such a convincing style and a way that I have heard a thousand (and more) times before.  This latter facet shouldn't detract from the CD's value and how the band play out their compositions and with what spirit they are delivered.   I am a mere keen listener attempting to give time and patience for people willing to ask for a verdict.  I could palm them off in a few words, would that be fair - would it indeed fuckin' matter anyway?  The success though is doing it the way you believe in, here is my take on some North-West spillage from guys in the groove.

'Dysfunctional Family' is a strait-jacketed song playing within itself and relating a tale about a bunch of mis-fitting relations all operating to the wanked rhythm of modern-day 'normality'.  The fucked to the core have been brow-beaten and now live without option, without the chance to break the predestined failure.  One or two shatter the mould, many fall short and keep the shit-laden loop turning - it is a tragedy of the society in which we dwell.  The verse cuts here are delivered with an exactitude and have a bitter and disgusted edge that nicely spices the sonically edgy output.   The movement remains fluid as the chorus comes, a chorus without fuss and any pointless candelabras of cacophony attempting to illuminate just for the hell of it.  A firm song this, one to set out the stall, prepare the listener and in many ways still intrigue.  'Bullshit Boys' ups the ante of effectiveness with an orthodox matter of melodic meddling that exposes an insightful and accomplished movement doused with many manoeuvres heard a million times over but ones that are woven into the web of the punk rock heart and always liable to get one all a quiver at the slightest invasive suggestion.  The bass rumbles the guts into action, a smooth sonic shit-out is had with a questioning grimace that is thoroughly apposite for the cause.  The pack of hounds that prey on the vulnerable, twist words and live a life free of conscience are put under the scope of all-seeing reality and exposed for the fucks that they are and the thieving pigs they are so unashamed to be.  This anti-MP strut is a catchy tune and if backed up with some awkward action to make the suited and booted squirm then so much the better.  This is one of those songs you play once and are straight in step with - comfortable indeed.

'Tears Of Joy' looks back, is a nostalgic nob-rot that needs to get over itself, grasp the gonads of the modern day and squeeze out some action, a reaction!  The clock never stops, the rose-coloured glasses distort, the good times outweigh the wank, it seems an in-built survival technique and one that many latch onto.   The song looks from am angle that in some ways rings true but one that omits the cunts, rotters and underhand fuckers who were, in truth, everywhere.  Today things have turned sour and we need to deal with this shit, comparisons like this can be used to cultivate a kick back but very rarely do.  The song is a tidy wallow in times of yore and is played with ease. I know many who love to well up and cast a lachrymal droplet for reasons lost - as you may have guessed, this is not a favoured Fungal track!  'More War' is more like it, balls out, politically active and thumping home its point with a two-fisted, well-paced authority that clearly shows we are dealing with a band soused in acoustic awareness and general long-termed spikiness.  All components, when the gas is lit, show themselves to be in high cahoots and of a convincing timbre that titivates certain tattooed parts never to be cleansed.  A muscular track this one, it gets a stranglehold on the receptors and squeezes out many assured nods of satisfaction.  Fuck war!

'Asylum' creeps beneath the carpet of your cerebral protection, moves with a stalking sweat-soaked threat and contemplates a choking stranglehold of head tension that leads to the rubber room and allegedly therapeutic beatings.   The madhouse is opened, we are given a peek inside, can you feel the mental pressure!   The vice of anxiety squeezes hard, the band apply the emotive tones necessary and make for a cloying and draining discordance that gnaws at reality, defecates on the sense of reason and plays merry Hell with all neurones of the 'norm'.   The outcome - a short spell of taut tonality that does what it sets out to do.  'Running Away From Police' is the pinnacle of this 7 tracker and has many punk angles that are obvious, a strain that is typical but an earthiness and catchy chorus one cannot deny!  The mix is spot on, the pace perfect, the vibrating ping and pogo easiness inescapable and very much in-line with a in-built spiked streak.   The vocals are strong and sinewy, the regulated riffery uncomplicated but efficient - the rest, as they say, is as you like it!  Sometimes the simplest things can be bound together to make the greatest impression - an example is found here!

'21st Century' closes matters, does not alter things, stays within the parameters set and makes sure the band are assured of making waves with many old-school punk rock bastards and bastardettes.  No shockwaves, no fingers up the arse to make one leap up and claim 'faux pas'.  No, just a final slab of ballast to keep the SS Sentence setting off with the sonic sails open and the high seas ahead full of unadulterated promise.  My advice - forget pretensions, mean intentions, pointless deflections - enjoy!

7 songs done, you get what you get and after going over my scribblings and replaying the CD I think many roses of success have wafted their scent in many ways.  I have the band booked, they have many contacts, now they just need to gig, keep scribbling and perhaps next time do a split single with an opposing unit - it all helps fling the rhythm.  One thing is for sure - I shall be taking a keen interest in all that transpires!



You know you get a CD to review, look up some bumph and come across a shed load of propaganda that really takes some sifting through.  I tend to not bother if I am honest, I spin, ponder and remain unaffected by the overspill and if possible try and chuck some Fungalised honesty into the mix.  What we have here are some French dabblers on the cusp of garage, tap-dancing on the periphery of psych-rock and slipping and sliding in the manure of something punk!  Only two songs, a rare single release thrown under the myco-reeking microscope no less and let us see what sonic spores duly float this way shall we!

'A Place I Want To Know' is a numbed track and one that gets dumbed with a restraining order issued early and thus keeping all tones...controlled.  The recipe exposed is of primitive searching among discordant debris many creators of the vibe would simply pass on by.  The opening sub-goose honks fly past, the string shuffle encourages, the following submerged mush is, it seems, worth sticking with.  Chorus and verse come, sci-fi satellites of sound travel along their orbital paths, we get dragged into scenarios not expected and the band flow with their own sound and I feel, just fall short of the mark.   The idea is right, the execution fine, there is something lacking though, an interplanetary collision of ideas that adds an explosive charge methinks – with the emphasis, as per, on 'methinks' (reviewing is both objective and subjective don't ya know).

Track two and melodic mystery shakes off the misted shackles, finds a niche to gyrate to and duly gets on with the hip-grinding job.  'Girls Are Dancing On The Highway' brings marvellous fascination from the opening strains and gets those groovy ghoulies and terror-toned cool cats all astir.  Interstellar injections come, glow beams of garish colours flash across the senses, I for one am whipped up.  The verse comes, the acoustic airways are blown wide open, a sub-sax appeal creates extra excitement and a certain chaos sugar-kisses my off-kilter desires.  A potion of many generic movements is shat from the tail-pipe - those who choke are truly blessed - hop on, take a ride, feel the throb between your legs.

2 songs, one I am unsure of, one I am utterly struck down by.  The joys of reviewing hey!   This band, like many spillages that come from the Dirty Water Label, have me spiced up, on the edge and contemplating what may come next!  It could be a disaster, it could be a delight, these two songs have done their job, the second one is one I shall be rotating again very soon, in!



I have put Born to Destruct on quite a few gigs over the years and seen them go through a few changes in personnel and style.  At the moment, they have a decent following and seem to be on something of a roll.  Myself and the frontman keep in touch and give each other a call now and again and chew the scuzzy and sonic cud.  He is a gent, a man worthy of my time and one who respects my approach and my honesty - which is just as well as over the years I have praised and criticised his output but all with respect and without bullshit which is the most important aspect of all.   I see no reason to change, I am not into those fraudulent insults and so go in here frisky, expectant and fair minded.

'Are You Ready' sounds like a preparatory piece and is certainly just that.    A jig of voodoo leanings on the membranes is had, a rough shake up via rusted cables comes and a hot-roasted holler of the title is triple-twatted in your face - 'let's go' indeed.  The first song proper pulsates, splashes and ascends before the restraining waters are left behind and the band fly through the first cutlet of cacophony with a compressed, fully clad and quite impressive heavyweight accent that is ideally mixed.  The band are in the zone, some neat touches adorn the impact and whilst punching at the abdomen a few nice head shots add flashlights to the senses and make one duly take note.  'Mongrel' is a concrete clodhopper followed by the kick up of 'Meltdown', another song exposing muscularity and straining the sphincter with much perspired labour.   The opening sequence struggles to find a relaxation of the bowels and one awaits the sonic shit to flow with a flourish.  Griping and grinding comes, a compression of all noisy nutrients takes place and we have a brief glimpse of rhythmic respite.  'Down and down' things go - be it the U-bend or your awaiting aural gullet - this is an odd mix and seemingly a therapeutic laxative - the dose of shits I am given is not as virulent as it should be.  'Wavelength' is a more focused skewering and pierces and punctures with a dividing message that cuts the crap and separates the tuned in wheat from the tuned out chaff.  We are all jumping around the airwaves, some digital destinations are best left switched off but many are worth exploring to learn many things from.   The band seem intent on killing the crud, zoning in to their own frequency and cracking on regardless.   No bad thing as is this tune - better than embracing the 'static'.

'God Of Destruction' tampers on the periphery of things metallic, turns over like an engine with only a couple of gears and never truly blows the arse out of its exhaust.  Some chopping sequences are splendid, the promise prior to the chorus lofted, the chorus itself a trifle deflating.   The band slap and hammer, the growls are an expected spice thrown over the top of this heaving slab of sonic goodness.  For me the end product lacks a certain killer cut  but the tune has weight, savages and mauls like a mongrel with a dripping dick and will meet the needs of many already converted.  'Words Of Wisdom' is a tidy bopper, has the integral machinations of a frisky rock and roll arousal and pounds along with good zest but the matter is drawn out for far too long, there are no full blown expulsions to add a clash and collide factor and I lose patience half-way through.  The stutter sub-skids, the words and the general approach are not my thing but once more, a few (maybe more) will disagree and I can see good vibes involved.  To add, what is this 'family' people keep mentioning?
'Survival 101' is a short episode, nail guns in, fuzz spurts, shoots its hefty load and is over and done with in just over a minute - wham.  'Nothing Without You (Volcanic Mix)' slowly waltzes in, nuzzles into a somewhat soppyfied tune, strains out a sincere confession and goes with a semen-stained slant inviting a certain miscreant to get involved and spray his vocal jizz this way and that in the usual dulcet way.  A cute touch, a decent ditty, 4 to go!

A quick march, a preparation, an urge to 'Get Ready'.  Scene set, triple 'yeahs' sent forth to enthuse and away we go.  The incitation spurs on the levels of interest and as the construction develops one is kept cock-a-hoop with an efficient and billowing song that incessantly kicks along and makes a good old dust cloud of discordance animation.   The band are more impressive when the accelerator is pressed to the floor, I would like the crew to contemplate a release where all indicators of urgency are set to level max - it could be interesting!   I love this one - a good rousing event to set the chuff all aglow!  'Drinking The Gasoline' is usual BTD output but with some good swashbuckling flamboyance thrown in to keep long-termed fans involved.  The chorus is simple, a mere repeat but again the chasing swish of the weaponry, raged chant and screwdriven strings that swerve from the regular verve all add to an end composite that indicates deeper belief and progression - oh aye!

'Tank' is a song for grown up kids who, tired of tugging their own trumpet, fed up with fiddling around with back issues of Razzle and Club Internationale are now on the lookout for something more exciting and may I add, manly!  The need to move on with great decisiveness is had, from the wank to the tank we go, with a therapeutic desire pushing the cause and trampling all the dross under the heavy-duty tread of ill-temper.  We all get to a state where we want to clear a few pathways - this is a timely reminder and it ain't half bad don't ya know.   We close the CD with a song destined to be a set closer and one to get the pissed-up punters hollering with celebratory mania.  It is what it is, not a favourite of mine due to the obviousness of it all, the crowd-charming inner section and the sheer cornball strain that gets on my miserable teets.  I know I am in the minority, it is the usual case, I know the lead chap Mr Woodstock will titter and shake his head in understanding - but he knows I am fair and say what I feel.  I do love the final blow-out though and reckon the ones converted will relish this 'in the pit' bout of encouragement - daft sods!

So, in truth, a sound CD that makes hefty waves even with this sonically sozzled twat.  I have reviewed 90% of this bands material, I have followed them on a long old journey and seen them stutter, shudder and shake some shit loose and become what they are now - a well-respected unit with thumping tunes who always give a good account of themselves.  I may not like it all but then I ain't a liar and, more importantly I am still a fan - go figure and go get this one, help the band along and enjoy the doing and dancing for the sheer love of it.



Sharp dressed US punkery that hails from Los Angeles, California and comes forth on tonal waves that are crystal clear in a typically sub-generic way.  Instant eavesdrops show that the band can play, have a good sinewed strength and nail their output with much technicality and roaring passion.   The influences are obvious, the accents as one would expect but, in truth, it has been a while since I have listened to anything like this, so in a go with something akin to enthusiasm.

'Disarm The Police' is a skewering opener, a multi-functional tonal tool that saws, pierces, splinters and duly numbs.   The opening attack flowers into a clear and highly lubricated episode of generically certain pounding, heated up with smoked and seared vocals that blossom greatest during the simple but quite impacting chorus.  All instrumental components and pounded and plucked with perpetual insistence and contribute to an end mush of melodic magnitude.   Not a bad commencement but outshone by the more impressive skank, strum and surge inclusion known as 'Somebody Died'.  Rancid-esque touches are obvious as are influential essences found elsewhere but the band escape the entrapment of mimicry with an exposure of some credible and quite cutting noise making.  There is a flick and kick in the heels of the output,  from the off the animated colours of the delivery clash with style before briefly condensing in a chorus crescendo.  Onwards,  there is a quality in the cut of the cloth, street-cred runs rabid, confidence is a blatant character, a disillusionment with a carefree state of play is had - nice work chaps.

'Alone' is cracked home with a verbal attack opening the gateway for a scream and state sequence followed by a strong push to the awaiting finishing line that comes after just 1 minute and 4 seconds.  In this terse tempestuous blow-out we are treated to some disagreeable noise that creates a frisky breath of fresh air to be blasted up the eavesdropping arse - these quick bursts are a great way to keep the energy levels gushing.  'Dog Food' is more of the same with a few new-school twitches I am not keen on, a lovely skanky fresh verse delivery I am very much taken by and a chorus that has great strength that I have witnessed many times before and can take or leave.   For me the verse compartment is where most elevated success is found and it collides well with the more forceful pushes that are executed with precision and obvious leanings.  Nowt new, nowt old, nowt to be roughly kicked about - decent stuff for sure.

2 left my fruity folks, 'Piss Jug' is a bouncing old jaunt, a semi-snotted snarl up that functions with good life and a blend of generic styles destined to inject longevity into this lilting composite.   A fighting song trying to resist internal troubles and the draw of the temptations gone rife.   The physiognomy is crumpled in consternation and effort, the tendons are pulled tight and the ticker called upon to beat with ardour as this banging song is thumped homeward with great faith.  The last song is a song that brings memories of huffing the old sticky substance til the head rang with the 'wah wah' monster but alas the song doesn't follow suit.   This is definitely one for the lovers of more modernised music with a ska-core element I know a few folk will absolutely indulge in.   Compared with many similar bands pouring out likewise lilts this is as good as it gets and has a certain cleanliness here that again, will dissect the crowds and have the scrubbed up on one side, the lovers of the scurf on the other - it is what music does.

So, in summing up this is highly articulate music not to everyone's taste but with many moments to thrill and admire.  I can hop in and out of the melting pot at my will and can take or leave the produce - this does not make it shit or a hit but is a reviewer’s opinion who is trying to be fair.  The band have talent but in this game talent is not enough - do they have the nouse and the ability to dabble in areas unforeseen?  One thing is, on this evidence and in today's climate, they should do just fine!



Some supposed garage pop from the Land of the Tulip, the place were weed grows and minds create with abandon and we are left to contemplate.  I had never heard of this lot (wonderful, just fuckin' wonderful) and threw myself in Gung-Ho as per usual.  The initial listening was filled with great promise, then after a few more spins thoughts began to take shape.  This is a mix of sub-generic treats to test the mettle of the eclecticism, a mushed potion to push the buttons of the assessing pirate and to keep them guessing!

'Dadcore' is a somewhat mocking sound with an inner piss-take that shouldn't detract from a tonal quality that is fluffed up, open and refreshingly sweet.  The chorus confirms initial feelings, the overall mix gives a sense of something maniacally toy-town with a cute innocence copulated with a suggestion of something shifty.   The movement though is lullabied in affect, corned throughout and very squishy (for want of a better word) and yet, still has relevance and a buoyancy I am happy to be floated by.   The follow-up song goes by the name of 'If I', it screeches inward and then crawls in a stuttered fashion with the uphill strain not really dragging me along.   Eventually a plateau is attained, a drift in lofted clouds takes place, I am still far from convinced.  The movement is gracile, misted and then invaded by a grinding machination that insults rather than opposes.  I play several times, they are the weavings of two separate constructions here I feel and as a copulating couplet fail to give birth to anything I get off on.   The quality found is in the end mix and to the latter end of the song is where the band find greatest success, but I expected a little more.

'Baldy' is a lovely swaying episode of cultured sub-psychedelia softly entwined with elements of other 60's sounds that work an absolute treat.  The mastery is in the lucidity and blend of fore lilts and rear harmonies that all progress with an utterly convincing sweetness.  I am very much taken by this one, strings of yesteryear's sounds are plucked and duly react - the reaction is completely positive, the band have achieved a very warming zenith.  'Sad Supermarket Song' chases the preceding beauty, takes a different course of action, moves with a certain hesitancy suggested by the tympanics, a hint of something surreptitious by the string department, a touch of something searching by the vocals.   The mix progresses into rhythmic rivers more fluent during a well-crafted but simplistic chorus outpouring - the outcome is both mature and advancing - there is also something adept going on, time will perhaps reveal more!

'Sad Supermarket Song' twilight trickles, progresses with tympanic assisted care, finds a flow that is most regulated and soothing.  The components are positioned, the underlay of sound has great exactitude, the oral offerings are ideal for the cause, a cause that is done in a somewhat commercialised and pop-suggestive way.  These strains don't appeal to my spiked side but do appeal to my sense of decency and force me to nod in acceptance of a sweetly crafted song.  The radioed tones and acoustic tickle that follows is brief, uncluttered and very tinny.  'Fly Out I' is done and dusted in the twitch of a spasmodic pluckers chuff - it breaks the flow quite nicely I suppose.

Back to it - 'Blow Up' is self-elevated floating music with an inner reliance that bubble-floats on a charmed tune to sooth the restless, to chill the wound up, to rub down the tense.   This is a gratifying song, has a good identity and many characteristics of a band willing to roam a little bit further in their sonic endeavours.   There is something embracing and thermally resonant within the weft of this one and I stand firm with a nod of appreciation.  'Hello' clockwork ascends,  states the intent, glides along on pop-tones both casual, rhythmic and uncomplicated.  The verse drifts by, the updraft of the chorus infuses new life and lifts over onto aural plateaus of hygienic and may I add, gratifying ease.  No edge, no barbs, no vicious intent - sometimes my spiked angles need bending and a good whole nosh on something different is required and, in this instance, appreciated.

'Scotch Tape/Stick With Me' is an unsettling song, a stalking example of underhand goings-on that masquerades as a love song in some unseemly way.  The cadence is from recesses of uncertainty, the blend of the contemplative to the floating and then the disharmonious is borne of a schizoid focus that duly frightens.   The song hits the target it aims for of that I am sure, is played with close attention and yet leaves me feeling vague.  I move on, looking over my shoulder and checking all shadows!  'We’re All Saints' has a Joe Jackson slant, is a quite an embracing number with an uncomplicated accent that is ideal for those wanting to become involved.  The verbals are scribblings from an approachable mind, trip from the tongue with supine easiness and this almost lazy approach is a touch not to be overlooked.   The song has substance, is like an old friend easily reacquainted with and there are no hidden agendas to be troubled by - a sweet surprise.

'Amen' rises from initial ashes into a billowing number still provoked with thoughtful administration that keeps the song on a leash but allows the acoustic sensations to wander when the time is right.   The opening is unsure, the advancement a little more sanguine, the shroom bloom is sweetly detonated - for a penultimate song this one leads us by the hand into the last with still many aspects to consider.  The closure however is a disappointment (at least for me anyway) and is a drawn out episode I really do lose patience with.  'Fly Out II' is a dreary, foot-dragging piece not in line with musical matter I have a preference for.  I play, replay, concentrate but don't get inspired to tap the keyboard - so I don't.

In truth , this is not a bad effort and despite my well-worn musical soul not bopping with every beat or nodding in agreement with every offering I can still find it within myself to recognise a band with potential, a crew who have good insight into their produce and a bunch of players who have many possibilities in their tank.   Whether they will change tack, carry on regardless or chance their arm with a few far flung curveballs who knows - for the here and now, I leave you to make up your own minds!



Snakerattlers, never seen em', who knows if I ever will but I do know the creators from their last reincarnation, namely The Franceens, a band I was mightily impressed with, nudged along and then witnessed their untimely device.  The players pootled off, I have heard nowt since, such is this wank musical journey of fleeting acquaintance.  I don't know what to expect here, I prefer things that way! Being familiar with the pluckers last bout of spillage though and the fact they are now on the Dirty Water means label I could hazard a serious guess at the output...but I won't!   So inwards, back outwards, inwards again and then away to the next the meantime here are some textual weavings!

'Aither's Theme' is a mere underfloor, an initial layer of sound so as to prepare for the sonic steps to be taken and perhaps begin the overall development plan.   There is nothing new here, nothing outrageously exciting to get the tootsies jigging and the teets of tonality leaking.  Tis a shaded creeper with touches of subtle terror nibbling at ones senses and nothing more - the psychobilly essence isn't lost though!  'All Heads Will Roll' also moves with deliberate and slow-stated intent, this time vocals are involved and the song is leading to destination 'scream' in no uncertain terms.   What starts out as a threat ends up with a vocally violent indulgence, what begins as a mere sedated passage of crooning ends up in a dummy spitting tantrum of hollering incandesce and any initial doubts are left floating in the basin of ambiguity.  The blend of the rising noise is perfectly done with garaged and earthy tones never abandoned and the he/she conflict a sizzling spice to sear the senses of those paying extra close attention.   A tonal tendril this one, reaching out, squeezing its chosen substrate cum victim and eventually creating a firm and assured nod of the consenting noggin - solid man, solid!

'Lose My Mind' takes stark rock and roll basics, snatches at a lick and whips it raw before souping up the whole shebang.  A condensed production room fix is had  whilst maintaining an honesty and individuality via all components.  The raw-boned low-fi edge is sharpened, smart suited and heavy bass booted in just such a way as to give an aural bruising not too impolite.  From the stuttering start a swing is found, the band nail it and will get many fine accolades for the efforts.  The sudden duo-oral burst is a sweet release.  'Do The Rattle' stealth-stalks on graveyard vibrations I have heard many times over the years.  The initial verse is a little too generically bent and falls into the uncertain arms of zones well trespassed.  Despite this, the song has an inner gear grind that works a treat and the overall machinations clank and wank with gratifying gusto but this ditty just isn't a favourite of mine!  Having said that a few extra spins earn extra credit and 6 months down the line - well, I could be jigging and jitterbugging like a good un' - who the fuck knows?

Sinister twinkles from the golden age of TV crime come, a suggestion of shadow depths and lurking untrustables work within the wire wank and tympanic tub-thumping whilst a spectral shading is smeared over the whole end construction.    'She's Strange' smokes with B-movie oddness, defies the cheapo pull with a good consistent rock of positivity and moves from the graveyard with a wide-eyed, hypnotising affect destined to have many brothel-creeping clad horror nuts toe-poking around the tombstones - ooh the shifty shits!  'Rattle Rock Stomp' begins with a stop/start monster truck crushing that slips gears, kicks shit, strains to get momentum.   Eventually the tread grips, the driver at the helm throatily croaks a repeat chant that does nothing less than irritate.  A she-banshee floats her aural tones and throws in the odd yell whilst a groove and move guitar sequence calls upon corned and canned rhythms of yesterday but, I remain unmoved.  The nadir of noise for me, one I deem...pointless.

Onwards, 'Destroy Your Soul' sets out its stall, gives you the fruits of the riffery to squeeze and assess and then lets juices flow in deliberate style and hopefully zest out a verdict of appreciation.  On and on the flow goes, if you don't like it early on you'll be a quivering wreck at the end of the tonal journey but, if like me, you love the vibrations emitted you are in for a steady treat.  The hollowed out style, the banshee roars, the inescapable snatch of sound are all good by me - suck on it!  'Standing On My Own', has texture, has emotion, moves with a furrowed brow of sound and seems touched by a tangible anguish.  The song eventually vents, string escalations come, stretched vocal scorch the substrate, more wire raping ensues and a stagger that seems to almost die on its feet.  The finale eventually is upon us, there is an exhaustion, it is felt within the bones.

From the caves of primitive humping comes the soul-trembler known as 'Ooga Booga'.  A Troglodyte toe tapping interlude of 1 minute and 12 seconds to set the funky monkey chuff swinging and the bananas on the trees shaking, rattling and falling.  Tis a neat piece ideal for starting and ending a set methinks!  'Snake Rattle Rock, Snake Rattle Roll' grooves and moves, takes on a riff well-flogged and injects it with a stated verse that is too obvious for its own good.   The sub-chorus is too fleeting and is an elevation I would like to indulge in a little more.  I play over and over - the final wraparound sing-a-long saves the ass of this one, I throw off my coils of critique and just go for it - sometimes it is the best way!  We close with 'Wild' - a title that promises much.  Strict sticks are placed in regimented style - the strums that escort are equally rigid.   Vocals come, in the usual way - phantoms from the recesses, hauntings from melodic caverns are all put forth with a deliberate directness.  The revolutions increase as the song progresses - the application of the players is as reliable as ever and the end orgiastic scream out full stops with prominence.

And there ya go - in the main some good nutritious noise here with many spices to relish and some laxative-like lilts to give you the glorious shits.   A few moments I find not to my taste but to claim a palette that favours all would be a falsehood and in truth, I am not into that kind of bilge.  The Snakerattlers will hopefully continue, they have obvious potential and open doors to wander through, I may at some point see them 'live' and who knows, I may well scribble a review - in the meantime, you'll have to make do with this and seek out the band yourself!



Reviewing music is no easy thing and one has to be careful, so they say, of treading on toes and insulting the elevated.  This never comes into play with what I do and for me we are all on one level, everyone gets the same service and if they don't like it then my rear end is there to be pecked.  Here we have a much respected musician, from a band I have always held in high esteem and assisted by a bunch of 'names' many will inadvertently or deliberately gush over rather than staying true to an honest ethos.  I can understand the distraction, the sway that will come before true dissection has taken place - some people are just silly buggers.  Here is my take on an anticipated release, one from an Urbanised Dog who is eternally Subbed up and always stretching within the inescapable confines - I step back, shake down, step in and then...scribble!  The release by the way is on Time and Matter Recordings - they know their stuff and have kindly asked for my thoughts - like I say, there are some silly buggers about!

Track the first, 'Arterial Pressure', is a cluttered hammering of industrial machinations that overspill with emotive anguish and urgent rock and roll thrustings.   The outpouring is frayed with a tumbling temperament that leaves blood vessels hanging and swaying via the noise-laden waft.  This is a short, bold and economical burst of muscular tuneage that is difficult to grasp with one or two spins.   I delve deeper, I am of the opinion it is a mere aperitif but one that sets the senses to high alert and gives them a decent kick for the hell of it!  As the tunnel of silence consumes it soon spits out its next plume of toxic discharge, this time scrawled under the indecency of 'Ghost Train'.  This is a delicious piece of regulated rhythm with the singer in his element.  The musical vibes aim to shake the internal skeleton and send a shiver up your spine for all the right reasons.   The true fairground ride where terror awaits is one we have all been dumped upon - the steaming and spiteful shit that is due for arrival at Platform Wank is known as life, it can be a rocky old ride - all aboard you vile victims!   The intensity here is nicely stoked, the delivery indicative of the man at the helm - tasty!

'Dumb' has a snazzy, jazzy element of early NY design that thrusts and swaggers albeit here in a most unassuming way.   The song takes some warming too but when the thermality rises several notches there are many layers to reveal and a certain longevity that manifests itself.   The crisp strings, the forced gob work, the complimentary adornments all keep the noggin intrigued and although this is my least favoured snippet this far - I remain alert and curious.  'Camden Town Gigolo' is an aggravating song that leads us by the hand and takes us down the murky byways of streets well traversed, labyrinthine thoroughfares were lives unravel, where day to day existences assassinate time.  The bass is manipulated, the guitar pseudo-bluesed, the tympanic heartbeat natural and for me the song fades down the final alleyway all too soon and leaves one...flat-lined.   The early sequences get one salivating, eventually we are allowed to feed before the plate is slowly removed and frustration takes hold – bastard!

We trespass further, 'Clumsy Fingers' are grasped next, we enter on a cool and steady stick skip before the grooves are deepened and a hip-grinding slaggery manifests itself via some real glam-tinted dabbling.  The unorthodox patternisation of the construct is where I find greatest intrigue, the natural off-the-cuff sprinklings show artistes traversing a tonal pathway with each and every potential hazard dealt with.  The relish in the delivery snags attention, the flamboyance is both chaotic and organised - a paradox to ponder whilst enjoying the upchuck.  'Heaven And The Angels' is twilight time-out whilst sitting on high and considering a murdering man’s place, his raison d'être, his past and lack of future.  It is a song from the twisted ticker, a sufferance that drags a tired carcass across tramlines of disillusioned discordance and awaits the wheels to arrive and end the aching agony.   All the while the listener is held captive by some sheer perversity and in this instance, comes out at the end of the episode, uncertain!   It is a sludgy, glutinous movement filled with straining effort - a definite mood piece if you ask me!

'Back To Mayhem' is back to typical punkery that there is always a place for.  The script reads out with a formulated accent, the quick verses are interspersed with dictating repeat raping sub-choruses and the blitz of the song is unapologetic and falls with a gush.  The song whips in, whips out, leaves a decent but well-tested taste - it is a good injection to keep us all alert and ready!  'Polemic' regards the artist, the path taken so far, the tick box normality of a noise-making journey.  Tis all gathered up and ends in the same state, the key for me is to follow no-one, hence the 'cunt' like status I own so very proudly.  Here I use that cuntism and pick at the threads, open up any wounds and examine things a little more closely.  The mix has passion but the vocals are a trifle too sunken, the string work slightly bluesed but in a way as to leave things lacking and the overall movement without any decent punch.  It is a song that wavers, weaves, wanders from the middle line - that can be no bad thing and I salute it as such, it doesn't mean I have to tell a lie and hail it as a good un' though.

'No' is a contemplating song, a creation that keeps things cooled, old-schooled with a dash of personality - the personality of the frontman of course.  The journey from verse to chorus is well-lubricated and although we don't follow any scripted guidelines to make the tuneful peregrination simplistic, time reveals the song to be finely composed, of sound stature and a definite creeper.  There is a crepuscular essence, a step-back and consider stance, a moon-pecked eye on the look-out for answers.  I like this one, very interesting indeed and once grows!  'Desperate Dave Is Dead' is a sombre song, gets blue in many ways, relates a tale about a loser, a man it seems who wasted so much.  The song staggers along in a reminiscent haze, reflecting on points that fail to spark interest and with a tune that is too free-wristed for its own good.  There is nothing I can relate to here, I can't pretend there is - I struggle to see any finer aspects, it seems almost unfinished and a song that needs a certain finger up the jacksie, a tweak of a few clattering nobs and then some - again just a personal view and without sway - tis a shit life reviewing!

2 left, 'I'm Not Crying Now', saunters in, vocalises about a dipping-dick situation built on cheap lust rather than worthwhile love - bah.  The effort is emblazoned with firm 4 wired wanking, a splash and crash skin application and some roaming 6-strung reactions thus making for a product that gets the job done in tidy time, with no hidden layers and with no consternation of the brow created - it is, in all intents and purposes, a simplistic effort with added tonal tinsel - I can't argue.  We shut down with 'Deep As Our Skin' - a flick of the switch and back many years we drop with bitch blokes, queens of the quirk and slag rag reprobates all summoned forth and called to gyrate things out of their systems with this rockin' tune that does things deliberately and with neat direction.  One for the golden oldies, the shrivelling shitters, the wrinkled riff-raff - and why not?  The noise self-perpetuates, the overall delivery is sweetly low slung and hits an ever open vein - feel the rush baby.

I am done, my verdict is primarily of 'hit' designs with tattoos of 'miss' thrown into the mix.  The fact is, as is proven over many years, Mr Gibbs has many musical demons to rape and expose and here, he gets some relief whilst jacking off his chosen weapon of discordant war.  Thankfully we get entertained and although I don't roar at the end as regards a 100% winner this is still a decent do and will attract the attention and acclaim of many - but are they being honest - ooh there is always one isn't there!



You can never keep a good underdog down, especially if the buggers throwing out the noisy produce are immersed for life.   Deadlamb Records is primarily a 2 man operation, the lads supported the early SAS Tour I ran with my mate Andy NoizeAnoize and have proven themselves to be real understanding blokes as regards the struggle of all things under the radar.  They are a steady and reliable force that never follow the expected route and are keen to spread the word of international noise as best as they can - always with the leaning towards that which is struggling to get good airplay.  They have done 4 Lambination compilations, 1 Swedish comp, the mighty Spit and Sawdust comp and now the one under scrutiny here. This begins a new campaign that will scour through different countries finding underdog punk. The label also has 44 releases to its name and 4 more in the pipeline. Wow - you gotta love what they do, this is another compilation - I am enthused.

The Nitz open this varied bag of punked noise with the maniacally delivered outburst called 'Welcome To The Toybox'.  This opening blast is direct, chain-sawed and never looks back over its shoulder.   Essences of many obvious flavours hit home, it is the basic instincts where greatest appeal is found.  Batter and clatter, leave the listener bruised and see what the verdict is - that is a formula I like.  Within the hollers we get saw blades brandished, the scars may run deeper than first deemed.  Audible Joes cough and splutter inward next with the sinewy and highly forceful push of 'Majority Rule'.   The song is typical of many US recordings I have heard and for me has a majority of leanings towards times earlier in the 21st century.  The technical skill is blatantly on the mark, the crew play with a tight-assed affect that drops not one error and the throat at the fore is seared in a symptomatic style of the sub-genre suggested.   The harmonised hollers have a good injection of pace and will indulge the crowds - what more do you want!  Next and the Jobseekers 'Spit' one right in your face with a vociferous hardcore industry striving its best to roughen up the listener and sandpaper any indifference one may have.  The output is typical tunery from this rankled pit and roars and scrapes a good layer off the attentive senses.  It will be orthodox matter though for those in the knowing sub-generic circle but the final roar-up is invigorating to say the least!

The Gakk arrive next with ‘One By One’.  They offer up a self-assured threat that no one can ever win when factions within one country collide.  The throat dictates above a hotbed of sizzling sound that works with heavy-sweated design and tight-assed economy.   Flamboyant extras come, the song bubbles over but stays intact and this is one heavy duty repeat-beat scorcher to add another spark to an already fascinating collection of under the radar sounds.  The Jollars bring a spot of street-noise cum football-esque rioting via 'Rebel Boot Boys', a clod-hopping clatter down the alleyways of your mind were 'Oi' is sprayed on the walls, freshly polished Ox-Bloods propel shanks and no slackers are tolerated.   A boisterous boomer this celebrating an identity, not giving a fuck and fitting into the sub-generic pool with ease - it clears the head that is for sure.

Cracking along here and United Bottles throw in a professionalised cut of liquid noise via the effort slapped down under the name of 'Ghosts Along The Gangland'.   The impetus is high, the unity between players tight and the end production complimentary to what the band are doing.   An outpouring that transcends European/Us Punk and seems to hybridise the two - nifty!  Next and 'Stray Bullets' are scattered by the group of degenerates known as Grit.  The she lead blows out a trail, the feisty tunesters follow in the wake and along the way we, as mortal listeners, get dragged along with appreciation to my spiked and studded joy.   The short running time, the galloping impetus and general gusto work a treat, one need add little else.   The 2 Deadlamb creators are up next, as part and parcel of the long term unit Nomatrix, a crew who have done their time and continue to do so, once more issuing out a fine blast of honest noise with the clattering cacophony flying under the name of 'Struggle With Momentum'.  This song certainly doesn't struggle with momentum at all and hammers forth with the briefest of respites offered just to add that contrast factor.   The final chant is demonic chanting on whizz - and what a good way to end a quite bulldozing song.  

The Turn take us into the final run in, here the band under the spotlight offer a sound I liken to early 90's DIY US urgency with a brandished knife of sound primarily reliant on gushing enthusiasm and a speed injected desire to nail the noise and the message.  The song 'Deaf, Dumb And Drunk' is a pace burst laden with youthful energy and adds yet another subtle twist to a well-compacted CD.  Deathgrip turn up the white heat and spill the hardcore conflagration that follows the duo-lead route used and abused by other bastards of hefty intent.  'Slave Rinse Repeat' is a bubbling broth of spitting mania, crossing vocal swords throughout, slashing at the resistance and letting you have it full in the face in no uncertain terms.   The throats are burnt to a crisp, the application of noise hurtling, no prisoners or mere passers-by are left standing - the band do it well.  
A skanky cum street-rap cum oddment is donated by The Divils, a moment that throws yet another boomerang of awkwardness and keeps me chivvied and all agog.  'Do Something Positive' may over-elaborate at times, may be a spanner in the works, may not be to everyone's liking but there is a mix to munch on and many elements to applaud as well as an out-of-sync blatancy that sticks a finger up the jacksie of your expectations.   The band showcase much, leave you wondering and hopefully get you investigating - that is success methinks.   We piss off into the final silence with the opening tribality of 'Both' by Shitthatt.   A screwing, spiteful and sinister sounding piece of colliding kit that has a docu-style essence and something to throw the senses sideways.   As many know, I like shit that is thrown from hidden niches, this is what I deem punk to be - a boundary stretching force to fuck the norm - I think Shitthatt do that here and with the musical news reel turning and the tetchy backdrop of sound unsettled, I am intrigued.

And Deadlamb do it again, mix, match, keep it unorthodox and bring together tonal treats that, without the labels help, would perhaps stay too far apart.  My admiration is high, my gratitude at being allowed to listen in and scribble is, as ever, genuine.  I hope all and sundry plucking on here and the label themselves take one snippet of advice - 'just keep on doing it for the sheer love of it - idleness is not an option'.



Released on Svart Records this is the first outpouring in 10 years from a band who create out-of-body experiences via instruments of revamped junk that defy the listener's initial thoughts.   Avante garde in many respects, experimental in others and with oodles of electro-romances nostalgically touched and coughed up into the present day.  The band hail from Helsinki, I have 10 tracks to get my assessing choppers around, here is the outcome of my melodic mastications.

'Playoff' is a somewhat tender introduction pulsing and gently popping with carefully wired-up circuitry carefully surged with slow sensations of deliberately positioned tones.   Programmed with exactitude this is almost a reincarnation of an early 80's home computer theme track, a pixelated design blossoming from a long diapause where acoustic molecules have broken down and redeveloped into something more advanced, more complete – I like it.   The follow-up is a segment scrawled as 'Leap Of Faith', a more robotic and deliberate dance-inducing number borne on initial bassed vibrations and cellular softness that harks to influences obvious.   A warping of the regulation is brief with the song though in no rush to punctuate matters.  The application is outside of my forever expanding sphere but that doesn't stop me from stepping back, taking good time and striving to nail the exact value of the expulsion.  I find it highly listenable without having to strain too hard and without any profundity that needs a scratching and searching approach - I don't mind that now and again and even though the travelling time is overstretched the crew just scrape by and avoid a Fungalised dig.

'Shadows In The Air' moves from a distance, manifests itself from murky mists, offers utterances with shaded ambiguity.  The emphasis is placed on a slowly-brewed suggestion, left somewhat to cast its aroma beneath your aural palette and hopefully win a cultured praise.  For me the song needs elevation and never really leaves the initial foundations set and so remains a somewhat flat-lined and sombre piece of work.  I presume the latter is an intentional aspect, tis a shame I miss the point and am out of sync!  'We Work It Out' is more liquid, more creamy if the truth be told and is a grooming piece of understated sub-electronica that quietly chugs on its sedated way and makes very few ripples.  It is a tepid and uninvolving song and leaves me with thoughts of a song that is insipid, overly monochrome and in need of a midway injection - just my own thoughts don't ya know!

'Je N'y Crois Pas' - oh cripes, I just don't believe it, a song in French - pass me the Monty Python Phrase Book - my nipples are not exploding however! Here we have a dreamscape of soporific sensations that really do point ones senses to the Land of Nod.   A European lullaby that barely keeps itself upright and floats on in into a doping miasma of gracile mistiness one needs to avoid breathing too deeply.   A million miles away from matter I deem worthy of my turntable time but a contrast done with careful exquisiteness.   This song though and the next, 'Life Among The Concrete Dust' are too subdued, inert and somewhat dragging.  The soft touches are done with assured care but I find myself disinterested here. This latter song also lurks for far too long - darn this punked streak!

'Living On The Streets' quickly tiptoes along the skirting board of your conscience, gently burrows into the awaiting substrate and surreptitiously offers a threat.  The odd splinter is cast into the attentive and labouring flesh, all parties are woken from any potential slumber.  The underscore is Twilight Zoned, the vocal overlay sinister, the added quirks and jerks a sign of a band reaching outside their own comfort zone - an odd one to say the least!  'Input Output' digitally potters, clanks, picks up a threaded curio and clutches onto it with the eagerness of a mad scientist grasping his recently borne creation.  Here, from the test tubes of tonality and the petri-dishes of acoustic dabbling, we get another sci-fi strip-down that gnaws at normality, transcends time and duly 'fucks about'.  The verbal statements shadowed by a wired-down gremlin are disparate and yet kindred spirits from a computerised asylum - a very interesting concoction many may not understand!

Last 2, 'Party Teufel' is borne once more from the golden age of pubescent computer games when pixel-perfect manoeuvres were needed to get your bog-basic vessel in and around many intergalactic blocks so as try and meet the much anticipated 'end boss'.  This bout of throwback basic music from the tip of the digital refuse tip of yore is souped up with the tools of the tinkerer and what we end up with is another oddment to confound.  Do I like it, do I hate it, am I fuckin' bewildered - aaggghhh!   Last up and 'Intersubjectivity' pulsates, groans from the depths and yet carries on with stubborn, pre-programmed insistence.  The first oral seepage takes its time in trickling forth but when it does come I feel...gratified.  This is a finalising piece done in the style set, done with no rush and delivered with an appreciated curve upwards into a steady synthoid wander that somehow...chills.  Nothing outlandish, nothing ground-breaking but something quite reliable and with a good beat to swing with.

Cleaning Women have their own way of doing things, do so with a minimalism and cater to those from many scenes who are on the lookout for something different.   There are no real boundaries here and within the weave there is something for everyone to contemplate and enjoy.  They have an interesting movement going - can they keep things angled, dangled and different - time, that sneaky bastard, will duly tell all!

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