4 more tracks from a band who deserve good credit for hanging in there and keeping the flow going.  This is a blend of 2020 recordings showcasing the depth of talent the band possesses.  I don't need to hang around here - in I go, listening, assessing and spilling thoughts.

Pseudo-jazzy classiness trips the dancefloor with a primarily keyed toe-tip skip of capturing fruitiness paraded under the tag of 'Princess Paranoia'. The lady takes the stage and does the business with a song that throws one off the front foot and gives one with something to think about.  I am not instantly embraced and, if the truth be known, this retro-club construct with ad-hoc elements is not my thing but, out of decency, I hang in.  What comes is a groovy moving seductress of sound that relates a tale of a mind gone AWOL and a situation made messy.  Thinking creates a stinking, the lady under the spotlight loses out.  On first listen to this number I was unsure, continued effort cultivated greater interest and then I was smitten.  A slow boiler this, they usually turn out to be the best.  I applaud the final impact made, this is cultured and well-balanced exploration opening up numerous doorways of possibility.

'Sniffing Glue' is a sure-fire beauty and has a certain adhesion one could easily get addicted to.  The crisp cables have a slight rusting, as do the vocals thus making for a very complimentary coupling.  The bass and sticks are in cahoots too and provide an underlying throb thus making for a double-duo delivery that comes together and makes for a quite sub-dramatic composition that has all the hallmarks of a smoke-laden retro dive musical snippet.  Cool yet thermally radiant, minimalistic in many ways but a very complete end product this is the second creeping charmer in a row - I advance now with expectations high.

'Antisocial Insecurity' is a sincere masterpiece based on caring observations and deeply instilled political disgust.  The ones at the end of the whip are kept inline via a systematic regime that feeds the rich and donates to the poor a bigger heap of suffering.   The textures of the strings are considered, laden with melancholic care and perfect for the ticker-touching intent.  The song slowly weaves a path through the thoroughfares of everyday reality, a place where many are pissed on from a great height by the parasites and players.  I am totally convinced of a subtle classic here, everything comes together and showcases a band with depth and with a soul - have it.

The closure comes with the very feisty and gratifyingly effective 'Born In A War', a song I know well and one I am more than happy to absorb and rock along with.  The firmly skipped strings of European leanings, the honestly struck skins that demand attention and the bass throb that always brings good weight to each and every song – all contribute to a strong structure to applaud.  A really tetchy song this, pondering the death bringing battles and the babies born into a realm of utter idiocy.  From the seared verses we fly high into an ideally complimentary chorus push before dropping into pseudo-mystic tribalism that takes us back into to a good clomp/romp and chomp to the final shutdown - wonderful.

For me, this is a quality saturated 4 tracker blending styles and keeping one thinking.  There are many angles in the musical world, they are there to be used and tested, it can lead to many surprises as found here.  The scores on the doors for this one read out as 90 out of 100 - oh aye. 



Ignored to Death - just like the band in question, just like so many overlooked gems in many niches.  The Squad of Vice spill their thoughts here via a very impacting 4-track collection with again, a couple of favourable songs thrown into the mix, songs that are drilled into the consciousness without me even realising it (until now that is).

'Ignored To Death' is a super start with stealth and threat combined via some taut and mean driven wire work.  The opening chorus has intent, drips with loaded accents and when accompanied by the salivating lead lass, who is up for the task, we taken through an opening verse that has weight and a certain prowling sanguinity.  The chorus insert is simple, does what it needs to do and adds a certain stress relief whilst stating the case of those overlooked and those missing the needy.  A break drifts into the mix, offers a tinge of sobered sadness, the song then clouts on and finishes leaving a certain bold accomplishment in its wake - I like it.

'Out Of Reach' is a galloping and breathless mare of sound whipped along with keen gusto by players still alive, kicking and striving to slam home their stylish efforts.   One needs to grab the charging nag of noise by the tail here, hold on tight and make sure the discordant dung doesn't cause too much upset.  I grab, feel the kick-back splatter my carcass with an endless avalanche of fiery desire. The band nail all areas and maintain a supreme tight rein throughout.  The furlongs of silence are trampled with extreme haste, the rhythmic rails are hugged, the ground covered with controlled tetchiness - this is not my fave but it does what it sets out to do and runs a sound race.

'Latex Love' thrusts and struts with gritty grime and suggestive chuggery.  Pace is pumped, the chorus chunks are semi-naked and the verses mere quick penetrations that are of 'Wham, bam, thank you ma'am' construction.  There is no holding onto the bed-rails here, no sense of sonic decency - the band let go their emotions, hump with ardour and breathe new life into an old cacophonic carcass.  Not a bad do at all if you ask me – ooh me cranial orifices.

The closure of this quartet is the mixed-up 'You Can't Buy Back The Dead (WW3 remix)'.  The band take the fundamentals of the underrated classic, meander and manipulate and create an experimental mix that works and has one gagging for a full-on revisit to the original ditty.  I resist the temptation and plunge a little deeper here.  The blend of the testing and the tamed with the cemented and sub-famed comes forth in a dish served up over a 5-minute period which may not to meet the needs of my short and sharp punky nature but does keep me entertained in other ways.  I consider this a decent dabble, in some ways a teasing bugger and an arrangement that holds attention - as per, it is good to keep things varied.

There ya go, thoughts and considerations dished forth via the Fungal fingers - the score for this slab of sound weighs in at 75 out of 100.  I have decided to score all these 4 track offerings by the band in the same way - 25 points per track, make of this latest verdict what you will. 



Vice-O-Lation Volume 2 and the last of the 4 track reviews to date from the Fungalised doofer who perhaps, is just too keen for his own good.  Here I see before me some updated offerings that tempt my tonal muscles.  I spin, spin and reconsider before repeating the process and then eventually summoning the digits to tap keys.

'Water' is seemingly awash with desperation and a pleading need but when examined is of regret and rebound thus bringing to the fore the oral abilities of one Beki Bondage, a singer with more in her armoury then just looks to be ogled over by the fat washed up, addled headed punks.  It is all about the vocal brilliance here that rises high over an ebony and ivory substrate of natural reactive application.  The reflective approach, the feeling of being unclean, the nipping at the ankles of the sable cur all contribute to a moment that is simple par excellence in its most purest form.  How the commercialised world is dominated by so much crud when quality like this remains untapped is beyond me - thank fuck we are clued in.

'West End Stars' is a strong contender for one of Vice Squad's all-time top ten winners, here the song is stripped down, rehashed, given extra character and comes across as an absolute stunning piece of work.  Beautifully mid-paced, gently undulating and drifting with an erudite application borne for players well-versed, this is a monumental masterpiece and an example of how the understated can be more powerful than the glaringly obvious.  The delicacy has strength, there is a gracility that has good weight, a tenderness that has a distinct firmness of grip - a tonal paradoxical triptych to keep one utterly absorbed – I am thrilled.

'Basement Life' drops into place and helps make this exemplary 4-tracker hold onto its high performance levels.  The song scuttles in from the distance darkened recesses before adopted a cool pose and dealing with more stark reality.  The verbals reveal the rougher side of existence with folk backed into a corner and living a sub-standard life due to the overall tight squeeze put in position by the bastards detached.  The drift of the lilt may be gentle, tender and strategically played out but the barbed angst is there and provides a perfect sweet and sour spillage done with erudite musicianship.  A solid inclusion.

'Spitfire' tub tumbles, snarls, string skips and weaves a path that is direct and forceful.  The overflow is awash with spirit and belief, a radiant bastard of spite standing its ground and making sure the impact intended hits the target zone.  The construct of the cacophony is mercurial, at times whips up into an unstable frenzy but all the while stays on the right side of melodic.  The 'off the leash' moments work a treat, inject great impetus and animation whilst making sure are lugs are kept keen and entertained.  Fiery stuff.

And so I am outta here with another 4 VS tracks shot down and an award of 91.58 out of 100 (one has to be awkward) granted with a special rosette awarded to track two for its kind service to the Fungal earholes - what a listening zenith - have it.  And for those who say many old dogs are lifeless, well in the main I agree, but this rabid rhythm making mongrel is still barking with noticeable spirit - watch yer heels folks.



From 'oop' North in the Calder Valley of West Yorkshire come the emanations of folk dabbling and staying on the outside of any specific suffocating sub-circles.  I am unfamiliar with the pukings of the tonal tribe and so examine what is propelled forth with wary senses - you can't trust these dwellers within dubious recesses - one false move and you may get aurally bummed.  I expose the belfry-based orifices nonetheless (I like a risk) and get penetrated by a quartet of tunes I have tried to assess as follows.

'Burn The Heather' coolly emanates a smoky plume built on coffee-room transmissions laden with reclined rhythms and aromatic touches.  The make-up of the song is jazzed onto the creative palette with a skid and shuffle guitar backed by bumble-bass and nerved-up tympanics.  A certain randomisation of construct comes with a feeling that the band are wandering off-line whenever the fancy takes them.  Within the weavings some kind of musical witchcraft takes places and casts many a sonic spell - I gradually fall into a dream-like state of hypnosis and reckon this is a decently constructed track outside of my normal listening sphere.

Onto 'Television', an oddment with off the cuff and sub-math movements that seemingly adds, subtracts, definitely divides and then comes up with whatever answers you want.  The talk and trashy angularity is seemingly extemporaneous experimentation but the collective arrangement defies this cerebral leaning and convinces one of a band who know what they are doing.  The more I listen the more I become absorbed here and taken in by the anti-mainstream meandering.  The musical application is both random and exact and works a treat with some seriously bitter and edgy utterances had.

'Cain's Heresy' offers up an initial lick to catch hold of and thus partake of the vibrating goodness found therein.  Shimmer shakes, a certain desire and a smattering of contained excitement follows.  A delirium invades - it comes in fits and starts with a frustrated disgust apparent. The multifaceted diamond of resonation glimmers from all angles and dazzles us with a myriad of tonal sensations whilst all the while offering threat via volatile responses and acute hollerings.   There is something very thrilling going on here with a real strain against the sonic strait-jacket had - I have no gripes.

We close this EP with 'Valley Bottom Fever', a ditty that begins with submerged verbals before cracking on with an orthodox rush and an overspill of enthusiasm.  Clobber and clatter is the methodology with all guns blazing and a recklessness combined with a tightness to admire.  The frisky all-happening components are a good alternative to what has transpired thus far and the general upheaval works well.  There are many throwback elements here along with some 'fuck it and see' suggestions and, most importantly, awkward nuances thrown in to keep one guessing.  Yeah - this is another ditty worthy of my rather stretched time.

And come the end of the CD I am left in a state of satisfaction with a feeling of not knowing why.  Sometimes, music is a slippery eel and leaves one unsure as to why it works - this is a gratifying feeling.  Here we have gusto, ambiguity, off-kilter vibes and a blend of many influences - I like this also - it will be interesting to see what the band cough up next? 



The Subsonics of Atlanta are paid tribute to via a gathering of several bands from all over the globe doing their bit to cover a chosen ditty.  Minimalism is souped up, but still used as a backbone to create some spiffing and in-groove numbers.  I go in excited, I absorb a different form of gutter-glam, I come out...well that would be telling!

First off and 'I Can't Get Out' by Ugly Sounds is a beauty, a frisky number awash with bee-buzz nervous energy that transcends the turn-table and gets one all of a jangling jitter.  The spittle-soaked snottiness of the verbals, the head repeat stick work and the utterly shithouse basic application all combine to achieve the tribute factor and create a darn good listening experience.  The opening track always needed to be an uplifting and fruity number - we have just that.  Kid Congo follows up this opening energy burst with the more deliberate 'I'll Make You A Clown'.  This is a perfect counter stroke to the previous number and adds a very distinctive compliment thus making for a very pleasing brace that gets the stripped-naked basic loving music juices flowing.  This second snippet is a mid-paced chug that allows itself to work with minimal effort whilst capturing the maximum potential.  There is something so rewarding about a tune created with a skeletal framework that has so much end flesh on the bone - I remain convinced.

'Frankenstein' is a great song, reminiscent of the patchwork monster held together with the most primitive stitches, but still laden with appreciative life.  The advance is sub-staggering and deliberate, the tones dreamy and more relaxed than the original, but with the same plodding appeal.  The science behind the structure of the song is simple (as per), the attention to the original and the make-over is spot on, this one does the business and has a quite lazy feel that works well - strange hey? Well so were the band.

'See Thru Honda' is pure impish deviancy built on a poke, prod and provoke basis of dabbling instrumentalisation straight out of the cavernous recesses where the experimental perverts dwell and make niggling noises.  Disturbios do what they do, seemingly having a sexual sonic smooth smooch with tonal titbits outside of the norm.  This is a little odd curio and one I am not offended by.  I am kinda groomed here - darn those bastard ear-worms.

A fistful of four opens with the rock and roll agitation of 'Pretty Pills' by The Mings.  A real throwback jitter of bug-happy energy this that sees a pub-rock inflection also contribute to a very enthusing song.  Time is not wasted, the band grab the original, shake it by the short and curlies, throw it about and fuckin' nail a darn frisky affair.  I appreciate the cool-cat grooviness and general gusto - a solid inclusion.  The Oubliettes slow up the pace with the dreamy coffee-cup love escape of 'Shady Side Of The Street'.  This gentle susurration is an unexpected turn of events with tenderly rippled guitars, languid tip taps of the tympanics and a whispered adulation coming from contemplative lips that capture the emotion sought.  Out of the light, into the shadows is the place aimed for, away from the vulgar exposure and into a darkened thoroughfare of safety - I get the gist, I love the song.  The fact that matters are over and done with in double quick time is more than appealing.  Fruity ruptures come and a dance-inducing scuzz serenade fills the air as 'Red Rose' by Cult Cobra pervades, provokes and gets one pinging to the hearty pulsations of sub-surfed goodness.  This is fine old school music-making with tangs of yore and pangs of the innocent - I like it and play over several times to fully immerse myself in the mesmerism.  The Reptilians From Andromeda cough up the steady plod of 'Eyeball', a song very indicative of the bands primitive and effective style that is loaded with deliberate obviousness and striding sonica.  What transpires here is a well-balanced blend of freshness and musty mote-laden music that works well, especially when injected with a certain spacious swirling animation that just keeps on moving and grooving.  No complications, no reason to prolong matters -in, out, that is what it should be about - I consider myself impregnated in double-quick time.

The last trio of tunes, 'I Didn't Think You Could Take It' by Sloks is weird, quirky, blatantly tribal and from another realm.  The vocals are semi-submerged and make things difficult for the listener, but the trimmings of the stripped bare original keep one wondering and, in some instances, clutching at sonic straws.  The fuzz is a little too dominant here, this is not my fave track, but is in keeping with the spillage.  Electric Shit With Walter Daniels coughs up 'La Bondad y La Maldad (Good Half - Bad Half)' - a real low down and dirty fly-blown heap of trash this with the spume of the spunkage giving off a vulgar undercurrent that is whipped up by some vigorous skin slapping.  From just beyond the midway zone all instruments fuzz-fuck and clatter batter with some kind insane glee and we are taken to the finale with a questioning look on our faces - did we just enjoy that or was something truly horrible attacking our sense of decency?  Only you can decide.  We finally fuck off under the guidance of Black Mekon and their dirt dirge known as 'Do You Think I'm A Junkie', a soft and tender sounding song that floats on forth, floats on by, floats off into the distance.  Between the start and the finish, we are given a trip into substance assisted soporific escapism with a certain carefree abandonment of the soul had and a degenerating need satisfied.  The tones are lazy, heavy lidded and just on the right side of alert, but the essence sought is an essence captured and the snooze-inducing job is more than adequate.  The recline into the final silence is more than convincing.

So, a band paid tribute to and all done in fine style.  Fans of the original artistes will find little to be offended by here - I offer thanks to all those involved and for a collection of covers done with a good ear for the sources used. 



On Smash Mouse Records the band, No Murder No Moustache, knock out some DIY Celtic/folky noise that drips with attention to detail, in-scene conformity and a great kick-back spirit that must be heeded and used as a tool to get the arse in gear.  The band are new to me, I take my time (as per) assessing the stripped down and manifold musical layers and then make an attempt at capturing the gist and the impact.  The arthritic fingers are crossed in the hope of hitting the mark and m personal thoughts are as thus;

'The Odds Are Stacked Against' begins in traditional style before stripping down to the waist and relying on nothing more than spunk, focus and the intrinsically basic elements of music making.  These initial semi-clad coursings are a risk but immediately expose a band that know what they are doing and certainly know how to do it.  The quality levels are of a very gratifying standard and the resistant stance is nicely nudged to the fore.  There is energy here and an ethos - if the band back up the verbals with action then we all have hope.  This is a solid opener without being overly intruding and unnecessarily flamboyant.

The follow-up thrust is a shindig, a merry-go-meander of shantified spirit and goes under the name of ''Sing! Fight! Run! Survive!' - 4 words that can say so much and get us all activated.  The tumble of verbals that ensues is worthy of aural attention and is spilled with passion and angst - an angst cultivated by the power-consuming filth that dictates from a position of comfortable detachment and deadly ignorance.  The call is to stand firm and recharge the batteries and remind the fuckers that we are far from done.  In a world of complacency where musical messages are barely heeded I feel it crucial to remind folk here that the words outweigh the weaving.  This is a good fast-paced melodic moment, but please listen in and get yer heels dug deep.

A sombreness and a more stated cultural moment follows under the banner of 'Since The War Started', a momentous masterpiece of heart-snagging emotion taken from the warzone where lives are thrown away and futures are wasted.  From the frontline a voice comes, states the state of unfair play, reads from the diary of loneliness, abandonment and utter disillusion.  The strings are plucked with tenderness, time moves on, and still the situation of tragedy and betrayal continues.  The madness is dealt with in the most skilful and sincerest manner - this is a song not to be trifled with and rises to a looming statue of considered authority.  Marvellous.

A flurry built on galloping accoutrements and much feistiness next, 'A Million Whisper's wants unity, refuses to waste breath and gets to the point, demands and gets the fuck outta here.  A short surprising inclusion the breaks the flow, does what has to do and falls into the chasing number known as 'Let The Anger Into Your Heart'.  A straight-ahead affair this with the most austere structure so far with all areas defined and in their obvious place.  The vocals are spot on and have a good depth of feeling, the strings combine and bend and blend with cohesion whilst maintaining excellent melody, the stickwork is animated, in line and organising - the result is of a very solid song.

'Sut Tyffod Y Gath Mor Dew' is delivered in rich valley-kissed tones and so leaves me standing as, despite my Grandmother being Welsh, I am not a linguistic genius.  I take the song and judge as a mere musical snippet and find the flow, the accuracy and tightness all more than adequate with the bands vim and vigour highly applaudable.  The cacophonic cat is in danger of growing fat on offerings such as this - and why the Hell not?

We shut down with 'Feels Like Home' a snappy and lucid piece with the tickled strings and vocals taking precedence as the bittersweet lyrics tumble, once again calling for unity.  The world turns to shit in many areas, hope springs eternal for the ever-optimistic, the question left is 'why the fuck can't we pull in the same direction'.  There is grit and determination here, radiated via a strong song with several layers of rippling passion.  Tis' a brew not to be gulped, but one to sip at and roll around the palette and then take heed of - idleness and apathy is not an option.

Despite staying within the boundaries of the sub-niche the crew here have a nice spartanised feel and a good knowledge of what they want to pour forth.  A 7-tracker is an ideal offering and brings good balance.  It feeds the interest without over-glutting it and as a result I am more appreciative.  Let us see where they go from here.



Another double A side release from the masters of the subdued, the primitive and the most unaffectedly appealing.  I dip in and dip out of what this band do with several CD's tackled so far and given the usual Fungalised going over.  I must confess to being a fan, what comes forth is a refreshing kick back to things more processed, polished and ponsey.  There is an ethos running deep here, an ethos I gravitate towards, a spirit that any underdog supporter will undoubtedly be charmed by. 

'Daisy Master Race' is smooth swirling lo-calorie chocolate, slowly concocted with the chef's own special brand of creative cookery.  As soon as the oven door is closed and the finished recipe begins to rotate there is emanated forth a pervading essence that is put together with the most basic ingredients but appeals to my ever-roving sonic hooter.  The languid and essentially carefree string caresses combine well with the thoughtful lyrics that gently persuade one to consider time away and switch off from the shittery, hate and madness.  Get a beer, turn off the lights and recline - let the tremulations pervade your carcass and come the end, hum along to the gossamer beauty.

'Cultural Euthanasia' tampers, turns around, twists inside out and then finds its feet.  From murky experimentalisation of cloying discombobulation comes a disharmony that is impregnated with a deep-rooted uncertainty and somewhat fiendish impishness.  The effluence exuded from a warped orifice is reeking of a strained affect, but all the while, one can't help thinking that something natural is dropping into the basin of aural reception.  I find this one a toxicity, a mere dabbling that can be taken as an affront, a 'fuck you' and 'have it' moment with the band doing what they want.  I find it a rare mood piece, not for everyday listening and definitely not for pleasure.

The Bordellos are still fecund and focused, here I am in and out, up and down but am in no way sticking the boot in.  What goes on here is inspiration to all those who are on the cusp of having a go - the message is - go for it and never hold back.



A rigid review - 4 tracks, 4 assessments, 4 glimpses into Fungal honesty and DIY doofing.  The band under the radar hail from Liverpool and bash out their noise under the tab of 'pop punk'.  There is some long-term experience poured in here and many influences called upon.  I am a mere eavesdropper striving to capture what is going on whilst being fair, critical and transparent.

The first sip of sonica comes via the zested zip of 'Cider', a song that gets the taste-buds all a tingle with some effervescent guitar work and rapid-fire stick slapping.  The drive is assured, glutted with joy de vivre and firing from some highly polished cylinders that leave me all agog in their wake.  The vocals have that squishy-squashy poppoid beauty so many so-called punk gits dismiss, oh the silly sods.  The song has a fine illuminated sound, a pimple free countenance and a youthfulness that even gets these old bones moving.  The players always remember not to overcook things and so we are served a fresh and fruity dish that persuades one to come back for seconds - yummy.  'Options' skips in, twists and goes for the well-tuned tickle that really works a treat.  The fruity flavours tumble and collide in one unifying direction with no note dropped, no room to blip had.  The fun, the frivolity and the firm approach all copulate and create one dynamic ménage à trois that eventually gives spillage to a product that is both alive and kicking.  Pure lush amphetamine-based lullaby lilting with a made-up end attraction that should never hide away the natural gushings on show - excellent.

'Don't' is a played at an invigorating pace with rhythm not lost and impetus utterly maintained.  The skins are sped over with rapid fire tympanic timber whilst the wires are thrashed hard with a foaming sound emanated and an ideal escort for the sugar-rush throat warbles.  Straight forward, swift arse kicking poppology with sprightly, hormone riddled zealousness the order of the day.  The surging thrust is relentless, the band squeeze hard and push forth a compact and happening effort.

'Wishing’ is a tale of contemplation.  We take a chair, indulge in a ponder and realise that wishes are wasting time and as the clock ticks on, nothing productive is happening.  To be fair, moments of idle thought are no bad thing and if one can escape in the process so be it.  This is again a fresh and catchy number with a determined repeat-motif that won't let go.  A head out of the car window sensation runs through the belfry - the air clears all cobwebs as the drivers keep a steady pressure on the accelerator and take us into panoramic Pop-dom.

4 tracks, 4 easy-street head clearers and done with an in niche know-how that really makes all inclusions work a treat.  This kind of soda sweet sonica is always lapped up if played well and kept short and impacting - more of the same please.



It has been a long time since I delved into the world of The Bakeseys.  The band have been around for a good while, will never win a medal for prolific music making but they do what they do and so far have done it darn ruddy well.  After a lengthy wait one can't help be expectant of something rather special.  The release is, of course, on Do The Dog Records, usually a sign of excellence, a signed and sealed assurance of quality ska - here goes something!

The opening brace is a delight with 'Sentences I'd Like To Hear The End Of' and 'Get Your Moon Boot's on superb foundations on which to place your feet and get skanking.  The opener is fattened by bassism, grooved by keyed meanderings, bounced along by a strict slapped authority.  The vocals are stated, collide quite nicely with the steady rhythm and make for a very reliable offering that maintains a sonic sobriety that will help all and sundry ease into the listening position.  Foundations laid - next please. The follow up is groovy, utterly laden with chilled street cred and of a design that is both liquid, sub-reggae-fied and charmingly simplistic.  Dim the lights, alter the atmospherics and take one small step for the gladdened mind that needs the sweet oxygen of sound to keep it alert and thriving.  I am immersed from the off here, consider it a great move-inducing beauty, enhanced by some accurate musicianship that refuses to over-elaborate and become all self-indulgent.  The fat pulsations, the urging vocals, the myriad of interwoven touches all get me jigging - it ain't a pretty sight but who cares - this is a beauty.

The next brace begins. 'You Are Leaving The American Sector' states a case, coolly cruises with a sweet tinkle and gets all politically aware without being vulgarly loud and using too many foul angst laden words.  The barriers are up, the walls need to tumble - consider, cruise, kick back.  This adept arrangement is casual and alert and of an erudite quality that both soothes and serenades.  The band should know their stuff by now, I reckon they prove that here.  For me a hat-trick is completed in comfortable style and I drop into 'They Started A Race' enthused.   We follow the set flow here, chilled, pertinent, reggae-fied and of an encouragingly uncomplicated essence.  Tribute is paid to the Russian cosmonaut who was propelled into the great sable beyond and who started the space-age contest.  The look back at this momentous feat is nostalgic and reminds one of an occasion of gargantuan achievements.  The composition is once again uncomplicated, picks up a motif and gently trots with it.  No fuss, no hidden agenda, just good vibrations to recline to. 

'Atomic Invasion' embraces a fifties sci-fi slant and blends with a backstreet jive ass angle that plays it cool and steady.  Like a phoenix from the seared ashes rises that nuclear fear we all knew only too well.  The world was always seemingly on the brink and the word on the street was of 4 minute warnings and mass frazzlings.  This song is a laid-back peach that takes the fear factor in its stride and emanates an almost carefree acceptance.  Herein is the key to the charm of the drift, fuck it all and go with the reggae-fied flow, skank on and enjoy the sonic touches that make for an above average mover.  '638 Ways They Tried' is in line with all that has gone so far.  It bounces, states, sub-weaves and keeps things spacious and spartan.  The players take up their position, apply their individual nuances and insight and make for a quite tickling tickle of ticklish tunery (ooh heck).  The smooth style in the delivery, the way the band deal with assassinating politico goings-on is cute, indicative of musicians at one with each other and their art-form.  Here, as is the norm, there are no great intricacies to pontificate about, no underlying twank-wankings to be all unnecessarily gushing over.  No, what we get is good wholesome skankiness and I love it.

A clutch of 4 sees 'So Bring Your Fists Of Fury' open the way with a homage to the greatest heavyweight of all time.  Like him or loathe him the fact his Cassius Clay aka Muhammed Ali was a class act in the ring and was a cut above when it came to the noble art.  Liston, Tyson, Holmes, Dempsey, Johnson, Sullivan, Louis etc - Ali would have dealt with them all and all with a certain speed and style rather than a clobbering brutality many rely on.  The song goes for the same approach, it uses nouse rather than 'oomph', it opts for class rather than crudity and... it works.  'We Don't Need Another Oswald' is a better track however, as a certain prowess and imposing looming presence slowly hits home.  Soundbites of verbals hit the mark, we have time to ponder what was and what we don't need.  Again the climate of the song is set to level 'reclined', we move with a real slow and deliberate swing in the serenading ass - take care not to get too bewitched and miss out on the pertinent message.  We continue within this fistful of four with 'Go Dub Go', a very switched-off mood movement crawling along through the sub-space of silence with very minimalistic applications.  The time and the place to rotate these moments is when crepuscular advances are made and the light falls and dreams invade.  'Bernauer Strasse Dub' is of a similar approach and has me best summing up matters with the word 'ditto'.  Casual wind-down dabbling this and done to an excellent standard - there is nothing more to add.

The final of this sweet collection is 'Desolation Dub' - a state of play that maybe the theme tune to run when the world is winding down and many heads are left...still unbelieving.  In these times when a precipice is being tiptoed along we need to crack on.  Reminiscent funkiness comes, gets one looking back, looking forward, considering moments in time and what difference they have made.  I feel rather poignant at this stage, realising that for all of man’s achievements most of it is pointless and making no difference in the big scheme of things.  I kick myself up the arse and just enjoy this easy tune - tis far better for the soul.

The Bakesys have come and cracked out a subtle beauty with great care here and I am more than a little chuffed by the outcome.  Smooth, swirling, cognitive and simplistically clever - I do hope the band offer up another release sooner rather than later.



Barking Poets come and nip at my heels with a melodic mix of effective and polished tunes that may be outside of my preferred grubby listening sphere, but which do the business and reinforce my belief that there is never any need to listen to the same old, same old, when there is a bounty of flavours out there to partake of.  The band hail from Camden Town and donate many a decent ditty for this reviewing 'erbert to mull over, as per, I do my bit.

A casual melody comes via the quite delightful 'When The Bands Are Gone', a song that has really healthy essence and feel-good vibration despite the content being concerned about the end of the music makers.  Instant impacts are made via the lively guitars, the slap happy skin applications and the quite relaxed and lucid oral offerings.  All the while the song reveals players with a good appetite and ability whilst oozing a confidence that energises the listening attention.  I advise anyone indulging some time here to play this opening snippet several times over and feel how it grows in stature and general pleasing ambience - a cracking little surprise.  'When I Am King' has Clashy sub-elements, a sub-street sound and a serious tonal quality that grabs the inner neurones and squeezes out a response.  The response is positive and appreciative, applauding the sharp-suited accents and traditional UK/US cross-over crooning that are of a sub-niches, but which are, awash with supreme quality.  The band switch from the persuasively pulsed to the blatantly breezy with pace switched, accents complimented and accuracy maintained.  This effort cements my initial thoughts of a more than capable band, I travel into the next song impressed thus far.

'Rockers' cymbal splashes, strums with purpose and then let’s fall forth a panging lilt of easy attention.  The band are in cruise mode here, going through their own readily identifiable motions with sanguine ease and without forcing any perspired consternation.  The mid-paced output is without fuss and very easy to pick up, play, toss to one side and retrieve whenever the mood suits.  The blend of all areas, the simplistic drift and the feel-good emanations all combine to soothe the soul and get the foot tapping - I can't complain about that!

'Children Of The World Wide Web' is a cracking little moment with many informed influences coming to the fore in a quite easily accessible number that has more hybridisation destined to appeal to those inside and outside of the box... and beyond.  The connected kids may be fucked, wired all wrong and strapped down to too many plug-in devices, but we gotta keep trying.  I get the feeling of something sub-Epitaphian here with flavours thrown in from other arenas - I may be mistaken or on the wrong scent, but either way, I am enjoying yet another free-flowing and lucid number.

Fifth number it is and 'Make Me Strong' pulses and strums with a cock-sure resistance that defies all occurrences and rises up again with a purer grit and a more determined approach.  If you are feeling down at heel, fucked off and fed up with too many put downs then use this motivating song as a kick up the arse.  Enjoy the simple work out, the aerated positioning and just the breezy gushings of a band laden with self-belief and good nouse.

'Slumming It' is a case of saving the best until last and what a fuckin' blindingly good piece of work we are presented with.  A real 'fuck free' moment that looks at times less complicated and more liberated.  The barrel was scraped, the 'outside the circle' freedom is wonderfully portrayed via a song of snagging excellence and genuine emotive attraction.  The casual slant of the verses, the quick Thompson-Gun stick rolls, the smooth segue into the fluent chorus and the general relish indicated by a band rolling with adroit talent is acoustic ambrosia for my noise-loving soul - brilliant.

I have no queries about the credentials of this crew and certainly no disagreement with the half dozen songs sent my way.  This is a solid CD of high magnitude; I have even chosen the latter song as the Song of the Month on my website - bonus. 

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