From Montreal come a band looking to throw some shit in the fan and see what comes of it.  There are many labels which may be thrown this bands way but I would rather piss on all of those and just take the music as it comes.  Too much sway comes with a tag and it isn't healthy.  What I seek is good melody, good attitude and hopefully some noggin nagging noise that I may be a little taken by - I don't ask for much tha' knows.

'Better Each Day' is a song of two parts. We open with cathedralised gospel harmonies that are fresh, clean and somewhat liberated.  This opening serenade is not what I expected but the feeling of healthy goodness permeates and has me... wondering.  No sooner have I digested the initial shock than I am overwhelmed by some juicy-fruit kick-arse pop ravings that take great pride in the fact a race has been had and advancements have been made - from A to B with no regrets had.  The keys bounce, the guitars thrive, the drums keep order whilst the gob explodes in rainbow coloured joy awash with splashing positivity and feelgood easiness.  This is not a complex track but by heck it is delivered with spirit and mixed to a tee.  'Julia' is a slightly more lofted affair with a deliberate verse method soon noted as a solid contrast to the more uplifting and free-reined chorus cut.  Both areas work mighty well and adhere together to make a quite gratifying cohesive cacophonic donation.  There is a great homage paid here with a free-flying soul lifted up and given due respect.  The vocal arrangement drips with sugary relish and soars with great aplomb and snagging essence.  For me, and to my well-battered lugs, there is something holistically joyous about this tune - a celebration to savour methinks.

'Eat, Slay, Chardonnay' rumbles with rapidity and kicks up the turf with great tonal enterprise and value for money spunkiness.  The galloping drive picks one up from the off and takes them on a frisky foray into realms of rhythmic rabble-rousing with great timely effect.  Running mere seconds over the 2-minute barrier the band enhance the impact and make sure you will be reaching for the replay button soon after the final silence has registered itself in to bouncing noggin.  One for those raring to go and the final 'whatever' kinda sums up the carefree reckless of the stampede.  'Not Myself' is a more foot-stamping effort with deliberateness the order of the day.  Like a toddler in a tantrum, hollering with an intent to get noted and to get its own way this one demands feedback and screws up its countenance in fear of not receiving gushing positivity.  Alas, honesty must win the day and although the blend of noise and oral emanations is spot on here, the incessant bounding of the delivery is a trifle too repetitive for its own good.  The song though has a quality sheen to it though and all components are lucid and fully functioning.  The change in approach though is very much needed and this is far from a cold turkey.  A few extra plays add weight to the songs rebuff against my critique - we may have here a case of time changing one's mind.

'Bye, Bye Baby' is a combo clout-out of the acute and the roughshod with the main core of the action being a quite orthodox arrangement heavily reliant on gumption and an inner melody.  There is good spirit here and a rapid-fire delivery but all the while I feel as though the outpouring lacks its own identity and travels a little too far for its own good.  As I say, the spirit is obvious and the animation levels are good with the players as tight as a duck's arse in a snow storm but... yes, another fuckin' but from a sometimes picky Fungal git - I do it for all the right reasons though.

The last 2 and 'Get With U' gets into the groove where this band seem to thrive best - a love-soaked explosion of emotion spilling out into a joyous mush of relief and overflowing into a juicy jamboree of wild excitement that just will not be contained.  I am unsure about an inner breakdown and reckon the song would have been far more impacting if trimmed down and super-boosted with obvious riffage.  The are many noteworthy moments here, but I am still left with the feeling that the band need to aim for tightly delivered 2-minute pop blow-outs - personal thoughts, but that is how it is.

Finally and 'Life Is A Voyage' a somewhat rehearsal room piss-about that is a trifle self-indulgent perhaps but is just a bit of reflective fun and pootles along without any harm done.  Preferably I would have liked a big 'fuck off' blow-out with all systems blazing and the front hollerer having a whale of a time, instead I have a trickling tune that is sweet and thoughtful but leaves me still undecided about this band.

Yes - in a land of indecision I am and that is just how it goes at times.  There many fine points to glow over here, some areas that leave me standing and some I reckon will get better with a few more rotations.  I will see if I get another request to scribble in the future - for me though at this point, I reckon it is a case of make your own mind up. 



Gritty music coming from a long-versed bunch of folk who bring to the table many influential angles.  Based in Blackpool, the crew are led by a foaming frontman who wants to get things out there, and here does just that, with a 4-track blow out done in perhaps an unorthodox style borne from listening to many sounds and playing in many previous bands.  I take the quartet of cacophony and mull over many spins (usual formula) - once again, the hammered head spills out honesty and, what I hope, to be critical fairness - it gets me nowhere!

'Radicalised By Radio' is a homage to the show of one John Peel, a man who brought many obscure vibrations into our living rooms and bedrooms and left us with tonal tastebuds a little more eclectic.  The short song signs in with familiar tones, praises the wired in sounds that gave us all something to partake of rather than scoff like pigs at the commercialised table of cacophonic claptrap.  This is nothing more than a brief explosion of excitement that rekindles memories of listening to songs that seemed somehow like a personal discovery.  To this day I still seek out the fresh and the feisty, as well as the angular and off kilter, it still pays huge dividends.  Don't expect too much profundity from this one, just play loud and remember!

'Don't Look Down (Don't Look Now)' is another unorthodox arrangement that veers here and swerves there, all the while packing a punch and straining hard at the bit.  There is a complete tension to the weavings, a kick-back to the power-wanking fucks who think they are invincible (silly cunts).  As the unconventional chuggery and twanging unfolds we see the players given room aplenty to expose the angles of their art as well as to copulate in multifaceted unison.  The explosions, the riff ravages and the tympanic tirades all contribute to a slippery sonic eel that needs some listening to.  I put the lug time in whilst calling upon my cerebral powers to try and garner some kind of verdict. The fact that the end production and the effort thrown in are of choice standard means that I best raise my thumbs upward, albeit a little hesitantly.

The third song of the lot deals with quickfire gobs who lack forethought and a certain level of reasonableness.  'There's Always Another Way' is simply delivered, well chugged and crisply mixed.  From a sub-stated verse to an utterly unflustered chorus we have here a sub-two-minute escapade that gets on with the job and refuses to piss-about.  The opening pseudo-SLF suggestions give way beneath a woodpecker knock and some stated and highly relished vocals.  The message for me is to forget the fuckwits and crack on and, as in the style of the song, do it without fuss and in double quick time.  For what we have here is a song that does what it needs to do and is wonderfully mastered but... could have been something a little better.  This feels like a moment abridged - more I shout, more!

'Everyone Can Sing' punctuates, flamboyantly soups things up before a skin roll pushes us into the first verse.  Regular and tight with follow-on strums aplenty the same route is soon adopted and then something akin to a chorus duly slips by (whoosh, did I miss something).  I relisten to this and concentrate hard, power pours in plentiful supply with the lead warbling lout very much up to the task set.  Those opening bars get stuck in the chompers, the intensity is ideally kept aglow and something reminiscent of a Pistol-ian wire rip is thrown in.  What is delivered is good meaty music with some darn fine blood perspired, but take care, do not judge on one or two spins, there be depth here don't ya know.

This quartet have turned out to be intriguing components of a worthwhile eavesdrop.  I think a 4-track taster was all I needed as something more would have been a little too much at this stage.  The foundations are lain on top of the substrate of a previous 11 tracker and all seems sturdy enough. Now I reckon solid bricks need to be placed - another set of 4 will do nicely - with something of the obvious thrown in.



From Portland, Oregon come a gruel spilling lo-fi outfit who have me wondering if this is what the Ramones would have sounded like if they would have got drunk on all the polish and stuck to playing in dustbin laden back alleys and debris strewn dives were the discordantly decadent dwell - this is no bad comparison to make. 

'Beat It Creep' comes with opening wordage regarding a right oily lump.  The rust-fuck-it scrapings welcome us to a band who obviously want to avoid the trappings of pretence and polished shittery.  Maybe turds can be spruced up after all, but why bother - there are many stenches to enjoy at 'level' zero tha' knows.  This oddment of acoustic nudity parades itself with a DIY pride and flakes and peels in front of the listener with no shame whatsoever.  Uncomplicated and straight ahead the concoction works well and keeps things minimal. 

'Wow, You're Cool' is a bitter blow-out from the unpopular recesses where the pimpled and off-kilter reside.  It is purely nerdy noise fodder that will be lapped up by those understanding of the stripped down and those on the periphery of all in-scene social circles.  There is a good zest in the fuzzery, the stick work knows its place and races along whilst the vocal style is strictly sober and of a slant to back up the uncool way of things.  If you prefer your spillings uncommercialised, undercooked and away from the piss-bowl of pretence, then this is one for you. 

Third up and 'Wasted Time' swings in with sunshine wire warpings and an eager skip across the tympanic membranes.  The opening verse is as per with tones now recognisable.  Simply stated against a background of delightfully cheapo corruscations utterly appeals to my sense of the earthy.  The paradoxical happy tones that collide with the sober content work well with the metronomical eagerness of the sticks. This is a necessary addition I am liking the more I play - oh for a 'live' viewing.  'Little Reader' hesitantly enters the fray before finding some sense of sonic stability and exposing itself as a regular offering with too much similarity to what has gone before.  The crew, I feel, needed an angular zinger here, a real counterpunch cum wake-up call that would exude a pleasure in throwing the listener off balance.  What we get is a straight song with few undulations and a murky underlay of verbal nebularity - not my fave for sure. 

'Outta Here' is a plea to escape, an enclosing piece that sees a party go sour and a spinning head in need of some fresh air.  Like being ensnared in the realms of 'bombed' whilst surrounded by flaked out boozers and shit-addled haze heads.  The tones seem to emanate a disgust at a situation self-inflicted and one known only too well, I get the feeling here though a lesson shall not be learnt.  The song has good zip, some steady rhythm whilst refusing to go overboard and indulge. A snippet of anger bubbles to the surface and is soon quelled, maybe a chance at a full-blow out has been missed - I am piqued.  

Into the last 3 and 'You Fucking Suck' hops in, finds a lick and nails its intent to the scabby door.  A hate spills, an august overchuck of nastiness seems par for the course until an inner contemplation comes that leaves one slightly nervous.  Pace is soon injected again, before bass and drums lead the way into the final snipe.  A decent do and one I would like to see played in a small pit of seething, pimpled faced teens.  'F. U. B.' is a curio with a rippling wire wobble thrown into the expected 'Tyrd-iose' tonality.   Verse and chorus almost fall into one blurred movement whilst all the while the rhythm grapples with the tempo to try and make something a little different.  Despite the rather unemotional upper sheen of the vocals there is feeling there and if one plays loud and cares to invest time then the whole concoction creates a familiarity that is worthy of the time donated.  We close this CD with '2 Birds, I'm Stoned' a dubious sounding escapade with all the trimmings of what has been and no doubt, what will be.  The neat bass intro, slow scuzzing and usual pace of the song are indicative of how the band operate, there is nothing new under the shit-stained sun here and for a 7 tracker there doesn't have to be.  This is a tidy way to sign off and completes a nice package of lo-fi noise that I always have time for.

The Tyrds had curled one down on my radar and I am left me wondering what next.  As said, this EP is all well and good for now but... oh yes, there is always a but!  I'd like to see the band fly outside their circle, shake up the vibes and throw in some spurts, staggers and unexpected angles - let us see what comes shall we.



A brace of ditties from a Welsh band who have given me great pleasure on one previous occasion (it was nothing sexual you understand).  The band combine the plugged in and the disconnected, they do what they do with an anti-establishment slant.  The crew certainly know their stuff and when getting note of this release I was keen to take my time and absorb the tuneage.

'Murder At The Bingo Hall' sidles in on a shifty weaving angle whilst the vocals sub-conversationally tell a tale of a gambling goon gone mentally AWOL.  Eventually we hit something akin to a chorus (I think) with the general mix meandering a route that just lacks a little stability.  The first spins leave me cold, I find myself thinking the band have far more talent than to waste on something comedic. I listen some more and admire the perfect mix of many tones and angles but just feel myself wanting something with greater angst and bite.  All the ingredients are there to make a far more pertinent and snagging track - I am left frustrated. Don't get me wrong though, there will be many who like some escapist tomfoolery that is played out and mixed mighty well indeed - I am just not in the groove here.

'The Ballad Of Red Flag Randy' is a cruising and bruising dig at a sexual pervert responsible for trashing lives whilst being a consistently selfish piece of crud.  Rather than explode in a tirade of venom and let the musical weaponry cut to the core, the band play it smooth and subtly come up with something both acidic and strange. The opening waltz is charming, the content not so but we must have a place to expose the wretched and wicked.  The tale comes and floats along on a sea of precise architectural acoustica that is applied to the silver circle with great care.  The band, once again, ooze talent and know-how, the subject matter is necessary and the band come away with a ditty that does what it needs to do - I however, am left not 100% convinced.

I fuckin' hate reviewing at times, it is a shit-end of the stick scenario that many who play it sweet will find easy but when honesty is the main operative tool it becomes one conscience niggling grind.  Here I feel as though I have been a grumpy git but I can only do what I do and do it with full integrity.  No Murder, No Moustache are better than this, I await the band to prove me right in this statement - as per, I am sure there will be many who disagree with my thoughts.



The Red Eyes have graced a Fungalised stage on 2 previous occasions, albeit nigh on 14 years ago.  The approach to the task was more than rewarding, the output was precisely played and the band carved a special place in my cacophonic cranium.  Now, several albums on, many gigs under the belt and with heads a little more jaded, paths are crossed again as my myco-mitts are blessed with the Glaswegian bands latest spillings.  Initial plays had me pondering something rather special, I rotated more and more and do you know what, I feel the band have reach a new zenith here.  Read on and all will be revealed!

From the silver silence the first emanation to invade my listening airspace goes under the tag of 'Judge, Jury, Executioner' a quite apposite title seeing how many sit in their ivory towers and cast verdicts on people and the views.  In a world were so many seem to know best this song hits a nerve and is delivered with such outstanding musicianship and appealing clarity already I am bitten by the Red Eyed Bug.  The opening strums and skin rolls are what we get in an unadulterated lesson of fine music making.  The first verse is stripped bare, the foaming up into the chorus is choice and the controlled anger of the high-class vocals is spot on the mark and come the end of this beauty I am already thinking 'standard set' - oh and what a standard.  'The Rude Boys Are Staring Back At Me' rumbles in before spreading itself wide and making for a well-spaced opening verse that is scaffolded by some hammering sticks and carefully arranged string manipulations.  The chorus is simple but of nagging ear-worm proportions that has one immediately singing along.  A tribute to a lost genius is poetically delivered with insightful craft and some cute wordplay.  For me, this is ideal for lifting the spirits, getting one out of the Rut and moving and grooving.  Fuckin' excellent.  

A beetling move opens 'In Your Head' before bold work comes and a free-flown contrast is offered.  Perhaps the song with the deepest shades so far and yet utterly effective in its style.  An acidic edge, a move from each facet is wonderfully smart with the moorland gusts of the chorus utterly atmospheric albeit fleetingly so.  We witness parts dominated by the strong vocals, moments of complete unity and a snatching repeat push that ideally leads into a most tidy instrumental inclusion.  The verdict - utter quality and fuck the self-obsessed and ego-riddled.

'When The Last Note Died' upholds the exemplary standard set with a carefully keyed intro.  The move into the first verse is exact with a tale of war unfolding with erudite investment and oh so lucid liquidity.  The foot-stamping chorus adds a solidity to the creation and counterpunches against the more orthodox components in crime.  Again I find myself awash with admiration for a band at the zenith of their operations.  Just sit back, play loud and enjoy masters of their art. 'Spend, Spend, Spend' is a pertinent piece in these times of idiot greed and consumerism.  Play the game, spin the wheel, collect your cash and flash, enjoy a flimsy fix.  Screwdriving in the song eases up and delivers a simple listening piece that still packs a kicking and much acute anger.  Coming from slightly different angles this is the least effective of the songs so far and yet is still spot on the mark - what a fuckin' level of supreme sonic serving has been had.  I think the song gets better with age, the sign of a vintage indeed and with some recognisable string stretchings this will do for me.

'Dead In The Water' is emotive architecture built on foundations of heart-wrenching honesty with a soul exposed you just want to reach out to and love.  The pain, the inner torment and the feeling of isolation are all portrayed with understanding and empathy and are emotions I can certainly relate to.  There is a warmth within the weft here, a comfort found in the fact others are sometimes sinking in the same boat - a perversity it seems but utterly true.  This is another stand-out moment and reinforces my belief that The Red Eyes are a class act and are dishing forth here an early contender for album of year - have that!

'Welcome To My World' relays the agony of the day to day drudge and hamster-wheel trappings so many are ensnared by.  Round and round with no progress made, lives are wasted as failure is tasted and the realisation that a state of pointlessness has been reached.  Too many have fucked up, it is time to perk up instead.  The frustration emanated is palpable and yet, despite this emotive slant, the band still manage to create something highly melodic, encouraging and, paradoxically, fuckin' enjoyable.  Onwards and 'You Could Be The 1-2-3-4' regards a relationship gone wrong and a man left in the midst of 'wondering'.  The strength that exudes from this latest number is all down to the gruff edge, the liquidity of movement from each individual component and the general awareness of the players as to what makes a good tune.  The song is alive and kicking, has endless years of sonic-sozzled knowledge thrown into the mix and just radiates a purist know-how.  This one is one of those creeping giants - watch it rise from the midst of the magnificence with great self-value.

'Never Ending Love Affair' is a darker moment and one played out under gaslights and in the midst of cloying miasmas of mentally troubling situations.  An ensnared heart is tortured, a clean break is the answer, but can it be made?  The plea to be liberated is from the gut, the fear of self-destruction is gnawing and leaves one drained.  The final pulsing nag is key to the content, this is a strenuous addition and worthy of its place in the mix.

Disgust and rage rule the roost in a hammered verse burst found within the apposite outburst of 'Power And Glory' - a song rescued from being a full-on head-slap with an airborne chorus release that is destined to get all and sundry singing along and hopefully not forgetting the topic of the song.  A forceful slice of somewhat simply constructed noise-making but by heck, it works mighty well.

The penultimate track comes from a place of nervous timidity that sees a love on the cusp of being borne but scuppered by self-doubt, fear and hindering over-evaluation that keeps one knowing their place.  The gusto and galloping desire that emanates from 'The Girl Next Door To The Girl Next Door' is captivating and when coupled with an innocent insecurity and self-doubting accent the song wins through.  Simple in creation, simple in delivery with emotions switched and hope eventually kindled.  The upswing in feeling is felt but one can't help having trepidations about the boy who is hook, line and sinker.

'We're Gonna Make It Last Forever' is a bittersweet beauty concerning hope, belief, loss and sadness. Life gallops on and what was and what is are two different things.  Youthful promises are shattered as love is speared and fate plays its joker.  Despite a broken heart the belief of being reunited will never die.  The composition here is utterly touching and transparent with all moments played with care and making sure the band finished a top-notch CD on a veritable high.  Job fuckin’ done.

A classic cut of noise from a band with a cultured approach and great knowledge of what makes a good tune.  The crew are thinking here and put their cranial concoctions to good use whilst working within the confines of sound melody and musical composition.  It is always gratifying to see bands attain new heights – here, The Red Eyes hace gone through the stratosphere.



Sonic sewerage spills from aging funnels here via a band that do the rounds and duly do their own grungy, grindhouse thing.  The band curl down their noise with focused know-how and having played a couple of Fungalised shows so far, have really proven to be a growing force in the backstreet dives where tonal deviants dwell and those seekers of perverse noise loiter.  My last viewing, was the best of the lot, I suspect the band are still on the upswing, let us see if an honest review can back up these suspicions.  To add, whether on an upswing or a spiral downward is all fuckin' irrelevant as long as the music is right by me.  Fuck the opinion polls and the swallowers of what's in vogue.  Also the fact that the band are not making a bean from this offering and are donating all takings to Punk 4 The Homeless speaks volumes - some things outweigh the sonic shizzle in this world - think on.

Like molten shit from a blazing rectum the opening trembles of 'The Fun Is Over' comes with an intent to say 'this is what we do, suck on it'.  A bleak fart of a sound this one riffs up early and comes with a real snottiness that indicates a productive back-passage of sound that is both relaxed and squeezing hard.  The initial licks taste good, I crank up the volume and let the fuzz-filth drown my personal listening space with the result being more than satisfactory.  The Anglo-Australian anus is producing the goods early on with a rasping routine that backs up what I have witnessed 'in the flesh'.  This is not for the faint-hearted, not frivolous fuck-wittery but nasty noise making done with relish.

The back-up response to the first release is slagged down as 'Another Bloody Day' - a superb splash of beastly annoyance that is once more built on sludge-slutch cable trembling and twat-fuck tympanic batterings.  The approach is mid-paced, these vulgar vandals of all that is decent are in no rush to daub their decadent discordance on the awaiting shithouse walls of your consciousness - and for that we must be truly thankful.  The fearsome filth that drips from the band is glutinous and polluted but there is great effect had and I for one am happy to strip off and plunge into the gloopy waters. 'Cloud Song' has a wonderful ear-worm lick that coils its way around your discerning drum and squeezes out a head nod, a foot tap, a smile of appreciation. Incessant repetition of vibrology comes with an immersion taken into a mire of musical lunacy that could become a little too much for one incarcerated - the outcome is an orgasmic yell-fest and it is very much needed.  Malicious and vile this bubbling stew is the best of the opening three with that gnaw-bone delight leaving no excuses to raise the boot.  Slaggish, untrustworthy and with a midway break to add to a feeling of uncertainty this is a rising erection of nefarious sleaze - get too close and you may get tubbed up - enjoy the birthing process whilst playing this one mighty loud.

Adopting the Crass-ite' approach next and 'The Gasman Cometh' ploughs through slug-slime trails and gobs off the age-old verbals from when a black and white based stance promised something akin to 'animation'.  Alas things came and went and fat-fucksville was arrived at, tis a shame, but there ya go. The update of acoustic angst here is neatly delivered in the bands own style with piercing tautness included and a certain incessancy that is very much the order of the day.  The functioning bowels remain loose and the consistent crapulence that falls is highly savoured by this eavesdropping git.  I am glad the band have kept their own modus operandi, a straight-ahead mimic would have been a real faux pas. 'Man-Made' is a worked-up piece that hails all the fruits of man's loins and leaves one pondering the lack of positivity and the vast amount of insanity.  This song doesn't fuck about - it sets out it's stall, lays down the grimy foundations and lets you have it right up the lackadaisical shitter.  This sincere, heavily sweated shafting is just what the dubious doctor ordered at this stage and after the previous anarcho-smearing of crawling verbosity the pace-injection inspires the end product to make more of an impact.

More anarcho spillage comes with familiar bass touches that are soon joined by some crumple-skin guitar work. 'Contaminational Power' is hybridised overspill done with the fine stop/start methodology of the players with the frontman pouring verbals with incessant gusto.  The culmination is a string and skin molestation that sees the band escape the clutches of what was and bring things into the place of what shall be.  A scabby dog fucked up the rear and given a second go at life this musical mongrel has a good snap in the jaws and does what it needs to do.  I still prefer the original, I have a fetish for things stripped down but this effort, with the final flamboyant flourish, sounds ideal for a 'live' kick up the shitter. 'Rain' slaps down in a squelchy mess, fuck-spazzes with a treacly sludginess that takes some getting used to. I put down my protective brolly and expose myself to the acoustic elements and after a couple of plays find myself enjoying the downpour more and more.  In fact the blunted needles of noise that batter my belfry feel mighty good and when the force of the wind is commanding and threatens to blow its bollocks off the sensation is almost sexual (ooh me moistened globes).  The intensity of the shitstorm is a veritable highpoint here and the fact that the band are wallowing in their own musical maelstrom only adds to the pleasure found.

'Mother Earth' coughs up old time questioning with acid bile and controversial angularity.  Puncturing placements, a mid-paced groove and gobbery from many moons ago comes, the band inject their own brand of sleaze into the mix and make for a decent din with volume the only added ingredient one needs to add.  There is something almost decadent about the Dry Retch approach, something that says 'ah fuck it and see' which in turn, brings to the fore a quite relaxed and low-slung listening adventure - I find no complaints with that. The echo draughts of Rudimentary Peni are reborn next via 'Inside', a short molten slab of defiance that wants to ease a pain and get moving onto pastures more positive.  The quick delivery is nailed and I always find it helpful to any review or slab of lug-leaning material to throw in a couple of quick escapades. A murky essence along with some absorbing focus make this a nasty episode of incessant flailing need.

'They Lie, We Die' is a strong upchuck of 'Flux'ed thoughtfulness still pertinent in these times of shambolic thinking, draining self-absorbed egocentricity and empathy free idiocy.  The message is forced home via demonic, frustrated hollering alongside some matter-of-fact bitter verbals all salted and spiced with a fine chant rant repetition insertion that helps give the song an utter reality.  The Euro-acoustica that welcomes us is a sound touch, the contrast of gobs utterly winning and the political stance still worth heeding - a solid track.

The final 2 and the grimy, griminess of 'Where's The Freedom' eventually discovers the rhythmic route it wants to take with the 4 cabled device driving the way forward and allowing the cacophonic comrades to their bit.  Something almost psychedelic emanates from the inner mush of the mayhem with the vibrology ideal for the freaks, dwellers of visual noise and of course, those of Sub-Human standards.  This isn't my fave track due to it overrunning its welcome time and the lack of blatant bite.  The song though slots in to matters and has many touches to appreciate - I am sure a few will rate this as the best track on the CD and contradict my opinion - I hope so.  We shut down with 'My Tears (Reprise)' a sludge score with twilight twinges and string molestations to utterly wallow in.  Foul, turgid and head-fucking, this molten maelstrom of consuming indulgence is a solid way to sign off and leaves us with ringing lugs and a slightly hazy outlook - what the fuck are The Dry Retch gonna do next?

In the flesh this band knock forth a quite a solid set, on this CD they have backed up the concrete promises with a wealth of cover versions that are dealt with good clout and individualistic accents.  I am not a fan of covers, I always prefer bands to masturbate their weaponry, impregnate the awaiting silence with self-made sonic seeds and await the birth of something new.  Having said this the ethos and implementation is spot on here - I am salivating for my next 'live' hit.



Like a soiled nappy of noise with many emanations hitting the sensitive areas this expulsion from a Welsh-based band is stinking and as natural as it can be.  The Valley Boys are throwing their shit as per and I am happy to partake of a whiff and see what the fucked off buggers are up too.

Track the very first and 'March' tympanically skips in before a grubby gob off comes over the top of some feisty wire work and more skin slamming.  The feel is a combination of things old and things new with a harsh exterior seemingly hiding something smoother within.  Like a Milk Tray Strawberry Crème rolled in a nut-filled dog turd in fact - matters look worrying but if one is brave enough to partake of the taste, then it will be realized that things ain't half bad.  'Cut The Ties' turns me on a little more though, a real nut-filled treat liable to bust a few teeth and have one's arse bleeding if the inner contents are not fully digested.  Good anger, a wonderful bubble to the bass-line and a throat puke that is born of too many beers and too much shouting.  The rage is contained, but very real, with no polished edge making for something ineffective.  This opening brace has me salivating for an initial viewing of the crew, a viewing that will take place on a Fungalised gig don't ya know.

'Anxiety' comes next, is a fuckin' emotion I know all about.  It is a mental state that usually arrives with its partner in crime, namely 'Dick Von Depression' a pesky fucker that can send the head askew.  Here it seems we have a man in turmoil, in love, in a state of fuck-flux with no escape.  The tones given are still coruscated and very much home-made.  The pace is slower than the previous gush but the open-honesty of the delivery wins through and with the odd 'whoa hoa' and string skid thrown in I have no gripes.

'Crack My Head' batters away like a bonce against a brick wall.  The verse refuses to compromise the style whilst the sib-chorus rolls and rattles with a grimy inflection dictating.  The inner break is clattered and gives a chance for the string manipulators to masturbate their wired arms - this is head-peck escapism and a kick-back with much inner turmoil banished.  We all need moments like this and we all need to move on – and so I do!

'Dead On Your Feet' explodes from a background scuffle and assumes a good driving posture that is in keeping with all that has transpired.  The energy is reflective of a band having it and in no mood to give in.  The spirit flows with ease despite the bastards striving to take every last ounce of ones soul.  The hamster-wheel is turned, realisation leads to bewilderment which in turn leads to hollering anger as shown here - nice.

'Failsafe' arises from the background, fuzzes and fumbles before tumbling with an unwavering focus and a quite smoked-scorched affect.  From sonic smog comes a rhythm, a question, a creative force striving to gain attention and credit.  This is the tamest song in the pack so far with no real snag or immediate highpoint.  I reserve judgment on this one despite it being delivered in a tight-fashion and having a fine impetus - I shall await a 'live' viewing.  We finalised proceedings with 'Big Business',  The closure fights its way to the fore, splashes and crashes before ramming home its point and the fact that we are destined to get sucked into one all-consuming void of corporations and frustrations.  The throat worked here is at its rawest, the disgruntlement is blatant and the swing in the strings and slap-heavy tympanics all combine to sign off with a healthy wallop.  A real moving and grooving rodent of rhythm gnawing at your resistant privates and bringing something akin to a sensation - I duly lower my trousers and let the full force of the ravaging tingle my undercarriage.

Not a bad do this and whetting my appetite for a 'live' appointment with the band in a few weeks time, a date I am very much looking forward too.  Please check out this crew, there are no delusions of grandeur, ponsed up plucking or attempts at trying to break new ground - it is spit and sawdust doofing and that always does it for me.



Cryogenics have been mooching around the music scene for quite a while, the genre in which they reside as seen them end up as rough and ready rockers not willing to compromise and sticking to what they love.  For me, the band spill street conscious cacophony with a raw-boned feel and without any need for unnecessary ornamentation of flash-arsing fuck-wittery.  The bakers shop of noise has many items for sale that are all sugary sweet but of no substance. What we get here is a thick-sliced loaf off the bottom shelf laden with a bit of worn in mold.

'No Escape' drags itself inwards and drives with solid intent.  The gruff and abrasive vocals are zoned in and growl and grumble with aged affect.  Restless and utterly fucked-off, a scene is set with the saw-bone lead guitar cutting at the attention, the bass supplying robust foundations and good rhythm whilst the stick work is quick, nimble and up for the game.  A temporary swing of the rhythm in slower fashion comes just before the closure - job done.  Mr Whippy pays a visit to the sonic street with ice and ices to sell as well as a few dubious items to get the kids hammered.  'You're Sick' takes no nonsense as it dishes the dirt on the drug-dealing deviant who puts a flake in a cone and drops an ecstasy tab in yer tub.  A real fuckwit is exposed by a band not looking to create anything new but to just indulge in some healthy clobberin' time and bugger ones senses with a clouting tune and a tale about a right twat.  Air-tight, incessant and sinewy - I think I may just order a Cannabis Cornet just to help me to stay calm.

'Ungreat Britain' spells matters out as regards a country that has turned to shit.  Quick and razor-bladed with unyielding assaults, this effort refuses to be halted and has the players perspiring and straining muscles I suspect they forgot they had.  The lightning lead-up to the rapid and rabid verse is bang on and has me foaming for a 'live' viewing - thankfully I have got these fuckers booked to play a gig very soon.  Onwards and 'Prostitute' is an explicit confession that pulses and pauses before revealing the extent of the damage done and the disease acquired.  Alas if one cares to dip ones dick in places unchecked and prod at privates unclean then what comes is what one deserves.  The regrets are tangible, the itch down below equally so - this is a decent ditty but I do hope the clap-doctor gave the creator of the crime real fuckin' hell ha, ha.

Another fast attack as the plastic and power-hungry US comes under fire.  'America's War' comes, goes and leaves one bewildered.  Several plays over the norm are needed, what we have is a savage attack played out in an uncompromising and watertight fashion with the crew relying on fury and inner gumption to get them through - they do just fine although the new arse-hole they have torn me is a trifle unfair I feel.  Next and 'Suicide Bomber' is a good mix of the flamboyant, the orthodox and the complimentary with tones, tempo and tetchiness all combining to make for a song that drills deep and makes sure this CD loses non of its impact.  Pure piss-soaked sonic sawdust kicked up with great deliberateness and toxicity - the methodology is now obvious, the content of the song pertinent in these dubious times.

The last batch of songs are upon me in double-quick time, with 'Deadhead' a raging interruption that flies in and flies out and stands its ground as a mere flashpoint. 'Police Brutality' flexes its flesh next and deals out some stark opinions of the Boys in Blue.  A superb sing-a-long song for those with a hate of the abusive uniformed idiots who take things a step too far and use their authority to bully the weak.  I love the song, of course recognise the need for good coppers in this wretched society but have no time for the macho wankers who throw their weight around.  Whilst playing this my grey gunk is focused on that filth, I love the tension relieving nastiness.

'Don't Give A Fuck' begins with swift rolling sticks and a Motorhead-esque feel before ploughing forth with irritation and a need to get on the outside of this rotten society.  A 'fuck-free' raving is spat forth with total conviction whilst all the while the gears grind and one is reminded of an ANL vibe and, may it be said, much simplicity.  Again, the spirit is bare-arsed, blatant and unapologetic - it is what it is and is music well drilled into this buggers noise-juddering carcass.  'Monsters' rises from the thermal ashes of the previous blow-out and then begins to prowl with purpose.  Sable and sinister tones flourish into a blossoming chorus that penetrates without piss-arsing about.  The collision of styles pays dividends as the song packs a weighty punch and unsettles and invigorates.  The ascending chorus spiral is again far from rocket science but it does the job and leaves one salivating. A firm-handed full stop.

For me, the Cryogenics have upped their game here and produced a really solid spiked and salted CD with much earthy and honest spillage that gratifies my neurons and scabbed up receptors.  This is music tattooed into my soul and no matter how clever I could try and be or how fuckin' advanced I could profess, this is music I can’t help but fuckin' adore.  If they match this CD when they play the forthcoming Fungalised gig I shall be one happy twat - bring it on.



The band under Fungalised scrutiny claim to be, and I quote 'The best Anglo-American team up since Spiderman and Captain Britain' - I think they forget the time when Sammy Davies Jr teamed up Lionel Blair and gave rise to the 'Dynamic Dance Duo'.  Alas, things ended badly when the exceptional dong of Mr Davis got in the way of Mr Blair's tap-dancing routine - hey ho, such are the hazards of hefty members and choreography. Anyway, and away from this slight digression, and what I have before me are 9 tracks of angular accents and honest belief.  There is no bullshit or shying away from what is - therein is a good ethos to applaud.  

'Junior Sales Club Of America' has a soiled and sincere Berry-fied rock and roll groove that gets the listener immediately involved. The sub-shoddy accents and somewhat low-slung dog-style will appeal to many lovers of things garaged and grotty and the shadowy she-snippets that are a complimentary apparition in a haunted house of shady goings on just add to the many layers that are left to slowly bubble and gnaw at the listeners resistance. The work involved creates a condensed and crowded sonic situation with no room to breathe and manoeuvre which at times becomes a trifle too cloying for its own good.  This opening concoction though has many meritorious facets and sets the stage well, I move on with the hooter twitching.  

The next tune is entitled 'I Sobered Up'. Matters are scuttled outward and left to massage our sensors with a backstreet cultural manipulation. The grimy delivery and the need for help is a copulating scenario that reeks of realism and unadulterated raw-assed DIY interference. The taste for the brew sends a life askew and a battle is had to beat the desires.  The challenge is surmounted and a man is now counted - amongst the few to come out on the right side. This is gritty reward and the tune deals with matters adequately. 'Flower Freak' is way down and groovy man and is a semi-psychedelic saunter through tonal pastures of almost oily colorisation.  An impressionist piece crudely smudged across the canvas with the bands own brand of sonic-scrawling highly evident.  The players are heavily reclined here and playing languid tunes for those who like to take it easy and contemplate.  I reckon this one, come summertime, would be a fine escort for when doing a spot of gardening.  PS - flowers are fuckin' ace!  

The words of 'Singer' seems to deal with a miscreant who is a veritable shit and not a hero.  The tonal standard of the song is more than adequate with a very underground feel prevalent.  The running time is perhaps longer than it should be and the country-fied tones are really not my thing but there is something here that helps the delivery stick within the fuzz of the grey gunk.  There is something familiar about the lick of this song, something that resonates within, I can't pinpoint matters but I do have a soft spot for this offering.  'Fool' moves with metallic industry in the grimiest way possible.  A straightforward drive that bucket-tumbles with mid-paced affect and sticks to a flat-line track albeit in a rewardingly ramshackle away.  The wind-down to the final silence misses the chance at speeding things up and going for something capricious and unexpected and so, as a result, I come away a trifle deflated and frustrated.  I listen several times more, there is plenty going on, but that spark of uncertainty is lacking and the song just leaves me... wanting!  

'Right Wing Coup' has a steady approach built on very old-school tremblings that are almost of Talking Heads essences.  The vocals are, as ever, cavernous and shadowy and deal with the mentally warped wankers who are leaning all the wrong way and living lives built on nothing but hate and spite.  The plucker gets worked up, becomes emotionally wired by the shady goings-on and delivers something well-meant.  This operational methodology creates something utterly natural and I am, of course, drawn in.  I suspect this will be a real winner when played 'in the flesh' - I can see the unified crowd having it... and why not indeed. Things cool down next with the groovy lilt of 'Adult Child Charlamagne', more hillbilly acoustica with a baccy-chewing twist borne from hay-baled laden barns and dungaree drying outhouses.  The languid and laidback flow is easily digested and the simplified outpouring poses no problems to the lugs and the scribbling assessor.  I rate this as 'unfussed pondering' - is this a bad thing?

The last two with 'Change' having touching reflective tones and a somewhat melancholic tainting borne from too much time busking and burrowing deep into the cranial cavities. There is something soothing about the tonal quality of this song, something that almost dips into nostalgic soaked recesses and wins a favour - I am clueless as to what this 'something' is though. Meanderings from a metropolis with the melody restrained and the modus operandi to stay cool and observant - I like it.  Finally and 'The World Made Red' drifts, makes many points, has ideas and ideals and lets them drop forth with many anarchic leanings.  Rip it up and star again aims at creating a total rethink and a change of direction that may be the only route left to take.  A very formal structure comes with inclusions of ad hoc contrasts that add to the balance.  The creator is no rush to get matters done and happy to preach his chosen word - is this a bad thing and poison to my wham bam punky soul? I am utterly unsure but the essence and intent are spot on.

Interesting stuff here that is obviously an acquired taste and of a certain ilk that some will tune into, some won't - hey, that's music after all.  The are many positives here and I reckon as long as things are dealt in small doses and angles are thrown in there are some promising prospects in store - we shall see. 



A band from Northampton/Milton Keynes who are always willing to do their bit and pick up the shitty end of the DIY stick.  Sometimes serious, sometimes not so, the acoustic offal vomited forth is what it is and has very many hallmarks of yesteryear with some trimmings from the here and now.  I know one thing, the last time they played a Fungal gig they were ruddy enjoyable - fingers crossed for this CD then.

First up and 'Anti Establishment' rusts along with pure unaffected honesty.  A good shuffling of the strings and a bouncy fun-time inclusion all make for something animated and appealing to my senses with the conundrum posed one I find myself out of sync with as most compromising situations I piss on and then carry on in my own way.  It may cost me money and that awful con called 'a career' but I pootle on and try as best as I can to maintain some consistency. We all fail, but better to try then capitulate.  I like the sound here and the questions summoned, this is good earthy racketeering without being vulgar or over the top.  The blend of components work and the feeling of something melodic and yet biting is achieved.  'Pineapple On My Pizza' is the follow-up, and if the truth be told (which it should) then I am not keen on this one.  A comedic song that is just too repetitious for its own good, a repetition that takes off the edge of some decent music and catchy guitar dabbling.  I don’t let these early blip hinder my enthusiasm.

'Jobshite' is more like it - fiery, worked up and fuzzing away with relished zeal.  A verse built of nasty noise and irritation, a chorus that hollers without complication and there you have it.  Within the gut of any DIY dabbling deviant there is a place for rackets like this - it is a place that gets activated by good lively noise belted out with a sheer love for the task at hand.  I find, that over many years, I am losing the ability to actually nail what this trigger point is, but I care not - this song hits the spot and I am happy with that!  'Delete My Browsing History' is a lovely listen and sagacious advice that I reckon many would care to partake of. The web-weaving wankers who like to indulge in a techno-tug will, if suddenly brought down with a life-ending curse, find themselves in a panic-stricken situation with a catalogue of corruption desperately in need of permanent erasure. The fact that the guys here have constructed a song about on-line ogling and wired-up willy wobbling says a whole lot about the creators and the world out there.  The deliver is utterly fluent and sing-a-long and is a ruddy good inclusion.  The playscape is washed through with breezy easy tunefulness and has a certain glint in the eye that I adore - nice one chaps.

'Dances With Wasps' is a fine bouncing track that deals with some feisty friends of mine who take no shit.  I like the verse moments here - utterly fresh and jig-inducing but oh those vulgar chorus chunks that deny the beauty of the sting-laden gits - what is all that about?  Ideal for upping the pinging tempo but please remember, wasps are fuckin' beautiful and a great part of the natural world - I love em'. If insects were followers of generic styles then surely the stripy, spiky bastards under the spotlight here would be punks.  Despite the conflict with my entomological love, I play this one several times over and let the boiled eggs (legs) do their thing!  'Waiting For Bono' has a good strong sense of rhythm, states its situation and drives forth with a good, crisp direction that deals with the U2 tossbag and what seems, an imaginary meeting.  Utter idiocy in its thinking, very effective in its delivery - the grabbing strums, the hot-hopping skin work and the usual lucid larynx donations all make for some sonic goodness without complication and profound codswallop - sometimes we need this kind of noisy nonsense.

Into the meat of the music proper and 'Fitbit Nitwit' titters and flows.  There is no fuss, no over-flexing of the muscles, just a slagging of those trying to keep in trim and look after themselves (and why not).  The fact that many charge up and do fuck all to stay on the right side of healthy is utterly laughable.  It is another obsession that the band deem fit to deal with and do so in perhaps the most uncomplicated way possible.  This song I feel lacks depth and could have been something more - I feel a trifle let down, oh bugger.  'In Your Pocket' immediately puts a bounce back in my balls with a crackpot song about the owners of man's best friend and the packet of turds they carry around with them.  The emanating cur draggers are on the increase – this is no bad thing as long as they keep their mutts away from wildlife sensitive areas and keep bagging the brownies.  Some will, some cunts won’t – they need to listen to this and crack on.

The back 5, 'Everybody Hates Drummers' is a whipping song that highlights a vindictive victimisation on a skin slapping bugger who I am sure doesn't deserve such a rough deal ha, ha.  The band have a right old pop at the man in the rear, a real dig at the stick wielding component and by heck, it is just as well I don't take this effort too seriously.  The song is quick, liable to raise a titter when played 'live' and will no doubt encourage a bit more abuse to rain down on the drummers bonce.  I don't mind this one at all and all the rusty elements and no-nonsense facets make it easy to get into.  'Wankbadger' is a holler out to the isolated spunk spillers locked away and tugging like highly aroused dick demons.  Personally I felt that the recent rules were there to be broken so rather than stop in and tug, I fucked off out and avoided the rivers of seeds.  I am sure many will be able to relate to this song and maybe will be happy to play loud and throw one off the wrist for old times sake. Tuneful tomfoolery is the bands modus operandi and they do what they do with good zest and zipping vigour.  Again the crew do not fuck about and make sure all areas get room to breathe and gain note.  Another easy ditty to couple up with - I am now awaiting a curveball, it is long overdue.

'OAP' celebrates the joys of getting on in years and falling to fuckin' bits - great isn't it!  The band waste no time in getting the many problematic points across with duff eyes, dodgy bladders and knackered hips - just a few niggles noted by players who are far from spring chickens.  Unlike the decrepit gits relaying the rhythms this song has good pep, an upright stance and plenty of vigour, although it is too similar to that which has been and I am still left crying out for something off kilter.  What I do like here is the admittance of being outdated, on the decline and lacking relevance - it is a wake-up call for many 'punks' baby!  'Life's Better When You Share' has sinister undertones, I am sure makes some dubious suggestions, but is a good hoppity-skippity swinger nonetheless.  I like the smooth drift, the easily accessible sound and the way it comes, goes and leaves one humming.  The curtains of cacophony are parted, we peep inside, are we witnessing confessions from the dark side - ooh heck, the next time these guys play for me I am putting a plaster on me arse but I will leave me lugs uncovered (sometimes sharing has to be limited).  Eventually we hit the finale with 'No Refund' - a closure that starts with a footy chant, a rusty push and then a blatantly honest (but tongue-in-cheek) escapade that kind of rubberstamps the way this band approach matters and how they feel about what they do. This is a good shut-down number, ideal for full-stopping the silver circle and I suspect, a 'live' set.  Don't worry though folks, the next time these guys play for me it will be free entry so if they are as shit as they suggest they are, you won't feel diddled.

Crash Induction I have seen once and I have now been subjected to a bout of recorded material.  My thoughts are these - the band are not in it to change the world, they are self-effacing and enjoying what they do and they are happy to crack on, chip in when required and have no delusion of grandeur.  The DIY spits out units like this on a regular basis - I am fuckin' glad it does.

Page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20,
21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30
31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40
41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50
51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60
61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70
71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80
81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90
91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100