Top man Pat Crawford (System of Hate) is dabbling with a  side-project and here are 6 tracks I have been asked to put under the Fungalised musical microscope.  The release is on Dead Swan Records, a constructed label for the band and any other DIY outfit who want to crack on.  It all sounds good to me.  After many spins of the sounds I have the following thoughts, please forgive me if you disagree, honesty is more important than trying to fall into line.

Track one, 'Jackanory Johnson' is a clutter-bucket of old school noise done with a low-brow finger-pointing at yet another politician proven to be a slack-wristed wankpot of utter fibbery.  Over the years there have been many similar songs, they do nothing only give the listener's a chance to spout against the flow - is this a good thing without any action?  I listen to this over and over and consider it a primitive song that is easily joined in with but one that lacks any serious depth.  I am not convinced by this opening track, a situation that I hate to be in, especially when dealing with a new band.  'Let's Get Wankered At The Weekend' hints at another journey into the generically obvious but after an uplifting tympanic skip I find the first verse easy to digest and pick up on the working week frustration and the need to have a blow-out at the weekend.  The flow is mid-paced, the content of the non-too corrosive tune relatable and the drift far from difficult to digest.  We have all been in the loop of work and go on the piss, it is quite depressing if one thinks about it but this song does have me considering a piss-up - the job is a good un’ methinks.

'A Swan Can Break Your Arm (Did You Know)' is a slow creeper, an inclusion that begins with a certain insidious threat, a threat that comes via the immortal uttered lunacy borne from the mouths of many misdirected parents.  An urban mythical falsehood is given a run out via a strange song that shows a band with perhaps too much time on their hands and dabbling with things off-kilter.  I suspect this will be a better 'live' song than it is here and I hope gets a few folks wary of the Cygnus brigade and paying them a little more respect.  'So Very Bored' has a good lick with a groove easily picked up on and nodded along to.  Again the band stick to old-school bog-brush principles with a certain conspicuous orchestration and many obvious tonal touches.  This is an uncomplicated song, a mere knock-about with no pretentions or flash-fuck nonsense - therein the secret lies to this ditties minor success.  I think the final mix compliments the arrangement too!

The song with the greatest swing and therefore, initial magnetism is 'I Hate Living In A Town Like This', a ditty that shows a disgruntlement with yet another concrete shithole. It does reinforce my belief that living further away from the natural world and being penned in with the hordes is not the way.  The simple fact of the matter is where there are people there are problems and where the people are mushed together the problems increase.  I like the unsettled and rather pissed-off feeling to this one, the impetus suits me and the slightly raw and unwashed edge to the output works.  Again unfussy produce spilled forth with good, uncomplicated intent.

The penultimate song, 'I Just Want To Die Of Death In My Sleep' is a paradoxically miserable song that has a contrasting hope of popping one's clogs in one's sleep after a life of admitted successes and mistakes.  It is a bittersweet, smooth flowing song that accepts fate and gets on with matters.  If ever there was a grower in the pack this is it - a sonic seed is planted and a tonal tree grows and entwines around the listeners senses.  All areas are clear, in no rush and certainly in no need to make an exhibition of themselves.  I like it!

We shut down with 'Politicians Lie' - a kick-back against the suited and booted tongue-knotting spinners of falsehoods who continue to rule the roost as long as the populace, in the main, is kept comfortable and of course, conned.  This is a song designed for the political piss-pots in the pit, many of which will shout loud and do little but a few of which will use this as fuel to stoke the flames of activity and get out there and do something positive.  I think an 'in the flesh' viewing would increase the impact of this one, it feels like a song destined to close a set (just like it has done with this CD).

So The Puncturists have left me tantalised but feeling that this CD is merely a foundation and there is more to come.  This is an OK start to proceedings but I would suggest a more skanky approach would help matters with one of two real zipping songs thrown into the mix next time around.  The sound looks ideal for something upstroked with moments of upsurge and I feel the true potential is far from tapped here.  A couple of numbers though please me and are laden with promise, I sit back as honest as ever and hope the band understand where I am coming from and the well-intended nudge I am giving them - my arthritic fingers are crossed. 



A power surging band from the North East that just rely on big riffs and grubby vibrations to get their point across.  Emotions aplenty, consideration of the output and a certain wealth of angles all come to the fore as I explore this 12 track montage of musical meddling.  I play over the course of a couple of weeks, admire, assess and dissect and finally bounce the digits of the awaiting keys with thoughts going something like this. 

'Tide Of Doubt' is urgent, beautifully unwashed and scurfy.  The initial tones are subdued, borne from the oily smelling closets of garaged hell-holes before a breakaway blossoming of all forceful factors sizzles the listeners senses.  The opening verse is soon upon us with the lady at the helm cool, calculated and very unsettling.  As matters develop I am drawn in to a fascinating explosion of impacting noise played out by a band with a wealth of focus and know-how.  An opening number always needs the 'oomph' factor, this is a fine example of how to get things rolling with purpose.  Neatly mixed, tidily orchestrated and keeping that crucial element of 'listenability' - result.  'Black Tar' spills next with purpose and a flourishing impetus.  All hands are working in unison with the furrow found and travelled along with utter focus.  The first verse lacks a full on slap and slaughter saturation but does enough to segue into a string and skin surge and a somewhat drifting chorus.  The musicianship remains tight and organised. As I listen over I find the verse moments a little too naked for their own good but that is a mere personal point of view and shouldn't detract from a well-made track.

'Sinking' slaps in and has a certain 80's rock chick feel (ooh how I hate that term).  The pace is middling, a switch off from the main heave ho quite deflating and a distraction from the clobber of the cacophony.  As a lover of things more unwashed and less clustered I lose my grip here even though the band apply themselves with admirable ring-craft and punch with a certain accuracy aimed at the mushes of those more in tune with what is transpiring.  I am unconvinced by the song as a regular listening piece, each to their own I say.

A fistful of three and the groovy drift of 'See Me Be' appeals from the off and as a certain seductive enchantment that grooms, mesmerises and digests. The sexy groove gets the hips gyrating and the cranial juices flowing.  A smouldering number that curls a finger and beckons with a certain uncertainty by the seductress adding to the appeal.  A solid inclusion and leading into the barely touched hope flicker of 'World To Me', a song that overstays its Fungalised invite and just doesn't do anything to raise the goosebumps of intrigue or pecker of persuasion.  This is purely a personal viewpoint and yet I can still recognise a band pouring in a certain amount of effort to try and attain an emotive essence that may be just right for some tuned in noggin, this is just not my thing at all.  A fine shadow-cavern groove opens 'Wish You Would' before depths are plunged and the band create a semi-garaged soundscape that has many facets.  The rocked elements strive to take centre stage with the lead lass doing her thing and making matters par for the course set.  From bare verses to ascensions and then to chorus cuts with greater fluidity and gumption.  I like it when the band open up and fire on all cylinders - this started as a 50/50 song and is now a 70/30 effort - I am wondering with time will it impress me more - such are the ambiguities and uncertainties of reviewing. 'Cold' completes the latest hat-trick and despite being a song that travels beyond the 4 minute mark, in the main, it holds my attention.  I am unsure of the inner wind-down, but I do like matters when they kick on and bounce with a certain joy de vivre.  If you have loved what you have heard so far you will have no gripes here - the band are proving their presence.

I grab the next trio, squeeze hard and spurt forth the following seeds of assessment.  'Supermarket' burrows, pulses, persuades.  The opening verse is chillingly effective and the follow-on strains rise in sanguinity whilst the verbals give insight into a situation laden with trepidation and uncertainty.  The sonic advancement is deliberate and done with a growing power accent with the all-consuming cacophony finally winning the day.  I find this a quite complete escapade.  'Best Is Yet' is a brooding effort of what is ambition unfulfilled.  I find the whole track a shadow-dweller that falls into the background of the previous number and never makes a place for itself.  There is a suggestion of 'Twin-Peakian' nebularity and the drift is too morose and unexciting for my personal tastes.  I re-listen and recognise a certain subdued stature and a growing majesty but I do prefer it when the band add pace.  The closure of the latest trio is 'Just That', a song that doesn't hang about and from the initial tin can suggestions to a furrowed,  head down drive that hits an impetus, pushes along with a certain controlled forcefulness and never lets up.  The terse running time helps matters no end.

'Underwater' has a charming opening accent with the rippling rhythms dragging one down into the waters of the tune and making for a somewhat holistic refreshment that has me pondering if this is one of the best songs on the CD.  I contemplate, dive the depths, come up for air and reckon with a chorus of more splashing and crashing exhibitionism and a upsurge in the holler vitality this would have been a massive moment - instead it falls into the pack with the slow and easy strokings found within the movement just impeding the flow.   Aaagghhh.   We close with 'Profit'.  An ascension from the ashes, a somewhat stated verse with questions asked and answers waited for.  Slow and steady with a backdrop of grumblings and pronouncements this is a sinewy number that refuses to be rushed to the final silence.  There is meat on the bone and a clarity in the production, I am sure many will like this one.

Pit Pony are a decent band it seems, they know what they want to do and do it well.  I am not a fan and am far happier to let others more clued in enjoy the output.  As an outsider though, and an honest assessor, I think the band would do well to add some extra pace here and there and concentrate on the contrast element in each and every song.  As I always say, these are personal thoughts and only aired with the best of intentions to try and get the best out of a very effective unit. Hey ho, one can try. 



David Linehan has dabbled here and there and I have reviewed a bit of stuff he has been involved with.  I have been requested to chance my arm again by reviewing his latest venture, namely The Dead Irish, an outfit described as a 'Irish trad/punk band based in Dublin'.  There are seven members in the band, this had me wondering what would transpire when the disc started rolling, well as it happens, these are my thoughts on the radiations from the silver circle. 

Track the first, 'Ballad Of The Working Man' is a very complete, liquid and utterly pleasing song with a thoroughfare of sound easily explored and applauded.  There is a classy edge to the output but this doesn't take away from the scurfy depths or reality sodden essences of the song.  A tale of a labour-filled life, this energetic and perfectly composed piece is enhanced by a solid end production, a waterproof rhythm and of course, the mouth-watering flow of the song.  I feel this is one for the boot-wearing grafter who wants to escape from the toil and have a slurp and a swing.  The liquid smoothness from verse to chorus, the blue-tints and the almost never-say-die sub-suggestions are all sugar to the soul and that wonderful sax attack is just bang on the mark - a fuckin' fine start. 

'Lost In The City' quatro-splashes, whistles and casually progresses with a charm all of its own.  A very reclined and planed out tale with a certain honesty in the strokings I find this a gentle waltz with enough wallop that works a treat.  The tonal touches that make it generically apt and the undulating drift that creates an utter escapist wonderment all make me smile with joy at a yarn so simple and so absorbing.  There are no unnecessary accoutrements here, no flamboyances that are surplus to requirement - no, what you get is a quite polished piece of uncomplicated music making with the aim, no doubt, to give one great pleasure - and by heck it does just that.

'Morrisons Jig' is an instrumental beauty that swings along with utterly uplifting joy de vivre and a great blend of reel to the rhythm buoyancy.  The impetus of the song and the genuine emerald isle flavour is utterly delicious and as I play loud, I feel an imaginary crowd, all twirling, swirling, reeling and feeling the escapist brilliance of music both fresh and alive and played with a palpable freedom - I fuckin' love this releasing piece, it sums up what is going on with the whole CD for sure.

We finish up with the quite rewarding 'No Blacks, No Irish', a real perky number that looks at times more blatantly prejudice and duly deals with it, gets over it, and moves on with something of a positive lick.  A funky twang opens, a brass attack soothes and then a ghetto-skank first verse comes with a quite honest and street-splattered vibe I cannot resist.  Style and substance combine, proof of a cultured attention is obvious and what we have is a wonderful closing number that gives hint that the future of this band could be very bright indeed.  I play, skip, become infected and hail this as a real crowd pleaser.  From yore to now, many generic elements are captured and delivered with wonderful aplomb and adept insight – quality is the word.

If I was picking an EP of the year then this would be in there vying for the Fungalsied prize, come December I best give this one good consideration - it is a four-angled beauty and I love it.



Metal Postcard Records deal in the peculiar, the provocative and the divergently eccentric - I am fuckin' glad they do.  Here we have a debut single from a band I know bugger all about - again, this makes me glad.  The 3 tracks offered are all based around one construction, namely 'It’s Not My War'.  Firstly we get the 'Single Mix', then the 'Neon Kittens Mix' and finally the 'Alternative Mix'.  All three are of a similar reclined and rhythmically relaxed leaning with no urgency whatsoever to get the job done.  I listen once over and then delve some more.

What I reveal is a hat-trick of gossamer recurrences that flow from the speakers in a kind of smoke-haze fashion with aromas of things both experimental, embryonic and may I add, hesitant.  The distinct idiosyncratic bizarreness of all three tracks is alarming as is the quite obvious similarity.  The alterations in each number are almost indiscernible if one is not paying concentrated attention and I do wonder what is the point of a three-way delivery without any major variation in the attack.  Despite the music being soulful and soothing with a haunting undercurrent the whole hat-trick is too much of a set theme with no snagging hook had or no untoward angles thrown in.  There is a panging desire here for something explosive and dynamic to invade the slow-swaying cadence and sadly, for we the listening mush, it never manifests itself.   I listen through several times over and contemplate the effect, the end aims and of course my navel.  I find myself unconvinced on many fronts although there is a niggle at the back of the noggin just wondering what is going on here and what the future holds.  I just play once more to check on my thoughts - nah, I ain't getting this at all.

There ya go, a different sound sensation, a different review, Fungalpunk is befuddled - it happens. I do wonder what will come next from this creative force though, you see, all is not lost!



Janus Stark – a band with nouse, a purpose and a style that will not be shaken. In the midst of what transpires is a certain articulation and attention to detail not to be underestimated, the most important question though is ‘what does ye olde Fungal Fucker think’?  I take serious time here, (as I do with all offerings), this is my summing up.

'Father Time' twangs in with great confidence before chugging forth with a controlled care and quite effective lick.  A switch to something more stated comes before the catchy and sweetly mixed takes hold and drags one immediately into the fold.  We repeat the loop and appreciation grows as this well-blended and perfectly delivered opening song sets a lofty standard whilst encouraging one to sing-a-long and just enjoy.  With more plays further depth is found and this is merely more than a good pop piece - the band are displaying solid ring-craft here and opening up this latest release with great gusto.  'Rollin' With The Punches' ups the ante further with a strong guitar motif, a meaty verse that is ideally complimented by a smooth and uncomplicated chorus. Trimmings come with flashjack string shimmer-ripples, a reactive tympanic scaffold and an incessant and grounded bass route.  The end production values are choice and the vocal application is given room to be lucid, expose its passion and drag in the listener.  The more this opening brace are played the better they get, I think the foundations are laid and laid in ruddy grand style.

Tack three and if the truth be known this one is a little to cock-rock for me with reminiscences had of long haired, spandex wearing crotch thrusters doing their quite horrible thing.  There is a superb blend of all components and some fine ad hoc touches that enhance the delivery of 'I Don’t Want Your Sympathy' but certain Twisted Sister suggestions keep nipping at my heels and so keep me slightly wary.  If taken as a rock number there is no doubting this one has concrete bollocks, powerful riffery and some fine extra touches and even though it isn't my thing, I can easily see its potential and quality.  'Eddie 'n' Larkin' has a contrast modus operandi with a stutter and start verse and a liquid chorus that both combine to create a quite satisfying end piece.  The chiaroscuro feel is obvious with tones heavy, deliberate and shaded with those lighter, more carefree and refreshing.  Again the six-stringed serpent is allowed off the leash and allowed to spit a smattering of venom whilst the oral offering is clear and without any affected gruffness. This song has its own sneaking snag element and if you don't watch your step you could be soon falling over the vibes and mouthing along to the spillage.

'One More Ghost' maintains the quality mark with an inescapable hook, a solid backline and a blatant exhibition of serious musicianship.  The opening tonal twist captures attention, the chasing chunk of versage is lighter than expected but is coolly done and blossoms into a finely executed sub-chorus that, despite its relaxed and emotive slant, contains latent power.  The number progresses and refuses to be rushed with a clean and hygienic momentum had and a complete construction achieved.  This is not entirely my usual listening matter but the band convince me of a unit who know their stuff.  'Clusterfuck' screws deep, has an initial spite before running along with a sprightly spring in the step and an indefatigable energy that keeps things rolling.  The general gist contains great gumption with a midway way break of strung exhibitionism that is a little too showy for my liking. Before I can harp on about the flashjack bastards the rushing and gushing closure distracts me and I finish in a positive frame of mind - phew!

A quick fistful of three, 'Reassuring' breezes along with an opening burst I find utterly satisfying but with a verse I am not fully in synch with.  The breeze blown episodes save matters though and I get dragged along despite my occasional protestations.  'Mariana Trench' begins with eager drums before reminding me of a hepped up country-fied piece that is ideal for the corn-chewin', darn tootin' dungaree clad jiggers who like nothing more than a barnyard reel whilst pissed up on some good old 'shine.  The piece lacks a snatch factor that I find elsewhere but still has plenty of animation and gumption.  The last of the quickly assessed trio is 'Stick', the best of the three with a deliberate groove, move and pause opening rhythm that leads into a somewhat swanky swerve of sanguine song construction.  Glammed edges are, as usual, never far away, the rock element is blatant and the care taken in letting each component breathe is noted.  Even if you consider this music utter crud one would be foolish to label this as lacking quality and attention - thankfully I like this one.

'My Culling' is the penultimate track, a number with a fidget-fuck guitar angle, a foundation of bass that is utterly waterproof, a reactive stick routine that bounces off the string work and a vocal postage that is utterly lucid and ideal for the sound created.  The whole composition is somewhat too agitated for its own good although it is in keeping with the delete and crack on leaning.  As I listen with consideration I predict that this another grower although not with the same prowess as earlier tracks, I may be wrong. We leave the CD via the tones of 'Shoot Me If I Don't Have The Right' - a track that goes on for way too long, over-elaborates matters and leaves me a trifle cold.  It is a highly considered work of acoustic art that is played with utter talent and showcases many lofty nuances and attentive touches that add to the quality.  The fact that I am not in sync and not keen is just a personal matter that needs stating but, at the end of the day, should not detract from a song that oozes quality.  I am sure there are many fans who will relish this, some who will find this a moment to wallow in and of course, some fuckers like me who find it a tad overly ornate, fractured and perhaps, up its own jacksie  - we need balance that is for sure, many flavours must be had.  Honesty matters though, that is the best I can offer.

So despite a few numbers not hitting my neurones of pleasure I am still happy to rate this as a choice piece of work by a band who certainly know their tonal turnips.  The application and end production are spot on, the showcase of a unit working as one is a blessing. If you are already a JS fan you will be gushing over this, if you are a passer-by you will find much to mull over I reckon and a few trinkets to lap up.



Mental Wealth have played a few gigs for me, they are understated, subtle but laden with ringcraft and every time they play they leave me satisfied.  In a generic cesspool where many want tick-box tones and things rather more 'predictable' the MW lads have their hands full trying to get gigs methinks but I feel that is the sub-scenes loss.  Despite my concerns the band are slowly tickling along and this latest CD backs up my thoughts and appreciations - let us hope on the back of it they can turn a few heads.

We begin with 'Control The Masses', a mucky shuffle shifter with a hollowed and intentional approach that reflects what the band do in the 'living flesh'.  The political stance is to point the finger of blame towards the capitalist bastards who sell their deals to the gullible and rake in the cash and keep all beneath controlled.  The earthy, off-the-street honesty and pushing drive make this a feisty opener that is done in fair time.  I do prefer 'Obsession' though, a sour angled sweet flow that has a somewhat dark outline to the overall pastel shaded inner core.  There is a mind taken, a soul smitten, and an inability to let something go.  Again the delivery is short, especially considering the style, and leaves one quite please with the pure DIY touch.

The pinnacle of the opening trio (and the CD) is the minor classic that is 'Absolutely Old Boy'.  A pseudo reggae, street smart offering with a reclined feel and a great awareness of a certain generic social arena.  The string flicks are in line with the djembe raps whilst the bass neatly grooves in a perfectly balanced way.  The vocals are from the recesses and are ideal for the accent and output of this song that I have held in high regard for a long while.  On a 'live' basis it is a beauty, I wanted much on CD, I fuckin' got it ma'an.

'Serbia' is a pain-filled song that waltzes along beneath clouds of nagging melancholia and struggling influence.  The almost defeated turns to plumes of escapism whilst contemplating what was, what could have been.  This is a doleful and dreary song that works and works well. The arrangement is exact and the attention to acoustic detail quite ideal - nice.  'Hanglider' has a lovely drift and takes a perspective, looks down and assesses whilst all the while soaring with poetical easiness and a certain gutterised majesty.  The motif runs on through whilst the lead warbler goes about his business in a quite unassuming but grubbily appealing manner.  This is music for the unpretentious and the soberly aware - I like it.

'Incomplete' is a bare assed confession, admitting to the weary and world-beaten way that takes hold and leaves one far from holistically satisfied.  A loss has left an open wound, the ambience of the output is akin to a state of play where one has accepted the kicking and is just saying it how it is without emotion.  The band do this stuff well, they are realistic with what they do and refuse to post forth insincere 'hip, hip, hooray' bollocks and bogus 'happy, happy twat rot' nonsense - thank goodness for grounded folk.  'Wheelie Bin Riot' is another personal fave, a real cute comic cut with a glint in the eye never far away whilst making a statement about the idiot state of things.  The people are divided to the point of being lunatics - this cutlet glides along, finishes with a minor call for a trash container upheaval and leaves one smiling.  Yeah - I wonder if the bastards can recycle a lack of insight into something useful.

'Stoned Alone' seeps from the haze and tries to paper over the regrets with a smoky film of escapism.  A melancholia is rinsed through with a muzzy viewpoint that fights through the nebularity and gains some semblance of focus.  I recline, spark up, down a space-cake and get in line with the soporific streaming - very nice. 'Lighthouse' sends beacons of escapism and asks you to visualise and be free.  This latest sortie into tranquility is done without fuss or over-meddling musicianship with a distinct unrushed leaning adopted and with a quite languorous quintessence pervasive in all departments of the sound.  Not my fave track but I take it for what it is and take a sip of sherry, a pull on a bifter and... recline.

'Why' has a good under-shuffle of sounds, keeps things semi-laconic and takes up a motif that it sticks with to the dying last.  The segue between verse and chorus is liquid, the movement is mid-paced, as is the trios usual approach, and the overall snag of the song is simple and easily joined in with.  Nothing outrageous is delivered, just a neat little tune.  'Greed' has a semi-downbeat drift with some sharp and acidic lyrics pointing the finger at the US glutton fuckery that is lunacy, self-destructive and, sadly, very influential.  The gullible consume the shit and the rest get swallowed up and spat out in a congealing burger - we are all destined to die in a lard-ass mass as more and more fat pigs want, want, want.  This is a pertinent and convincing drift - listen and learn.

The penultimate piece is a political call with 'Palestine' a reflection on the idiocy of humanity and their need to fall out, divide and their failure to share.   Subdued, with no desire to be flamboyant this controlled DIY delivery does what it needs to do with unruffled feathers but a slightly niggled stance.  The modulation is pastel shading with a limited palette used but still getting the end picture created with clarity.  The final daubing on the silver canvas is 'Harry The Bastard' is a toxic dig at the ginger prince and the thieving monarchy who pinch a life, give advice and haven't a fuckin' clue.  This is as near as the band come to an upbeat sing-a-long piece, it is better in the flesh than on this CD and there are far better songs on offer.  This is Ok but I would have preferred a real angle thrown in on which to finish. The band have a message at this final stage - up the game for the next release you impish minstrels.

Yeah, so I started as a fan of the band and I have ended up still with the same belief.  This backs up what the crew have done so well in the pit and the earthy, unobtrusive and lo-fi way in which they operate appeals to me.  There is never any fuss when they play - they come, entertain and support - I like that.



Another varied blast of earthy goodness played out by many bands contributing their time and efforts to the Punk 4 The Homeless cause.  I like what goes on here and always up to spill my thoughts on the donators dinnage.  It is no easy thing reviewing a charity CD, any critique may be deemed cruel and uncalled for but this is not true.  Sincere respect is given to all who offer a noise to the final collection, all I can do is radiate my thoughts on each track and not patronise anyone with an arse-kissing fib or an insincere appraisal.  Like I say - 'respect to all' but these are my considered and honest thoughts on the individual tracks (remember, no one can like everything).

This Party Sucks jump into the fray, I hope the name of the band isn't a hint at what the CD has to offer.  'Burnin' is the crews gift, it is a punky number that bounces with frisky nervousness and from the opening flutter the band race forth with the energised gist before entering a simple and counterpunching chorus cut that holds great snaggery.  Overall the song is complete and has a fine animation factor and a good pogo-segment ideal for those who like to mix it up.  The Allergics follow, a new band on the battered block and throwing forth orthodox noise played with a sawbone string sensation and much pace.  From the opening salvo comes a breather prior to the hard-hitting and growling verse before an uncomplicated chorus is executed.  A seething disgust is spilled, a disgust with the political fibbers who say one thing to get a vote and do another when power is gained.  The red, the blue, the colours of the soiled rainbow are divisive and make sure arguments continue, the masses are split and the power-laden fuckers at the top can have a laugh and get whatever they want out of life.  This is an acidic song that offers nowt new, but does it need to?

Last Generation jump in next with an unruly 'Bird's Nest' that hangs in the sonic branches with a certain uncertainty.  A hollering song that trespasses into realms of hardcorian areas with a hybridised feeling never far away and leading to a somewhat imbalanced end product.  The moments of power-riffing are solid, the episodes of zoned-in galloping are fine and dandy, the collision though between both facets has me floundering.  The band do wander off kilter too and over-elaborate matters for no real reason - I am left rather deflated from an average effort that could be ripped apart and made into two crackerjacks.  The bare-bone, stripped back honesty of 'Negative Flames' by Broken Wires is a quite lovely piece with all areas passionate, careful and done with an intriguing forethought.  To be left alone to sing with the most naked of musical escorts is a brave move but here end success is had due to nothing more than the transparency and overall tenderness – a quite admirable snippet. 

Slowly brewed raving comes next via the impressive Rites of Hadda.  The song, entitled 'Attempted Murder' is a live offering that has depth, feeling and a molten movement of dirty drama that works a treat.  The fact that the song is an 'in the flesh' recording doesn't take anything away from the offering when sat amid studio releases and this I think, speaks volumes. This treacly wending into bleakness and despair is a long drawn out affair, not usually the cup of tonal tea chosen by my impatient self but, this gut grumble works and with high sax-appeal the job is a good un'. Ignitemares sweetly serenade with commercialised produce falling my way and having me on the back foot.  The opening throes of 'San Junipero' are too clean cut for their own good and have a sickly sweetness which is soon thrown aside by the more bollock-kicking pseudo skankiness and fanny tingling tempo I for one think is highly commendable.  As I continue to play I uncover a heartfelt and honest account of love with all areas polished and the accuracy absolutely spot on.  How music like this remains below the radar whilst utter shite dominates the airwaves is beyond me. 

'Quiet' by Hex Poseur has a pervasive, persuasive approach that dominates the airspace and leaves one highly impressed.  The request related by a fuckwit who wants a lady to be schtum reminds me of many macho pigs out there who like to be in charge and keep the lasses dumbed down (fuckin' nob rots).  I love the ascending she-strength here, the sinewy latent power that rises high, the refusal to comply and the general gist of something that feels very seductive (in a quite perverse way).  A fine inclusion.  Swaral Chronos take the reins next, spill out a questioning piece regarding plastic posturing and do the job in fine style after a jarring bass and feedback fuck is donated and a straight forward fuzz-assisted verse sets the stage.  The chorus jackhammers, states its point and refuses to tiptoe on certain tender parts.  The song has stomp and a sanguinity - this will do for me. 

The scabby and open wound of 'Time To Die' by Suburban Toys is a natural gob off by folk not fucked about all things polished and pristine.  The clobber cacophony is akin to a trembling bog brush that has been dipped in the shit-bowl and repetitively slapped against a cracked and crumbling wall whilst some nearby minstrels holler and scrape with unstoppable glee.  I consider this a 'live' offering that is very  much 'alive'. Blue Vulture fall back into yesteryear with an old time expulsion of tonal matter that has me thinking of a similar song that just eludes the memory banks - I fuckin' hate this sensation but by heck I like the song.  Slushy, strong and weaving along at its own pace, the opening dirty dog vibes set a sub-scene which is soon washed away by the oral strains that work a treat.  As I play over I am still scraping the cerebral matter - I come up with fuck all, this mental aberration shouldn't detract from what a good song ‘One Last Chance’ is... and it doesn't.

Omega Tribe need no introduction and their offering here is the title track of the latest album which, if the truth be told (as always), is an exceptional piece of work with many zeniths to appreciate.  The zest for change, the lyrical prowess and political pertinacity all make for solid listening matter but the spring in the step and the clarity of all components are crucial and help give this number a very satisfying feel indeed.  The OT three are on a roll, this is one reason why.  'Chip Shop Fascist' is an old creation by Eagle Spits and now stripped down, redressed and given a kick up the arse via his latest collection of motley minstrels known as Activistas.  This tale, about popping in the local chippy and being ear-bashed by a racist twonk, is an utter joy and is presented in its best guise to date. It is observational and off-the-street, done by folk without pretence or trying to come across as some woke-wankers. It is a natural reaction to bigotry and an utterly sing-a-long piece too - I have a lot of time for this lot - here's why! 

A tetchy piece comes next with metallic touches and string showmanship tricking us into considering one thing before we are donated another.  Dropping Like Flies throw forth a verbose jumble-tumble of words I can't make out and leave me bewildered.  The song known as 'Trigger' goes on for too long but has a fine clash and contrast beauty that holds attention and has me wondering where the fuck this lot are coming from or where they are going to.  There is a superfluity of nouse exposed, a good working insight into what they want to do and overall, I am rather taken.  Infekted Heads meet Andy T come to the fore next with political words soon joined by some mellow and yet tetchy skankery that wanders along into a chant-rant against the Nazi scum and their brethren.  The hating shits are picked out and cast under the shadow of this intolerant number that really is a decent do and ticks many boxes both pertinent and anarchic.  The rusty edges and forthright strains appeal as well as the drift of the melody - take heed 'Fe Fi Fo Fum' - the giants of ethical living are on the warpath. 

Eagle Spits puts his oar in again next , this time in cahoots with Rich Gulag (you have my sympathies sir).  'Spycops' is a dig at the nasty uniformed bastards and a pseudo-techno twang overlain with poetical weaving from the dulcet tones of the spitting one.  Slow and treacly with an incessant verbal spillage this one is a moody piece for those, appropriately enough, in the right mood.  You can't dance or feel upbeat here but sometimes you have to just face reality and realise there is much shit out there.  Mark Leaf Foglia jumps onto the heavily wired and plugged in motherboard of DIY melody with an intense grinder scored under the appellation of 'Food Fucking Porn'.  Fuzzes, sparks, robotic spasmodics with occasional overloads, this is an intriguing number that is reeking of homemade accents and one-man creativity.  The underscore is deliberate, the upper surface more experimental, the end mush operates at a good level and does what it needs to do.

No Murder No Moustache tinkle wrinkle the fabric of the CD with their usual melodic flow, this time under the tag of 'Sing! Fight! Run! Survive!' - a very rewarding song of rebellious rallying intent.  The lyrical content finger-points to the thieving power mongers who lie and play the game whilst many get the shit end of the stick and suffer.  There are many good-hearted people though, those who will resist and question, and some of those will love this well-crafted, sharp and defiant tune. The band know what they want to do, what they want to say and they do it mightily well.

Ferocious Dog have a fine reputation and deliver their typical Celtic-ised folkery here with expected fluidity and driving incessance.  'Gallows Justice' has all the accoutrements of easily digestible dinnage that so many are stricken by.  The postage of the tune is lively, clear and with carefully placed components.  The key aspect though is the impetus, the clip in the cacophony and the fact the free-wheeling arrangement is ideal for jigging to.  I have heard many similar tunes, this ain't now new under the sun, again... it doesn’t have to be.

I love the opening strum and skip of 'Sick Of It All' by The Sporadics.  It gets me bouncing before the delightful skanky verse comes and enthuses my sonic soul no end.  The song has vigour, snagging simplicity and of course, a friskiness that gets the goosebumps rising.  The holistic fucked off feeling is one any pissed and miffed thinker should be able to relate to and this really does hit a nerve and encourages one with its 'face it and fuck it' approach.  A real pinnacle of the CD for me, a clash of the upbeat and downbeat in one healthy brew - smashing.  The Dry Retch slowly vomit forth a vile and virulent cover song, namely 'The Gasman Cometh' by Crass. Here we get a squalor-stained tune with heavy, glutinous grungery played out by purveyors of nasty tonal energy.  This is taken from their recent album that is a delight, this isn't my fave offering but is still worthy of attention, the aforementioned CD though contains some real hefty movers. 

We leaved the spinning circle of multifarious emanations with Tri-Subversion and their quite absorbing and toe-tap inducing '99 Percent'.  Any good compilation must begin with a capital sound and be full-stopped by something strong and memorable - this is such an instance.  Initially fuzzed and buzzed before good foundations come whilst the opening verse drags ones interest further into the fold.  The chorus is raucous and edgy with a certain 'fuck it' slant that keeps it fresh, animated and happening - a cracking closure.

And there go my thoughts once more, to be taken, read, thrown away and to disappear into the great sonic void.  I have once again strained my lugs and stretched my time and hopefully reflected what has transpired here.  Compilations matter, this is another fine gathering of sounds to keep me entertained – ta folks. 



The pincers are twitching it seems and are dying to fiddle away and make some niggling noise.  I am happy to indulge time in the abstract and the angled, it makes sense to taste many flavours and add my own input. The limbless scuttlers have disgraced my aural airspace on 2 previous occasions, it is not enough, the perversion of plunging the tonal depths can never be sated.  I dive deep once more, as I scour the rhythmic ripplings of the nether-scene these are my estimations.

'Human Flies' buzzes with waterproof intent and stays afloat on a buoyant motif that will not be punctured.  Away from my grasp the tones fizzle whilst the oral donator goes about his business with an utterly absorbed intent.  A strange rhythm tickles the inner sanctum of my cerebral shithouse whilst the observational tones come and bring a nightmarish vision of glass-eyed feeders detached from life and the great impending disaster.  As I play this one more and more the gist magnetises and I become hypnotised - I like flies, but not the pesky human kind.  'Ladies My Age' is brief, uncomplicated and of a fritzing feedback style that is purely eccentric and unhinged.  The process follows no orthodox routine, the output is totally ad hoc and almost left to be what it is.  A terse episode of wired-up madness that finally misfires and flatlines.  If you are looking for a pleasant experience here, or indeed a musical snippet, then in this instance, you best forget it! 

'Manatee' scrawls across the shimmering walls with an excrement leaking nib and leaves a tale of madness for you, the crapping cacophonist, to consider.  A man has plunged, the depths are parted and a beast comes close, smiles and raises a titter - things are that simple.  The unforgiving lunatic lilt of this final fuck-up comes with lyrics of equal insaneness and I find myself wondering what the hell this lot are up to.  This is no bad thing though and creative forces of all forms need their moment of exposure.  I sign off here puzzled, piqued and pissing myself with indecision - I reckon this is a form of success for the designers of these dins. 



From the debris of a band known as Billyclub comes a temperamental 2-piece that delivers its sound with a dirty savage bass and some twat-heavy skin ravagings.  This guitar-free duo mean business and when I was asked if I wanted to do a review I was happy to say 'yes'.  I spun, pondered, spun and considered some more.  Here are my attempts at something akin to a summing up.

This is a CD with a personal touch, a CD though that is a grueling listen due to its no-nonsense, face-up and have-it approach.  There is no shying away from the lottery of life, its dubious characters and the darkened talons of Lady Luck who can twist and turn our existences inside out if she so wished.  I like the fact that this CD oozes perspired effort, is strained and sinewed DIY at its untamed and most naked.

'Kill Me If You Can' comes just after the news report of a death, a death delivered beneath the storm-clouds of unapologetic reality.  This opening number sets a scenario of a Bonnie and Clyde love affair with two people both selfish, misguided and without thought for others.  A man is dragged into depths and is too weak to escape, the love that adds to the stranglehold is all consuming.  The clobber factor of this heavy-fisted opening burst has relish, weight and spite - there is also an underlying 'come and get it' threat that adds spice to matters.  The clobbering desire and overall thrust are bang on and get one wondering.

Phone call, dialogue, further depth to matters are had.  We seem to be encountering a bastard led by bastards and duly dealing with bastards. Deal made...

...and death comes via the soundtrack of 'Die You Will'.  What we have is a toxic machine-like incessancy that ploughs along on sable sonic waves created by players immersed and not about to be derailed.  Lyrical evidence informs us the gangster has a date with destiny and his victim has a date with the bullet.  Seething, brewing, spilling over and self-assured - this track, like the assassin, will not be denied - nasty man, nasty.

One to one - chit, chat and a hint at that... whatever that is - can you guess.  Interruption, job offered, on it.

'The Scream' rifles the boneyard of your decency with a call made, a threat had, and job satisfaction guaranteed.  Slap, strum, twang and away we go.  The dealer who thinks he is above all is negated by the gun, sometimes filth killing filth is a good thing.  The muscularity of this latest offering is effective, the chug rumble and biting accents work well and are in complete spirit with the unfolding tale.  The skins are smacked with spite, the cables ravaged by a man enthused.  The vocals have a relish that becomes almost sexual - I remain delighted but disturbed by what is unfolding.

Message relayed, escape is needed - what we get is horror incarnate.

This latest molesting is laden with the first hint of leveling karma with all that is seemingly settled upturned and a thrown into the fan where the shit usually resides.  'All' pounds away and bleeds out a fear, a change of focus, a real kickback against the cruelty.  The stark and stripped bare truth is hammered home and a final primal holler-repeat comes and closes the number - from fate there is no escape.

Discussion, an appointment with the unexpected is mentioned, gentle tones of consideration enter the fray.

'Man Within' is a confessional classic, touched with emotive excellence and sincere and tangible heartbeats with a need to flee more than apparent.  Adoration has been admitted, it is the all consuming master that will not kow-tow.  You can talk the talk, brandish your weaponry and stick out your chest with machismo pretence but when the overpowering sensation of complete love comes a calling one will bend down, feel crushed and realise what matters.  This song, for all its lack of gung-ho charging and rattling rhythm is the most powerful piece thus far - massive.

A break, idle-talk and a request - one keen for a positive answer, the other as cold as ice but, like the ice in the drinks, easily melted.

Fidgety skips, bass nerves, a delicate emotive treacle flow dictated by an overwhelming adoration.  The movement of '47', for me at least, loses some of the slushier impact and so counterpunches itself into submission.  I am not keen here but recognise the aim and the song finishes with great sanguinity.

A romantic getaway, the cornball orthodox type in a situation that consumes.

The next movement falls in line with the set scene and has an almost psychotic, obsessive edge that is somewhat disturbing.  'Sunshine And Coffee' is off the wall with its smitten approach, an angled and over-swayed episode of love-struck pondering, the brusqueness and the sub-tension add to the impact.

A week ahead, holiday panging, party time.

'Raise Your Hands' is bold and straight ahead, a hefty piece shouting about the values of loyalty and looking after your friends.  This is a fierce ram-rodding moment in time that has easy and obvious snag elements and a muscular strength not to be underestimated.  I can't help pondering many macho fools who use this 'loyalty' crap as an excuse to be a prick but there are some folk who know the true value of friendship and faithfulness - that is the key.

Suddenly a so called good life is turned upside down, justice is served as an icy dish straight from the calloused hands of Mother Misfortune.  A hospital visit, some bad news - the Card Sharp known as The Great Leveller wins once more.  Triple bullets - bang, bang, bang.

From disbelief comes defiance and denial.  'Got To Make It' is sincere power, straight from the heart and is utterly absorbing as a result.  Tangible feelings and stubborn, hopeless resistance fall together in a tune that hits the mark and leaves one with a chill, a creeping disturbance, an insidious upset - this is a quality moment with verse and chorus chunks having it whilst devouring your attention.

Support via a call, a cry for help, fear rises, death awaits - the dealers in all things fair have disappeared into the ether - such is this existence.

'Summer's Gone' sees the talons of winter take old, sunshine days get smeared with negating frost and a flat-lining numbness grabbing the victory.  Darkness pervades, threatens to take hold. The tune here is panic-stricken but still clutching at straws.  The fluidity of this piece and the combination of the gentle and tender with the raucous and rampant wins the day, it is the last hoorah for a spirit soon to be beaten, this adds spice to the subject and sonic matter.

Waiting, flat-line, that is that - full fuckin' stop.

Acceptance comes via the jumble jerk of 'Taken', a piece spilling from a cracked and ramshackle mind shaken up by a situation beyond ones control. The ultimate sobering scenario is emphasised by a stop/start bass creep that unfolds into a perpetual nag attack, an onslaught that brings a pain that will not be quelled.  The insightfulness into a nightmare scenario is real and as a result is most upsetting - job done.

Tears, no hope, pointless assistance - a promise not to get through.

Hard edge, damning tones, 'Thoughts In My Head' is riddled with anguish and a longing to be dead.  To flee from the pain is the quest, the immediate answer is the all-consuming blackness of death - one can almost feel the scars upon the heart, one can almost taste the poison of the aggressive anxiety and soul ache that will not be diluted.  This is very bleak piece and one that isn't any fun at all - as I have said previously - job fuckin' done.

The sable character that takes life wants it all and the tool used is now the victim which, in truth, is how the cookie crumbles.  The hunter is hunted, this time there are no bullets to dodge just one swinging scythe that never ever misses its intended target.  'Generation' has a groovy impetus and accent, it seems a late lifetime surge is had - it may be a false dawn, a deceptive moment, but this solid song has one thinking otherwise.

A drunken phone call, the feeling of something not right pervades, and then...

…we creep into the final song, 'Scars' are exposed, what one feels here is a sanguine stroll to the final oblivion.  When one speaks to a person on the cusp of suicide a gut wrench is had but a lack of certainty halts ones actions.  The words unfold, the admittance of errors and the realisation of holistic loneliness reflect a man on the brink - all it takes is one final push.

Reckless blood letting, a voice from the past is on repeat, the techno-phantom haunts, the trigger is pulled, a useless full-stop to a chapter of wastage is firmly implanted on another scripture destined to be filed in the drawers labelled 'wasters' - oh aye.  The funeral march is long and melodic, the sub-dirge sinks into silence – the void closes… forever. 

What we have here is a work of ugly art - a portrait of a man taken down the wrong path and easily led.  A man sold down the river and living a life built on self-serving and subservience to his loved one - the outcome - death for all.  In life people come, people go, and yes between being born and dying it is what you do between that matters - the band have done something special, the guy under the spotlight did absolutely fuck all - good riddance I say.

And there you have Fungal's take on matters with the end verdict being a classic piece of uneasy listening created by talented artists on a mission - big applause chaps.



A new band for me with essences of a band previously reviewed very much at the fore of matters.  I shall stay schtum on this front and deal with the vibes from down-under (Perth, Australia) and try to remain as unswayed and as neutral as possible.  It must be said though that the music here is very similar to what I have heard from previous incarnations of the players - I am happy with this. 

'Big DNA 2030' is a 100mph flurry of mushed and mangled tones that are thrown one's way in a frenzy of emotion.  The wordspill is a confounded blur with the unstoppable avalanche of strings and stick manipulation a tireless tirade of youthful hunger.  The tumult of eagerness wakes up the senses, the poppy underscore and foaming wonder of the output all have me smiling with recognition of a unit obviously loving what they do and doing it mighty well.  A screwball whizzed up palpitation attack of adrenaline surging joy - one for the old bastards to be scared by I reckon.  'Drabness' imposes itself and is a better track, it has more angles, a gripping incessancy that begins with a buzzbomb bass line, a thumb-screwing spiral attack and a state and scurry follow-on that keeps the framework all of a flutter. The title may suggest one thing but this is a multi-coloured splash attack of Pollockonian naturalness that really does keep all radars throbbing and sparking.  I love this one, the energy is highly appealing and the general gist of things upbeat, foaming and fuckin' pertinent is right up my street.  Smashing stuff.   

'Can't Relate' wire warps, glints and goes for it with a mid-paced honesty that has a vitality all of its own.  The garage's elements aren't wasted on my lugs and neither are the subtle twists in the approach.  The only gripe I have with this one is that it isn't as blatant and obvious in its slam-dunk effect as the previous two songs.  It is my least favourite so far but I am a sucker for things that do not fuck about.  I rate this one as merely average.  'Transgression's is a neat inclusion, there is mystery and noir-esque feel to the terse offering and a certain creepy 'Joy Division-like' gothika shit-streaking the whole shebang - it comes, disturbs and goes - ouch. 

'Total' has a likeable lick, chugs with patience, tumble fucks with naturalness and added space-age wankery.  I have not a fuckin' clue what is going on here, what is being said or the point of the sonic stupidity but there is a vein of hope within the mix that has my attention snagged.  This is a weird wanker in a litter of lunatic fringe spilling, the vibrating vagina that ruptures and gives birth to these befuddling bastards has a lot to answer for.  'Black Book' has yet more outta space futuristic tones with the radio-fritzed style of singing akin to a miswired robot firing on ready-fucked cylinders and spark-riddled transistors.  There is still a strain of throwback noise with a 60's radiation never far away - nifty.  'Behaviour' comes and goes, it is a mere interlude, I personally can't see the point - this may be a wonderful thing! 

The last two and 'Information Age' (ft Tee Vee Repairman) has all the nervous energy and crankiness that give this crew their winning edge.  Hard worked and heavily quirked this is another screwball scramble of sonic vitality that pricks the senses and gets the noise-laden neurosis to go bodily viral.  I consider these and similar pop-fizz expulsions not to be for those in need of a respite from everyday life, they are energy fucking snippets destined to add the finishing touch to any frayed nerves.  We close with the shifty sidewind of 'Spend' - a manic pulse repeat reminiscent of the pre-programmed lives many people live whilst they waste dosh and buy frippery or pointless accoutrements.  This tune is a mere jitter spiral into headlong madness that is punctuated by push-button reactions and something akin to frustration - I feel unsettled.

CPR Doll have many options to take, I suspect they will take the awkward one (fingers crossed).  This, I feel, is a mere taster of better things to come but this is no bad CD at all.  Promise drips, sometimes achieves success and now and again leaves one wanting and slightly bewildered - the fact is though intrigue has been provoked and this is worthy of anyone's listening time.

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