2 Bands, one CD, Fungalpunk is listening in, assessing and requested to spill out a verdict.  I take my time as per, I throw in the tunes amidst many more, during a mush of fungi, non-stop doofing and being on the precipice of a cerebral crack-up I do my bit and cough up the following words.  I hope my honesty and viewpoint are taken for what they are - well fuckin' meant.  

Firstly and This Is Not A Drill offer up a fistful of five songs beginning with the articulate and sharp-witted 'Social Media Person'.  The opening scene-set is patient and grounded with a tension rising and in need of a rhythmic rupturing.  The onslaught comes with all hands to the unwashed deck and ploughing forth with foaming desire.  The pace is intense, the fiery kick-back against the dumbed and numbed effective and the thermal dynamics are straight out of the microwave of orthodox punk-spunk all baked in a pie that is as searing as an overcooked Crispy Pancake.  The foundations are lain, and next up is 'I Ain't Got Time To Bleed' - a fuckin' nasty piece of enraged molestation that is hardcorian in its intent but also something that stays focused and may it be said, bordering on the melodic.  The gist is straightforward, there ain't nothing new shining from the arse-crack of Old Father Sonica but this is good bread and butter fodder the shit eating flies of the scene will fuckin' lap up.  I am always buzzing about the turds of tonality, I think it is a mental frailty - thank fuck I am cracked.  Yes - the food of the sods is here, I nibble away with glee.  

'Don't Meet Your Heroes' slams, sweetens with string grooms and then shits a puke stream of poisonous intent with the advice given thoroughly applaudable.  Personally the best way is to have no heroes, we are all equal tha' knows.  The tension here is relieved by a terraced chant out that follows a screwing intensity liable to cause sincere lug haemorrhaging.  This is a clashing song with two opposing modes of operation - somehow it works. 

'Gammon Triggers' is a fuckin' delicious slab of frighteningly effective noise that makes my nipple-neurones explode with delight.  What savagery, what pertinence, what bass-line blistering.  The whole shebang is a fire-branding episode that leaves an indelible mark on the cranial gunk and I have no complaints.  Terse and toxic - fuckin' have that one then you shifty shit-peddlers.  

The last song up from the Drillers is '(All Lives Matter When) Black Lives Matter (As Much As White Lives)’. There is no need to explain what is going on here, for me the content hardly matters as all I see is people falling out, being divisive and continuing to not treat each other equally (I am fuckin' sick of it).  Good force is applied here, the surge and passion are both convincing and the construct and mix of the song are done to a tee.  I must say this isn't my fave, but the wire work is lovely, the skins knocked about with rampant urgency and the growls as spiteful as ever - I bet this one is a good do 'live'.

Now to Sods Law and 6 tracks to decipher and deliver a verdict on.  

'Age Of Chaos' twangs and taps, rolls back the years of over processing and slaps forth a bog-brush wielding piece of nasty-pasty noise making with all sense of decency abandoned - thank goodness. Gobby, scurfy and with an easy pick up, play and toss away sensation, this is raw-boned hollering that is surely therapy for the players and fodder for those beyond hope - it ain't nowt special but some things don't need to be.  A solid intro with repeat escalations and preparatory tonal touches sets 'Fix Bayonets' off on the right footing.  What follows is more naked, unmolested and honest racket making, this time dealing with the age old subject of war and the utter pointless loss of life that always follows.  The verse will have the pogoing piss-pots spilling beer this way and that, I suspect the lead hollerer here would join in too - it seems music for everyone without any delusions. 

Nervous pulsations, a grubby wire invasion, and then a demand to stop the horse-riding murderers who kill all in their path.   'War On Wildlife' is right up my street, shouting for the salvation of the natural in an unpretentious and forthright way.  The string work is soiled and the tin can clatterings are hectic.  The voice at the fore is straight off the street and having a go - utterly unprofessional, completely untrained but totally enthused and laden with belief - the latter facet is the most important factor of all. 

Into the last 3, 'The Bombs Fall' pulses, weaves and crustily skanks - I like what I am hearing.  The impetus picks up, the upstrokes are abandoned (a shame) and what we get is some more vitriolic violence done in the expected style.  The counter clashing arrangements work well and we have a decent song here but the crew have missed a trick I feel and a full on atmospheric pseudo-reggae-skank delivery would have been a smart move. Take note for the next release ya buggers but please keep the steaming passion.  Not bad at all this one though - the fact that things are kept grubby helps.  'Working Class Scabs' is a dirty piece of spit back, hopefully finding the target and leaving a real bad taste in the mouths of the treacherous.  After skin skips, a foul string opening and then something akin to a rhythm, the oral donator comes, hollers and soon indulges in a caveman cum terrace shout out that will be a treat in the pit.  The production values are earthy and unmolested, the end effect is of something many new age victims of the polished dilution may not appreciate - fuck em'. 

The closure comes via 'Fuck Off' - a spiralling escapade of pure vehemence that is based on nothing more than being utterly pissed off.  In a world of lies, rules and frustrations blow-outs like this are needed, they are primeval screams from the well-trodden dwellers of the underground and are a joy to hear.  There is no need to get all pretentious and try and make an educated statement, sometimes a blatant and unadulterated message of stark simplicity is all that is needed - here we have such a case and that is all I ask for.   

A fair mix and match sound splat here with the shit-stick of sonica brandished and leaving a good smear of recognition on this long-term victims noggin.  I have been hammered with tunes and DIY efforts for too many years to mention but my hunger for things honest is still blazing - if the band can back up what they have done here  both in their everyday lives and in the pit then I will have no complaints.  I already have Sods Law booked, my appetite has been whetted, I hope to see them strut their stuff and have a rather moistened undercarriage as a result - ooh blimey!  



Outside the routine and regularity comes the Neon Kittens, a scratching and shape-shifting beast of ad-hoc pseudo-jizz-jazz liable to contort the cranial gunk into a multitude of pain-inducing shapes. I like to have the old thinking soup stirred, there is no finer feeling than being left in the lurch by a collection of music that promised much, it is all part of the reviewing game! Such is the life of sonic slaggery! 

And so to track the first, namely 'Nil By Vein'. This nerve jangle episode is naturally delivered without any strait-jacketed and orthodox restraint. The invasion of many intruders makes for a listen to be paradoxically soothed by and upset by. The fuck fracture catches light from many angles, reflects, refracts, deflects, detracts and all the while keeps one absorbed and, may it be said... entertained. There is a deep-rooted corruption establishing itself within the eavesdroppers belfry here - the tendrils reach out and feed, beware the absorption of your resistance. This is nail-biting stuff! 

'Kinder' nips, mocks, goes with its own surreptitious flow and all the while has child cum dog like yappings that make the arrangement almost comedic. This is a flaw I feel and detracts from the musical meddlings of minds both restless and unconcerned with well-trespassed tonal thoroughfares. I listen over and detach the vocal intrusions and come up with two separate entities - one I find favour with, the other I abhor. It is that kind of confounding and niggling track, I wouldn't have expected anything less. 

'House Of The Devil' is a quite convincing screwed up mush of sharded shadiness with all the sharp angled wire work combining to create a mystery that is both enlightened and yet nebulous. The paradox is part and parcel of the NK output with sub-whisperings coming from the vaults of problematic Hell. There is a saturation of focus here that culminates in a subculture of sound only the bombed, angular or darn fuckin' awkward will take to. We need misdirected melodies and wayward roamings into pastures abstract - if you don't like it, get back to 'Routines-Ville'. 

The closure comes and for me, is a little too gossamer-light and spidery webbed to make much of an impact. The shimmery and somewhat fragile end mix of 'Kitten In A Neon Arc' is not my cup of cacophonic cha and has a drifting recline that is overly soporific and too idling for its own good. The lyrical content however is poetically appealing and when combined with the tones we have an improvement in the listenability and perhaps a greater understanding of what is transpiring - I would still rate this though as the runt in the rhythmic litter. 

A quirked quartet of sonic splurts - done with a freedom and irregularity that must surely be the only driving force that matters. If the verdict of others is negative or praiseworthy the success is in the creation and the tangents accessed - another 4-tracker would be the perfect follow-up methinks.



A delve into things both weird, warped and perhaps a little whimsical as two forces tweak and twang the rectal cables of rhythm and push out several dollops of disturbing dinnage.  The Clickbaiters and Occult Character join their sweaty hands, summon demons from the world of discordant Hell and reassemble the tremblings into 4 tracks of their very own style.  I am a man with a tender nervous system, this kind of stuff akin to playing with fire - I should know better. 

The Clickbaiters come first -  'I Am (The Residents and Snakefinger)' screw-spirals with broken talons scraping the acoustic boards whilst the westernised sun-scorched wank vocals invade and add an extra slanted dimension to matters.  A crawl through jangle jungle vines of vibrology is had with a stated approach delivered that indicates a force of pollution that is what it is, and makes no apology.  Pure sub-scene constipation crapped from a thinking orifice that emanates its own flavours and colour schemes - abstraction in slow-mo methinks and giving cause for sweet concern.  A sharded fracture-fuck of sound sprays political words this way and that with 'Snaked' moving with sound impetus, a nice off-the-cuff abandonment and an underlay of observation that susses the state of play and how man got himself in one hell of a mess.  I like the alternative B-side honesty of this, a parade of spirited sound brandished by a creative force with lots to offer.  This is not tonality for those of gossamer frameworks and spiderweb set-ups - this is for people who can handle offerings from outside the usual listening spheres. 

And to Occult Character - 'Mark 16, 17, 18' is a techno-twist of religious madness with thoughts of casting out devils and serpents whilst semi-pulsing with a weird and warped conviction that surely shows a mind on the cusp.  A break comes and a verbal follow on takes us to the final silence with the lyrical content on the side of the wriggling vipers that are filled with toxins but do less harm than lightning.  'The Signs That Shall Follow' is more evidence that what we are dealing with is insanity of the most disturbing kind.  I listen to the CD as a whole one final time and am reinforced by my verdict - experimental madness with the second track the pick of the putrid pops. 

I am piqued by what has passed here, albeit in a pleasant and confounded way.  There is always room for people to banish demons and create music that they are comfortable with.  For the listener this may not be a good thing but too many spill shit for the masses and that is never the way forward - jangle on folks.



Another release from the cultured and talented tinkers known as The Inklings. It warms my cockles that these dudes keep asking for a review, it is nice to know they are interested in my thoughts. It is equally pleasurable to be given the opportunity to keep up with what they do and how they are progressing (if at all). My honesty has always been the way and the band (unlike many) accept that - and for that reason alone I will continue in the same vein and give them darn good time. Here I go again!

'In The House Of The Fathers' tiptoes in on pulsations prepared, a few sturdy clouts come and the verse first is delivered with calculated authority against a backdrop of post-punk. The progression is made into a very convincing pseudo-gothic horror tinted chorus that oozes noise-craft and a self-assured belief. There are many touches of subtlety beneath the growing rage that sees the religious insanity prodded and the musical arrangement excel initial expectations. A very firm and saturated composition that has a rhythm to cultivate the listenability factor. 'Here To Stay' has a groove bass opening, a coffee swirl continuation, a gently steamed and barely attired verse with a chorus inclusion that is a perfect advancement of all that transpires. The precision is blatant, the melodic pop approach is outlined in pencil grey so as to add a certain weight rather than a commercialised flimsiness. I find this second follow-up both educated and unflustered, indicative of players very comfortable in their playing roles and very pleased with their output.

'Catch Me' has a firmness, an emboldened underscore of bass and tympani whilst the six-strung touches are regulated and at times, delicate. The atmosphere of the song is almost Bronte-ian, with moorland wind resonating through the blend and a hollowed haunting adding to the intrigue. A purely monochrome portrait done with care and a certain credence lent by the creators. 'Keep It All In' has a distinct splash of early 80's new breed poppery with a certain romantic pervasion and lo-fi synth sensation never far away. The vocals are soothing, the advice to relax and breathe is backed by the cooling thermals of the whole construct. The band are sincere miles away from the trappings of labels such as punk and new wave, what we have here is definite DIY delights made by folk who have their own targets and their own way of meeting them - what I am hearing here is the bands best CD to date - but can they maintain the standard set?

'Staring At The Sun' is a foot-stomping episode of weighted music played with attention to detail and a maintenance of the flow. The persistent insistence that the listener taps his foot and takes heed is inescapable, the overlay of keyed waftings is necessary and takes one along on a buoyancy that is more than a little gratifying. I have little else to add here - just enjoy folks.

Sub-reggae flicks, a stark opening spill of words, the self-promoting prick under the spotlight is nailed via a straight ahead verse that is backed by some reactive bassism. 'Poundshop Jesus' is a tough and flexible song that still retains a sweet fragility. The nakedness of the tune works with just an adequate amount of rhythmic raiment added. The melody is slow setting and tempts and teases, the more one waits the better and more familiar the song gets. 'Judgement Day' is a meaty song with the 4-cabled weapon guiding the way and the keys juicing up the overall flavours. The sinews are flexed, the skins are given a good hiding albeit with strategic care and the guitar and vocals do what they do to make for a complete song. At this stage I am fully sanguine in the knowledge that The Inklings are at the top of their game. 'Falling Down' is a cool customer that plays things easy with an orchestral feel that is easy to get lulled by.

'The Snake' creeps in, sets a stage of unsure fragility before a shuffle, pound and roll get things moving. The heavy pronouncements, the clarity of the vocals and the sing-a-long chorus make this an easy number to get into and one I suspect a number that is very effective in the flesh. The band take time to flourish and then get this one wrapped up with little fuss - a very uncomplicated but effective effort. 'Stop' appropriately enough brings the CD to a close with perspiration free casualness that wins the sanguine day. Drifting in, contemplative, giving hint at a situation without answers. The delivered ditty demands we get a grip, smell the shittery and crack on - do not be beaten folks. There is much reassurance coming from a tune that does what it needs to do - job done.

An accomplished and considered CD with music made for the sheer love of it and laden with influences from several sub-genres. The journey so far has been rewarding, can the band go one better than this - I am demanding they do, it will be an almighty task however as this is one solid CD.



From Oxford come a remarkably effective and sorely overlooked group of horror-fied minstrels who really do shiver my timbers and tingle my sensors.  This latest release had me salivating for more but worried in case the band wouldn't maintain the quality and the blood-curdling flow.  Oh how wrong can a simple man be!

The anticipated CD opens with 'The Stoves Of Dauntsey' - a song built on tiptoed keys, a lullaby seduction and a sinister charm not to be duped by.  These welcoming tones are both perfect and majestic. The tale is one of temptation, realisation and ultimately fear laden regret that sees the band coolly give hint of cannibalistic going's-on and perhaps... much more.  I listen in with the lights lowered, my mind runs amok, the opening gambit is played by very controlled hands.  'Renaissance' is a stunning beauty, a ghostly tale built with glamour and confidence showcasing a band that are masters of their chosen artform.  The keys are a crucial component and have a freshness and yet bring great swathes of sable magnificence that sets the whole delivery aglow.  The strings though, and the tympanics, are not to be underestimated - they are absolutely ideal and bring sonic substance to the whole shebang.  The vocalist is accomplished and I am duly absorbed.  I am liking this to an eerie M. R. James tale, full of suggestion that one can duly run away with - marvellous.

'Nancy Doesn't Live Here Anymore' has a right old groove and move inflection that grasps the chosen route and goes for it.  An underscore with a snagging motif and much sinewy power capped with a vocal relish and the job is a good un'.  Matters are done in double-quick time, with convincing authority and with an ambiguity that leaves one wondering of Nancy is alive, dead, playing games that suggest a state of non compos mentis - I like this state of nebulosity!  'All You Ever Do' opens with more cathedral keys before a nagged and fagged victim has a 'eureka’moment and realises he is only a drop of poison away from sweet liberation.  The nefarious devilry, the combination of ebonies and ivories with the saturating string work and regulating stick work is a joy and this is a great musical treat.  The homage paid to liquid death is done with such believability one wonders if the next gig they play should not be done under a highly publicised certificate X.  This is splendid stuff!

'How Do You Know We're Not In Hell' is a pacey peddler of initial coruscations before developing into a fluent anointment of gratifying grooviness.  An uplifting surge of sweet melody making here with the darkened edge perhaps slightly concealed but still highly noticeable.  The slight change in approach helps the overall vitality and variety of the CD and certainly keeps the listener involved.  For me this is an easy sing-a-long cut with a little extra something. 

On I travel into depths both delightful and disturbed.  'Mannequin' is a beauty, a scuttling and synthesised emanation that relates a tale of obsessive love of something inanimate and as cold as ice.  I remember a TV show called 'Journey Into The Night' with one episode featuring a besotted Dennis Waterman who falls in love with a mannequin known as 'Eve' - I must re-dabble.  This is a fine stroke of sonica that is perfectly mixed and provides an accurate insight into warped adoration.  One can almost envision the midnight dance of the duo under frosted skies - eerie man, eerie.  'Venetian Blonde' is an ideal chaser to the previous track and is another love-soaked affair with the band right in the groove and relaying the emotional upset and fixation with great accuracy and erudite aplomb.  This is yet another smooth-moving and highly grooving snippet of sound from a band at the top of their terrorising game.  Subtle, serenading and sinewy with those key accoutrements making for another waterproof event - I am loving this schizzle.
'Weirdo' is a pip, a song that pinpoints people's nosey ways and the fact that anything different becomes a mere item of curiosity.  The gossips make suggestions without even knowing, the ambiguous and, as a result, unsettling individual takes the brunt and stays on the outside - maybe a night-time visit would put the gasbaggers in their place. I love the opening throes here, the shout out for the misfit (something that is more punk than playing in those social circles don't ya know) and the accent of the delivery is in keeping with what the band do best - deliver some fuckin' fine tuneage.  Big splashes follow, string struts and hallowed edges with 'Silk Tangled Lies' weighing in with authority, belief and convincing tonal character.  The move from verse to chorus is immaculate and done with smooth charm, a charm I am seduced by yet again.  I replay several times and look for a blip, blemish or indeed a vacuous bum-hole in which I can insert my critical pen - I find myself wanting and I am more than a little happy about it!

'Not For All The Mercy In The World' has a whipped up and wild watltzer-ised feel with a raging madness carrying the song along on crested waves of frothing zeal.  When the band inject pace they not only emphasise their own musicianship but seem to enhance every sonic inclusion around it - this is a blast of invigorating air.  The sadistic content borne from the mind of a lunatic with secrets and obviously blood on their mitts is quite a contrasting surprise - what more would one expect?

The massive cymbal splashes of 'Hark. The Pendulum Swings' enliven the soul and the chasing subject matter of the song disorientates the settled emotions into a state of unease and agitation.  A cranial thumbscrew is applied and that which is deemed the norm now becomes a devilish accoutrement to mental upset and cerebral disarray.  The band play their cards with sinister-grin relish and we are mere victims left with no resistance.  The CD is making for a classic with only a brace of songs left - what could possibly go wrong?

'Bring Out Your Dead' is an acoustic army thriving on flesh, perhaps the flesh of you - the culpable eavesdropper.  The slow march to victory is a matter of fact with the band providing a force of sound that is simple, strong and delivered with self-assured certainty.  This one strides and tramples all in its path without breaking sweat and takes us into the wonderland of a closure known as 'Mary Lou's In Love Again', a song that breaks the ice with more keyed jauntiness and an absolutely absorbing safe and steady verse that is a dream to hear. The vocals reach a pinnacle of brilliance here and pay homage to a fickle femme fatale who is happy to tie the knot and then pray upon her new love.  A she-mantis with her trap always set - the band bring the deviant alive with a glorious closing tune and when the final silence falls I immediately reach for the 'replay' button.

So Das Ghoul win the day with yet another exhibtion of shock and ghoul music that appeals to this lover of all things melodic, horror-laden and DIY. The band are a joy, this fourth review only leaves me gagging for more - surely this lot are ready to win a horde of more fans and duly decapitate them with these delightful ditties - I seriously hope so!



Satan's Rats hail from the dark recesses of early punk and barely made a scratch on the arse of the scene let alone most punter's rear ends.  They had a few minor highpoints which in this day and age are irrelevant and will have no sway with me as I tackle the 5 tracks on offer.  What we have is a modern day regurgitation of some old Rats songs with a feisty lead lass at the fore.  I dip in after receiving a copy through the post and seeing a review online that was rather cold and overly harsh.  I expected fuck all, I got the following:-  

'You Make Me Sick' is a sweet spit back at one half of a relationship that was self-obsessed and somewhat fuckin' stupid.  From the first holler to the opening verse and simplistic stabbings of the chorus this one attacks, impresses and has an impetus not to be underestimated.  The lead lasses lilts are unmistakable, the bass rumble is pure magnetism and the reactive and jive ass guitars really enhance the end product.  The skins are well skipped and slapped with earnestness and what we end up with is an instantaneously appealing number for folk who have a gripe, a need to pogo and a love of music played with relish.  I am fuckin' loving this one and doubly gratified with the grooving delight known as 'Facade'.  Here the accelerator is eased, the players are more careful in their placement of tonal nuggets but still apply themselves with a sanguinity and fluidity that makes matters mightily easy for the front lass to warble out her words.  The opening pulses give foundations, the first verse has many rock and roll leanings with the chorus an opposing snippet that is slightly naked and utterly uncomplicated.  The song works a treat and this is an opening double-whammy that I am very much taken by. 

'Sex Object' is perfect material for the parading Puss - a chance to strut and show some fine attitude that states her steaming situation and general defiance.  The initial restraint has one on the cusp, waiting for something spicy and against the grain.  A swing builds, the gist is revealed, a certain goodness is had and those neurones that were (and still are) stricken by the fundamentals of melodic music making with glammed edges are all ablaze.  All components are crystal clear, the band know what they are doing (so they should after all this time) and they have another winning outburst on their hands here.  Great stuff. 

'Year Of The Rat' is a beautiful peach of mid-paced lusciousness that gets juices dripping from orifices I didn't even know I had.  From the off the machine-like drive increases the leakage value with the 4-wired wank weapon majorly culpable for this liquid loss.  The movement has style, secure string work and an overall construct that again gives the hollerer an ideal platform on which to snarl and spit.  The whole concoction has a cockiness and a sub-sexy swing of the acoustic hips that will surely result in the impregnation of many listening lugs.  The production is bang on, I am tonally tubbed up and gagging for more.  'The Rocker' is a dirty gutter fuck dealt by a victim of the noise, a victim however laden with great attitude and 'fuck you' spirit.  The joy in the jive is blatant, the passionate bent yelled from the prowling cat is done with razored talons ready to shred and saliva-shining fangs ready to tear the Hell out of your doubting ass.  For me this final slap in the mush sums up what has been - a real rejuvenation of some darn good tuneage spiced up by a lady with a craving to do the business and piss on a few fuckers chips in fine style. 

This feline-based frolic is a 5 track blast and I am very intrigued as to how this lot would be during an 'in-the-flesh' encounter.  There are many trimmings to indicate a good shindig could be had, I best get my dancing shoes on and my catnip ready - ouch! 



A new crew from darn under, on the opposite side of the planet from where I fester but on roughly the same DIY and dog-nasty wavelength I hold so dear.  What we have is some fun and fruity dabbling done without thought of commercialised piss-arsed polish and nonsensical effect.  What I receive here is a 4-track dabbling from players looking to enjoy the tunery - I am happy with that. 

'Takeout Dinner' is controlled and travels at its own pace with a fine lick found and a simplicity had to be utterly smitten with.  Pick up and jack off music with a good impetus and a fine fruity underscore of fun had.  The science of the rocket has been pissed upon here and a new manual written in scrawling crayon that simply says 'get up and enjoy you fucks'.  I like this opening gambit, it has pizzazz, it has lusty life and it has a quirkiness that many may not get but some surely will.  Never mind pop punk, gimme slop spunk!

'Interwebs (Sex, Drugs 'n' Theft') is straight at it, rammed forth on clattered cables and swift skin action.  The sub-zany elements, the roughened edges and the garaged suggestions make this fizz-bomb of restless wanking a decent listen for those in need of uplifting medication or a chance to ping and pogo.  Volume increase only heightens the madness induced with the middle release a good excuse to bop til ya drop.   

'Rubix Cube' has a lo-fi Ramonesy feel and deals with a cubed complexity that sends one bananas.  Twist and turn all you want, the end result, like many things in life, is failure but... for many the joy is in the trying.  This is a cute crackerjack embracing all the simplicities of pop-punk and that retro ditty design so many bands found favour with and achieved a certain amount of success with.  Personally I feel the band could do well if they release a 'Toy Box' album and go through a whole glut of games and such.   

We close with the scuttle and shake of 'Poke You In The Eye' - an unpretentious cutlet of melodic moving with all elements kept raw, sloppishly snazzy and natural.  The clashing and colliding cacophony has a distinct honesty and a motif that is easy to get snagged by.  A good verse, a fluent and ultimately bog-brush basic pseudo-chorus and a closure that just comes without any jerk-it and jump nonsense - I rate this solid matter for the lover of things undercooked.

This released is labelled a 'demo', I do hope the band don't overly polish their next effort and make for a cornball cock-up.  We need the potatoes of sound to remain unwashed and unpeeled, I hope you get my gist, because I certainly don't (as if). 



I fuck around on the peripheries of the tonal scene and these days pick and choose what I listen to and review. As per, a whole host of lovely sounds are uncovered as well as the same old timeworn reliables that still tickle the senses.  The more one dabbles the more one appreciates the basics and the more one gets insulted by the self-absorbed ego fuckery - the raw and real is where it is at folks.  Here I get a slice of the latter, I rip through the review as the band tear through what they do - a different approach is needed at times. 

'Chaos Magnet's - weird and whacked out wankery ejaculated with youthful gusto and a synth-sensation liable to make a few listeners shit their low-slung pants.  Insanity is induced by an overload of frustration and hormonal activity that is bubbling away with thermal provocation - I am juiced up and ready for more.  'Mad Dog' weaves and states with a lovely inflection borne from funlands of warped angles and incessant nervous vim.  The tension rises, blood vessels are on the cusp of haemorrhaging whilst the activity builds to a serenade that is a surprise but welcomed with open, trembling arms - I whirl with E-number affected glee. 

'Kill That Clown' aims, shoots, kills all sense of conformity and decency and reveals itself to be a perverse imp of ornery acoustica self-soaked in cloying plumes of sonic smoke that cloud the vocals and the actual intent of the offering.  The strings carry on regardless, the tympanics tiptoe and tap with haste, the end concoction is a fuzz-fuck phantom that consumes too many oral vitamins for its own good but gets by due to keyed accoutrements of the space-age kind. 

I hope you are still with me folks, the relish and eagerness are dictating the ad-hoc key-taps. 

'Space Rats' has a sonic citrus goodness that sees the band lose lyrical content within the weaving mush but get by on zest, foaming inflections of whacko leanings and an unstoppable desire.  The manic miner sub-feel adds elements of yore when digital sounds addled the head whilst pixelated 'erberts were sent this way and that in the hope of collecting a variety of flashing objects.  At the end of the jaunt I feel mentally jaded. 

'Internet Punk' is a real paradoxical title - I mean a punk volunteering for on-line slavery and then shouting 'fuck the system' - great hey?  I am liking the comparisons I can make here with similar 21st Century bouts of futuristic lunacy borne from labels such as Dirty Water Records.  The scuttling urgency, the cracked vocals and the hepped up agitation I am sure will be a little too much for some - I hope so. 

The final three - there is no reason to procrastinate or indeed masturbate.  4 taps, a strum, a squeak and holler and 'Larry' leads the way with his loathing ways.  Inner squelchings, scuttles and eager beaver surgings break the song into two similar segments with both ends alive and thriving with a somewhat insane relish that explodes at the latter end - boy, some people do get worked up.  'Local Scene II' dumps its frenzied gloop over the warted and wanked substrate with abandoned lunacy.  Words, individual tonal touches and any semblance of decency are lost in a whirlpool of foaming cretinism leaving me wondering what is the point.  I suppose for those with high hormone levels and throbbing conkers in need of relief this could be a winner - I am too old to jack off at such a pace.  The closure comes via a fruity loop of 'Ghouls Nite In' - a fun-filled jaunt that is jollified, needful and laden with the bands quirky touches.  There is a good feel here that encourages one to reel, roll and spasm to the serenade.  I retune and concentrate the sensors and can almost feel the citrus juices dance in my lugs in a haphazard kind of way - I wonder if this is indicative of a mental weakness. 

And so, I came, considered and cracked on - The Ghoulies are a mood band, if you are in a frazzled kind of way with frayed nerves then please leave well alone.  If you are effervescing with energy the get this one, ramp up the volume and defecate in your pants - I am sure therein success will be found. 



Despite having a frontman with connections to the mafia and several other members with life long memberships of the Charlie Drake Appreciation Society I still have a lot of time for the Headsticks crew. It is 8 years ago since I first witnessed them 'live', it was at The Bolton Socialist Club with a mix of artistes playing to a crowd that barely touched the 20 mark. Since then they have graced a few Fungal Fiascos and gone on to be a good pull on the music merry-go-round, with many gigs under their belts and a few CD's produced, parceled, packaged and praised. This is a mere celebration of a decade of din making, I have reviewed all songs before so will take a different dissecting approach - the ethos behind what I do will be the same despite knowing the review will always pale into insignificance when compared to those who do the same with a big label pull (ooh what fuckin' nonsense is that). So from the pit I spit, 'Hello My Darlings'.

The opening gambit comes with the flickering light of 'Mississippi’s Burning' - the first song to be rehashed. manicured and given a suit of new sonic clothes. Emphasis seems to be on matters more acousticised therefore enhancing the folky appeal. The hunger of the vocals is as per and heightens the listening experience and gets one immediately salivating for more. 'Peace And Quiet' flexes greater muscles and moves with an accomplished fluidity whilst spilling disgust at the environmental shitheap and the need to get people doing more - never mind chaps as long as there is booze and a tune to skip to you can fuck the lyrics. This, in my humble opinion, is one of those songs that has grown in stature over the years and is a real biting piece that has a solidity and liquidity not to be underestimated. I love it.

'My Own War' has an eager thirst and skin-flick zeal that leads us into a smoothly orchestrated charmer with skipping effect. The impetus is the winning aspect and the fact that each and every component is lightly whisked before being added to the end concoction is sublime. This well-blended design helps the end product win especial favour – I should know better, thank fuck I don’t!

'Cold Grey English Skies' is monochrome work of subdued observation with something docu-real about the whole affair. From the agitation of the verse to the face-up melody of the brief and basic chorus this one works mighty well and when escorted by the pinnacle that is 'Paper Flowers' one has little to gripe about. The latter song is a one I deem a classic, a song that is cultured, thoughtful and provocative - a veritable zenith plucked from the Headstickian files and is as wonderful to hear today as it was when first released. Passion and disgust combined with choice, easy musicianship makes for something rather special don't ya know. What a combo to relish!

The next brace and the fidget frolics of 'Red Is The Colour', a hungry chomper kicking back against more injustice and blood spilling mania. The splash, crash and general fluster and bluster is broken by a state and strut segment that enhances all that is and that will be. A mood piece but one that keeps the CD flowing. 'Dying For A Lie' skips like a pirate with a trouser full of pecking pox-laden parrots. A piece of observational note-taking, watching the wafflers spill falsehoods whilst many pass on from this mortal coil, excess baggage to the minds of the capitalist and 'me, me' cunts. The anguish couple with the fervent delivery is choice, I am convinced and not buckling anytime soon.

'What Do You Want' makes me laugh in many ways, especially when I see it played 'live' and the words spill, the hordes join in for a call for a revolution and then piss off home to planet safe and self-serving. The passion, the message and the delivery all surely should be appreciated by action - for me, if you are listening and jigging and not digging deeper for that which you believe in, this classic song is pointless. I see too many cacophonic creations lose all weight by just becoming ' a good tune' it really isn't good enough especially for something this heartfelt.

I press on. 'Miles And Miles' scuttles in, keeps things passionate and highly invigorated. The musical mix is held in check as the vocals lead the way into an eager-beaver sound of ascending spirit. A certain naturalised clatter comes from the tympanics whilst emotion levels rise during what is, a song built on a very obvious repeat-beat motif - this is no bad thing and by the end we are dragged into a stance of conviction. 'Flatline Town' is the song that pulled me the way of Headsticks, it was the number that swung me in a direction where I was to delve deeper, give the band a few gigs and push them where anyone was listening. I still rate this as perhaps the bands great signature tune, an earthy observational piece constructed on quick thinking eye-open lyrics and reactive and absorbing musical talent. The switches and the sincerity are all utterly spot on the mark, the account of a town gone down the U-bend is exact, I am still thrilled by this beauty.

'What If They're Right' falls in to our presence in a staggering heap before asking a question many should take heed off. The song strips and bares its soul, travels with a certain fear and anguish and rolls with a niggle that may get some thinking or others burying their heads further in the sand. There is a tumult happening, interspersed with calmer and more thoughtful moments whilst all the while, an upheaval to ones comfort zone is had - this is no bad thing. 'Tyger, Tyger' needs little in the way of praise - it simply comes, opens a raw vein, bleeds sincere blood and in nothing less than a considered wonder, emotionally strains the ticker. Touching, heartfelt and utterly majestic in its own poetical way, this tear-kissed gem shines as bright as the wishes dealt - a truly stunning moment.

'Family Tree' is a chopping sub-skanked nerved up agitation. The mockers are molested but noted for their lofted positions and the smug smiles on their faces that are comfortable and self-satisfied as the masses let them roll on regardless. It is good to see Headsticks keep things varied but remain acidic and sharp. There is good pep here, it is very much appreciated.

The last two need little introduction and praise - 'Are You Feeling Great Britain’ and 'You're Killing Me America' are absolute pinnacles executed with care and considered sonic touches. Alas as this shithole of a country goes further round the all-consuming lavatory there are more and more ears deafened to the message and more and more souls conned. As a result I suspect the true value of these songs is lost - there is more to music that just singing along and doing fuck all don't ya know. We live in embarrassing times, where heads are screwed on backwards and distracted by plugged in posing. Beneath the delicacy of application one needs to smell the disgust and the frustration and perhaps - piss on all flags. Fuck the boundaries, the divisions, the concrete-headed thinking - get off yer arse, enjoy these songs but think and move on with defiance. Headsticks come, try and hopefully do make the odd difference - I fuckin' hope so but remain sober. Anyway thank you to some good blokes making good noise - it certainly keeps me going and in some ways, on my shit-kicking toes.



Rites of Hadda are a unit who have a problem with many things and deal with these in their own style and do it with a certain glamour and hunger.  Here, we are given a taste of 'live' action with a recording done in a good old gaff and with all proceedings from the sales going to support FRIEND, a farmed animal sanctuary in East Peckham (Kent, UK) which was established by the late Marion Eaton in 1994, that have rescued upward of 3000 unwanted, neglected and abandoned animals.  Now isn't that a fuckin' lovely thing to do.  So, I go in, listen to the waffle-laden intro and then deal with the music proper. 

'It's Time To Riot' is a frisky and rambunctious clobber cacophony that is pepped up by the general shuffled urgency, eager sticks and fruity sax-iness.  The call to get off one's apathetic arse and get moving is thrown forth in double-quick time and leaves the lead fella breathless.  This is the way to get matters rolling and a good burst of honest DIY is what I am always up for.  The follow-up comes via 'Agenda Gender Bender' a sexually provocative piece with the verbals spilling and the desire to twang and tweak with consideration obviously blatant.  The sharp rise, the pacey desire and the brass-tinted roll out all have good impetus and an overspill of life.  The anger remains controlled and for obvious reasons this is quite a fave of mine. To add - 'fuck all prejudice' - how's that! 

'New Age Traitor' is a body punch to the many hypocrites out there playing games of trend and fashion but not backing it up with a lifestyle.  Pseudo-hippy shit fucks having a chilled-out ball ma'an and spreading the word that really isn't meant - just like in all walks of life it seems.  There is a nice acidic edge here, tempered by a smoothness in the flow.  The irritation borne from the verbals builds with the frontman spilling words like a thermally fucked volcano - the lyrical lava is smouldering baby! 

A fistful of three next. 'The Revolution And My Love' comes, rants and raves and shows a disgust with statism and the general suspended animation in the world today.  Fucked up the arse in many ways the beastly controllers of the system keep us on bended knees exposing an arousal that is sincerely lacking.  This is a straight-ahead song that does what it sets out to do and falls in the shadows of the always impressive lyrical overspill of 'Keep Buying Things'.  One of my fave ROH songs, the content may be a time-worn theme but people are still spending and chasing who knows what whilst no real happiness is found.  The urgency and amphetamine delivery is absorbing, the disgust all too apparent and the tight and tingle-inducing vitality all fine fodder for this feeding fucker who is eternally latched onto the benevolent and manky pap of the DIY scene - magic. The third of the fast three is entitled 'Dependency' - a rattle-rapid number that repeats, rants and raves and does so with breathless application. I shoot-it up, feel the surge and imagine myself in the pit being bombarded by the sonic blastings - it isn't the same listening on CD but I get the gist and look forward to the next catch up. 

'Attempted Murder' has a perverse sub-text methinks, a sado-masochistic streaking that is almost culpable of some insane gratification.  The snaking brassage enters the aural passage along with a deviant bass crawl that really does unsettle.  I remain absorbed throughout the running time and am somehow mesmerised by the bewitching sidewinds of the movement.  I replay several times, something wicked this way comes, or are the band masters of deception?  Either way - I like this one.  To continue the slow doom-tainted crawl we are served up the slowly molesting filth of 'Death Cart'.  This is a cloying song that invades all innocent areas and brings one visions of trauma, suffering and fear - I find it an utterly suffocating piece of dark, introspective abuse and with a sinisterism that is drawn out over a playing time that is a little too long.  The band do what they do, in most instances I am intrigued, this is not one of those instances. 

For me, 'From The Blow' is a veritable pinnacle and exemplifies everything good about the band.  Great bass line, reactive guitar, eager drums, politically active and now juiced up with added sax appeal.  The energy is incessant and the flow of the song liquid pure.  This 'in the flesh' recording doesn't do a massive song full justice.  Take some Fungal advice - go chase up the original recording (alas lacking brass) and indulge.  We close matters with 'The Debt' - a grim creep disease that eventually gets going after the thanks and fuckwittery subside.  At 7 minutes and 19 seconds my patience runs thin, I am a wham bam DIY dabbler after all.  This is a wind-down moment that is fine for 'in-the-pit' but not on CD.  A tension builds and I await some sonic violence - I get slightly roughed up and gently tossed this way and that - the poetical content and sway serenade pleases the crowd, I am rather distanced here - what a grumpy old bastard I can be. 

Despite the flaccid finale I personally remain stout and upright in my ROH fan-ship, I hope they respect my honesty and appreciate I am on their side (this may not be a good thing).  I do need to book these fuckers for another Fungalised molestation, a good shrooming never did no one any harm.  Anyway - listen in here, check the band out 'live' and get theeself some Rites of Hadda thongs - it does indeed take all sorts and so it should!

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