A band draped in darkness and terror-inducing tones.  A band with many experienced players all still flexing their creative muscles and making music for the sheer love of it.  This is my second indulgence into the vaults of chill-inducing vibrology, wish me luck dear reader!

First up and 'Monsters Prefer Blondes' is a 2 minute 38 second throwback teen-terror tune ideal for a soundtrack accompanied by visions of 50's horror where the beasts go for the bleach-blonde bimbos who duly kick and scream before disappearing from the flickering celluloid until the next time.  The gist of the ditty is simple, as is the construct, with an easy sing-a-long, fun-time, cornball croon making sure that there is no need to delve deep and critically analyse this opening sortie.  Simply plug in, switch on and spin the disc - and if you feel like!  'Wanted Undead Or Alive' picks up an instant cock-rock lick and progresses with a right old swagger in the seat of the pants. It has a spit-roasted, grooved up sanguinity with a certain Rockabilly subtleties never far away.  The orchestration of the piece is free-flowing and slightly chilled by many insidious hauntings, Colin Clive utters a claim of restrained fervour, it is a lovely touch.  The persistence of the flow and the ease of the delivery enhances the presence of the song and the all-round simplicity of the arrangement helps the listener to tune in and appreciate without any great lug-wrenching effort. The molestation of the wire work here is done with a quality attention - I have no complaints.  'I Hate Humans' (well who doesn't) quickly machine-gun scatters, grimaces and squeezes out a grizzly and gristly bout of intense sub-psychobilly terror tones that gets things done with acute accuracy and a fine snagging chorus that I am sure will resonate with the many.  There is plenty of life in this song, the music is well saturated whilst all the while a zest is tasted - I nibble some more just to be sure of my thoughts.

Track four and 'Zombie Party' - a cymbal stroke, a head down drive and some smash and grab 'fuck it' lyrics have one salivating for more, especially at the mention of the staggering undead.  There seems a double hunger here, one to get the tune spiced up and another to create visions of a flesh-rotting fiasco only the most perverted of soul will enjoy.  There is nowt different here, there is no reason that there should be, just haunted tones played with good focus and relish.

The final brace opens with 'Your Last Breath' - a summery day, the birds are singing and yet, something sinister this way comes.  A mellow croon strives to gain our submission whilst a criminal act is executed.  Our initial innocence is doused with horror as a full realisation is borne - this is a little tickler not to dwell on for too long, a cute inclusion with a cutting edge.  The closure is the highly animated 'Suburban Chainsaw Action' - a blood and guts fiasco paying homage to a kill and cut maniac who is stalking the streets whilst contemplating his next gory attack.  The band play things with the usual feisty grooviness and keep things as tight as a freshly stitched up wound - it is what they do.

The Deadbeats have their style and are best when viewed over a short running spree like on this occasion.  The horror-punk route is well trodden, the quality level so many have contributed to is upheld here - I look forward to the next EP and expect the same standards to be upheld - certificate X style of course. 



The Apparents serve up a Scotch Broth of honest flavour here and do so with a likeable transparency.  Emphasis is lain on being socially conscious but at the same time rewardingly tuneful.  I have 17 tracks to plough through, take heed – Fungal will not be rushed. 

A fine opener goes by the name of 'Greasy Jesus' - a homage to a retailer of all things fat-laden and fuckin' delicious.  After a night on the piss what could be better?  A drum roll, an honest string push and some clear and rough-edged vocals and some more DIY dribblings come my way.  The song on a whole is typical of a niche of noise that I have bathed myself in for far too long.  This is the place where you can sing songs about chip shop chaps, this is where you can fuzz, buzz, clatter and batter and meet the needs of those disinterested in the polished and pretentious - this is where I am happy to wallow.  I consider this a firm-footing on which to start - the follow up is a nice double-up punch with the PC people given a salute via two firm digits and some transparent wordage.  'The Offended' takes a pop at those looking to be upset and only too willing to spout their self-appointed sagacity - you know the fuckers, oh so wonderful they think they be - silly cunts.  The verse comes in sobered and matter-of-fact fashion with a delightful chorus that is easily joined in with and one that will no doubt bring much pleasure to those pissed off with this diluting deluge of fuckwittery.  I like this throwaway yet pertinent tune, it is the stuff that we duffers in the street get by on - nice! 

The next coupling of cacophonic crapulence is squeezed out by 'Built To Last', a song that has just the merest initial suggestion of something 'Ruts-esque'.  No sooner are these retro thoughts had than they are blown aside by a nostalgia-tinted foray into times when merchandise and general products had a greater longevity and where we weren't crushed under a deluge disposable crud and short-lived shittery.  Again the band have a 'lilt' and have an unpretentious likeability that works well alongside the easy content of the song.  To the days of Tonka and Stretch Armstrong we are taken with TV's lasting for ever and the clothes on yer back not falling apart at the merest breeze.  The message is - 'fuck the planned obsolescence'.  The next song is 'Dead Generation' and after a spiral screw start the verse comes, does what it needs to do and exposes the bubble dwelling digital slaves who are striving to be heard and noted whilst the masses couldn't give a fuck.  The song is spiced up by a pertinent and sing-a-long chorus that has no unnecessary trimmings or sub-textual bollocks - the message is obvious, it just seems a shame that the next time they play this song some daft fucker will be filming it or taking a selfie to post online - hey ho - good song, daft behaviour, par for the course. 

'Punk Rock Saved Our Arse' is simply a beauty.  A song many will be able to relate to and again done with a style that has a very embracing nature and with very little nonsensical nob-rottery.  Straight up, bare-bollocked and as clear as the day is long, this one takes a viewpoint, knocks up a tune around it and sharply hammers it home in a very rewarding way - I consider this a real well-observed crackerjack - lovely listening material for sure.  'Too Fat For The Shows' is comedic nonsense of the fulfilling kind.  It is the type of song that gives all fatties hope but does so in a kind of warped way.  The tale seems to be based on true events when a tubby bloke is made to feel a misfit due to his inability to squeeze on to a fairground ride.  Shit happens, the band deliver the yarn with a straight-faced accent and I am sure the man at the brunt of the mockery has taken it all in his rather robust stride.  Again, I am happy to give this one a thumbs up - easy listening for easy people! 

'Robots' scuzzes in and is perhaps the most sobered sounding song of the lot with statements made regarding the control of the masses and how the powers that be are hellbent on control.  The resistant words are borne from folk fucked off with the dumbing down and personality pillaging ways that are making for a populace of limited thinking, grey-soaked deadheads.  This is a solid switch in the general approach and a real ship-steadying thought-provoker.  Freedom of thought hey, what a farce!  'The Price Of Life' turns up the heat (well at a cost) and races along with much disgust.  The financial strain is highlighted, the cost-of-living crisis is nailed whilst one can still step outside and see too many cunts spending dosh on crap and wasting money here and there whilst some folk haven't a pot to piss in.  Fraudulent and thieving times, dealt with in double quick time via some orthodox in-scene sonics that do the job, but are par for the course (the band have far better songs than this but they do these simple ditties well). 

Talking of better songs, what comes next is a gem and showcases the true talent of the band.  Gentle ska, flowing, well-thought out lyrics and a rise to a fine street-cobbled chorus. The Apparents provide a beauty here with two main components complimenting and enhancing with equal force.  From the easy going drifts to the in-yer-face thrustings this is a ruddy good piece of listening matter that adds a few goosebumps to even my grubby gonads.  As a result of the impression made I have even chosen 'My Dad's A Football Hooligan' as the Song of the Month on my website - oh yes! 

As a strong believer in the leaf filled bag and a great swiller of the said beverage I thoroughly concur with the sentiments of 'Have a Cup Of Tea' - it is the drink of the pissed off sods.  Instead of staying down or wound up have a cuppa and play this neatly orchestrated piece.  Again it is the control and melodic coolness of the verse and, of course, the magnetising sing-a-long chorus that really is a treat.  I like the fact this spiky topped song avoids the beer swilling promotion route and gets its head focused on something far more 'punk'.  It is a fine blend and the band certainly recognise the way to get the best out of themselves.  Back to planet sober next with 'When The Bombs Drop' - a song with an obvious theme but with a winning gritty texturisation and once again, a really affecting and snagging chorus sequence.  This one gets better and more familiar with every rotation and the almost warming sincerity of the tones is what makes it yet another winner for me.  From the opening air-raid warnings through the chugs, statements and the harmonised excellence, this is a veritable beauty. 

A swift fistful of 3 and 'Deserted Town' is a steady sojourn into realms where the eyes behold a country turning to shit and the hustling and bustling towns are now abandoned.  Steady verse, catchy chorus - the script is written and the band adhere to it with consummate ease and magnetising accuracy.  The inflection and the straight-forward application helps matters as does the reminiscences of tones of yore.  'Broken Life' is a lovely tune with a bittersweet and carefully thought-out application.  The tonal quality is emotively tuneful with a certain gentleness of approach that gets the best out of the band.  Too many get caught up on the 'yell for hell' and 'ram it home' mania and so lose a certain individuality in the process - not so here.  The last of the hat-trick is called 'Suzie Selfie', a song that highlights the silly souls within our midst who are obsessed with their looks and getting others to click a like tag and reassure them that they are fuckin' marvellous (now how shallow is that).  To be fair, beyond these thick-lipped fiends and painted clowns there are hordes of folks panicking and seeking to have their existences proven - it is the state of a diluted and damaged world that is permanently under an electro-cosh.  This song has a comic edge but still makes its point and does it well - a well-blown through and observant snippet - I have no gripes. 

The back stretch and the final trio of songs are upon us.  'Finger It' is a bit of nonsensical double-entendre that comes and goes and will leave those with a rather corrupt and sexually skewed outlook smirking.  It is perhaps one of the weakest songs on the CD and I do prefer it when the band plays things with a more serious slant but...I'll bet my bottom dollar and a couple of custard tarts that this will go down well in the 'live' pit especially when the aforementioned mentally perverse have had a few scoops - and therein the success perhaps lies.  'All Day Session' is a safe and well delivered song that brings back memories of day long piss-ups and times when the carcass had more energy and an ability to cope with a saturation of alcohol.  I have had my share of being sozzled and going on day-long benders - they were ruddy grand but by heck, I missed a few bands and got into some hot water along the way.  The cruise of this one and the obvious joy of being caned is winning in many, many ways - it is a nice counterpunch to the earlier song about a cup of cha' - balance is the spice of life. 

And so we close and piss off into the distant black velvet of penetrating silence with an easy jaunt known as 'Lies'.  Tight guitars, a bass rumble and a splash and slap - away we go and given a view on the political nonsense that is played out every day with division and misery the only outcome.  The song breezes along, says what it says and, in many cases, states the obvious which kind of accentuates the fact that many are not listening and the shittery is set to continue.  The fibs and bluffs come from all angles and are part and parcel of a life laden with bullshit - I sign off shaking my head in bewilderment but thankful for a tune that keeps me on my toes. 

The end verdict here is highly positive, The Apparents have a good CD on their mitts which I hope serves them well and helps them get a bit of note in a crammed and rammed scene.  This is nothing that will challenge the cranial gunk, it ain't no flamboyant experiment in sonic sensationalism - it is fine, stinking bog-brush noise played with aplomb and good spirit and that, my fussy farts, is all I sometimes need.  



I descend with my mind groomed and re-tuned to a world of tampering tonality that is without restriction.  Overscores and underbeats, sidewind sonic suggestions and tattooing impressions all fuck and fluctuate as my reviewing emotions are manhandled, misshapen and perhaps magnified.  I feel as though I am an assessing victim under the influence of some unsettling vibrating voodoo - I am rather taken by the idea and submit myself with a certain insouciant nonchalance - I may be deemed as 'stupid' or 'sagacious' come the end of this four-tracker – hot damn baby.

From sodden substrates wriggle acoustic nematodes of semi-transparent but wholly sturdy animation, I become transfixed by the orchestration of many individual components and try to grasp a handful of the fidgeting 'Worms' so as to understand the raison d'être behind the eruption.  The elusive properties win the day, I am a stubborn bastard though and remain determined to try and sum up what is transpiring.  I am left contemplating a jazzy ad-lib application that has several layers (some shadowed, some more obvious) thus contributing to an end concoction to aurally and visually savour. There is a freshness found here and something rather liberating, if more sonic experiments were kept as upbeat success would be only a footstep away.

'Chalk' is a granular song that, despite having a crumbly outer layer as in fact, an inner sturdiness to contemplate. Within the multi-wired and perverse copulation I find things regimented and yet off-the-leash with both conflicting departments working as separate entities, but maintaining a unity.  For me though this seems like a tease-to-please snippet that is left a trifle unfinished - it begins a journey and just as one is enjoying the summoned vision the jaunt is halted - I leave my listening carriage piqued and provoked.   

'Ajna' is heavily cravatted and corrupted and simply pulses along in double quick time whilst a few interweaving accoutrements are added by fidget-fuck mitts.  Sub-whispers attempt to groom and seduce whilst the music strives to maintain some semblance of rhythm and stability.  The flatline seems to beckon and indeed wins the day - this brief moment of transient life leaves me concerned and perhaps a little damaged. 

The final fling of the head-fucking four is slapped down under the appellation of 'Snowbeast'.  From a sedate and somewhat softened soundscape we are delivered a spoken tale that takes in the flake-filled world and a variety of sensations.  From a song that doesn't hang around to give one a full on flavour fill we get a follow-up that in some ways outstays its welcome.  I listen in and strain the aural cavities to get a grip on the slippery theme and general rhythm gist, I consider this a crawling song best played in the dark when the soul is settled and time is available to cerebrally piss-off - how's that? 

Interesting, annoying, provoking and problematic - this is my verdict and is no bad thing.  I would expect nothing less from this sneaky purring machine, they roam on the periphery of many niches, pounce when I least expect it and duly scratch my unsuspecting arse - for some absurd reason I kind of like this ill-treatment. 



The Apocalypse Baby's continue - despite a run of ill look and a scene too obsessed with its own vacuous arsehole. The band are the 'bread and butter, in the gutter' life and soul of DIY doofing and so, as a result, my time is well spent in assessing what they spit forth. They don't play by any PC rules, the tongue flits in and out of the cheek and they have their own style that is instantly recognisable, especially when the frontman opens the tonsil-laden tubeway. These are my latest thoughts on another blow-out by the Baby's - hang on in there me old fruits.

The welcoming embrace opens under the tag of 'Headcase' - a tale of a belligerent bell-end with no sense of decency. A salvo of arms and a surge with the eager drums and the honest guitars whilst the familiar tones of frontman Dave come and meet the needs of this AB fan. Tuneful, easily fallen in line with and a tale regarding a twat, a tosser, a small todged tit. The band do what they do, throw in a good flourish and finalise with a repeat beat and bass drive before signing off with gusto. With no breath wasted we enter the typically honest and fluent AB gem that is 'I Think You've Gone And Mistaken Me For Someone Who Gives A Fuck'. This is an early high that is groovy, up front, verbally crafty and with an ability to give an insight into the feelings of many folk these days. A kick-back against the PC bullies and self-appointed 'Right On Rogers' this is a beauty that says it how it is. Too many are reading manuals and quoting rhetoric to look cool, tick a box and send out a virtue signal - silly sods. The earthy honesty is a joy and a breath of fresh air - for me the message is clear - behave, have a laugh, remember a cunts a cunt and finger pointing really is a petty thing to do when your own house is a ramshackled mess - lovely.

'I May Not Be The Best Looking Bloke But I'm The Only One Talking To You' is based on a retort donated by a lad on the pull and given the knock back (serves the silly sod right). A good semi-blue light lick, fruity-loop vocals and lashings of popsicle goodness are thrown into a song that will have many frowning and many nodding in recognition of a scene needy of a verbal coup de grace. On we go folks, if ya don't like it you know the options.

A deeper groove hits home via the despairing 'Sick Of It'. This is a song about being in an unrecognisable world with no escape, a time when all the questions have no answers and everything appears to have turned, or be turning, to shit (ya know what I mean). This is a snarling grinder that ploughs away with poisonous bile vomited up via a gritty upset. This is not a pop classic, it is what it is, sometimes the spleen needs to be vented. 'Simon Says' is a dig at the shitshow that is the X-Factor - a delicious low-blow to the conkers of the parade of piss-posers and the puppetmaster that is Simon Foul (er I mean Cowell). Another self-appointed God on a pedestal admired by many, given the power to preach and making for a diluted mess of dimwit idiocy. This is a deliciously acidic piece that is easily joined in with, is strongly delivered and sums up the current state-of-play - fuckin' get a grip people.

Another sharp-moving piece with good impetus and undeniable relish, 'We Know What You Did' takes a pop at the fibbers, those with an ability to spill bullshit quicker than a bovines arsehole and who, seemingly, believe every word of what they say. The crew are sussed in, screwing it tight here with an unforgiving style that is as watertight as a stickleback's chuff. A song with meat on the bone - chomp, chomp. 'I Never Said I Loved You' is apparently one for the bunny-boilers out there, the lasses who have a problem and can't get over a jilting. The opening melody and the squeaky love-dripped verse set a scene with the semi-pleading and semi-innocent chorus making for a scenario with one person broken and the other fuck-free. The AB lads do this kind of stuff oh so well and it does keep the listener intrigued, entertained and with their legs crossed. Smashing stuff.

With pubs closing each and every day we are seeing times when folk are herded into corporate shitholes like Wetherspoons and forced to sup in a den of deadhead dilution. These character-free zones add to the death of the communal boozer and the Apocalypse Baby's ain't happy about it. 'The Old Kings Head' pangs for better times that have been and gone with the local drinking establishment almost a thing of the past as clubs and chains take the reins and kill all character. The song here is played with pace and passion and a pang in the ticker with the underlying theme being that the pubs days are numbered and yet another move to create a static slab of grey has almost been achieved - bastards. This song revitalises the soul and is a good do, alas come the end one feels as though the world is moving all the wrong way.

The next quartet of songs are severely football based, the kind of song that has a patriotic slant and a goon boy element. I am no flag waver, hate corporate football and find the hooligan facets quite simple really - I mean, why smash and kick fuck out of one another when there politicians and corrupt fuckers everywhere who would be more deserved of such enraged energy. All four songs are what they are, even I can say that they are played mightily well and capture the essence sought with accomplished aplomb. 'Who The Fuck Are You' is relished and unstoppable and after some terraced chanting we enter 'Let's Go Fuckin' Mental' with high zeal. This one is hammered home with an urgency to whip up the hordes and trash all in their path whilst supporting Queen (useless cow) and country (fuckin' crap heap) - I am still bewildered but by heck I could put my head through a window after listening to this. 'Two World Wars And One World Cup' is cretinism soccer serenading at its most ludicrous. To be fair if it clears the noggin and relieves some strain then so be it, I am happier supporting some Non-League doofers. 'We're Not Scared' resists the red bovine, thrusts and poses with great controlled abandoned and gets matters nailed with little fuss. A forceful song with a guitar free sequence, this does what it does and musically I have no gripes - I must add after this foursome though - fuck England, fuck the flag and fuck Gordon Banks for the fuckin' hell of it - ooh me onion bag. 

'Beer On Your Breath' is comic genius and delivered by a band at their giggle-inducing finest. This is working man's comedy done with a saucy postcard beauty that is reet up me street. Lyrically joyous and fluent, as cracked as they come and perhaps capturing many a domestic situation this is made for blokes who have a thirst and poor old dears whose curlers bend at the thought of welcoming home another pickled pirate - I fuckin' love this one.

'New York, New York' is a surprising cover that works efficiently. It is a well-timed curveball that holds onto the flavor of the cornball original and gives it a kick up the arse with the bands special beer-scented flavor. This is an easy song to pick up, play and throw away - these can be quite gratifying moments.

The closure comes under the apt name of 'How Can I Tell You I Love You If You Won't Fuck Off' – a song delivered with the subtlety of a razor-blade laden vibrator. The crew come, summon visions of an aftershave wearing Cosmo Smallpiece, cultivate a titter and shaft the fuck out of all sense of decency. The tongue may or may not be in the cheek, the door is shown and we, as mere listeners, like the lass at the helm of the poser, can piss off or replay -I know my choice, it may not be the sensible one but the AB lads do twist one's thinking at times. A cracking finish.

So with no apologies, with the applaudable ethos of being what they are, and playing the usual good brand of rock and roll DIY noise (with a certain added culture) this lot still get my vote of confidence (and of course a gig offer or two when they are ready to roll again). Shake yer head, shimmy your shitter or shake your booty - this is a strain of sonic goodness I am happy to promote.



The Bakeseys are back, they just can't stop.  Many ska essences and influences are poured forth with the usual insightful talent and accuracy.  Cool in parts, frisked up in others whilst all the while being very gratifying, this lot are song creators that are very much overlooked.  I always enjoy a Baked fix, I am hoping for more of the same here. 

With Ghost Town aromatics and a certain restrained and sedate advancement, 'We're Not Having Fun' is a sober snippet of mood movement.  Delivered from situation 'shittery' the outlook is done through reality soaked shit-stained specs and only the upstroked undulations help maintain any positivity within the listener's framework.  The gentle nakedness of the soundscape, the shadowy echoes and the feeling of dejected desperation all make for a gloomy piece that is pertinent and still highly listenable.  I play several times in one burst so as to absorb the monochrome flavours that radiate just a touch of colour - like I say, this is gentleness incarnate. 

'Saw It On The TV So It Must Be True' deals with the soul-destroying outlook that sees, believes and does fuck all as a result.  A nation of deadheads who are dictated to by the distorted visions and verbals whilst all the while the ones in power grin and gain.  The cultured and cared-for approach to this very fragile offering is utterly relaxing whilst at the same time, thought provoking.  The Bakeseys are using years of experience and insight to groom the listener into a state of accepting submission and this they do with unsettling success.   I am chilled and in the zone, next please! 

The reclined and switched both on and off feel continues with 'Shouting About Nothing In Particular' - a contemplative cruise that pinpoints much senselessness and no real solutions.  The song operates with yet more sobriety but has a certain perverse triumph that comes via the uplifting brass.  This blown ingredient keeps the whole movement alive and offers light with a wonderful miasma of shadowy sub-complexity.  It is blatantly obvious that the band are in control here, I am happy to just be a humble eavesdropper. 

'Freezing Cold In The Summer Sun' is a dust-kicking tale of despair and dejection.  The one grafting away and making no progress is a theme all too familiar but somehow the band seem to take this somewhat hopeless situation and make something tinged with an air of positivity.  It is a precarious balance - taking the forlorn and injecting it with an acceptance and a ‘clutching at straws’ semi positivity.  The song tickles along, don't expect some final flourish or turn of events - the band know better than to avoid reality. 

The next hat-trick and 'Tried My Best To Say Hello' is perspiration free tuneage backed by a clammy sensation borne from anxiety, trepidation and insecurity.  The counterbalance to this moody tune is the bubbling and carefree 'It Doesn't Matter'.  These two songs are well weighted, perfectly balanced, maintain the chilled 'whatever will be, will be' approach whilst all the while, ticking the boxes and keeping those already intrigued... continually absorbed.  The third piece is entitled 'Don't Step Outside Tonight' - a light tinted trickle with a gentle warning that one had better stay in and avoid some very real dangers.  The crepuscular world is laden with peril, the encouragement is to shy away, lay low and perhaps avoid an unnecessary going over.  With calming tuneage like this, the thermal warmth radiated and the persuasive tones there seems no reason to partake in a risky wander - stay smooth, stay safe, stay in the massaging groove. 

A cymbal hiss, a soulful stagger and some cold and stony words.  'Now The Books Have No Pages' is a frosty affair, especially during the verses where something almost robotic snags our attention.  Here I am not truly won over and the chorus cuts are too brief to save the entire day.  A soundbite shows the wired-up world for what it is and how the true reading matter is abandoned - bah.  I listen some more, the song grows but I still ain't convinced.  'You & Me' gets back to the regular pulse, takes a simple route and does what it does with sound effect and little fuss.  Back shadows, easy flows and a certain languidness all help the listener slot into the groove and just chill.  I don't mind this one at all. 

The last two stick with the tonal track traversed thus far and for that we can have no real gripes.  'One Step Forward, Two Steps Back' is the penultimate track, it comes and goes and as it passes by leaves one with a fragrance of sonic satisfaction and frustration.  Progress is sought, too much shit is in the way, the uncertainty of achievement is the result, the band deal with things in a quite matter-of-fact style.  We close with 'We Are Young And Far Too Clever' an early evening sub-twilight blend of tonal hues that trots along with a casual gait and leaves one in line with the swing of the acoustic hips.  The youthful arrogance is worthy of a smile from an aging carcass that has been there and moved on - tis' far better to waltz along with a  humble smile and hopefully get a few more doing the same.  I like this uncomplicated final meander, it disappears into the awaiting silence with a certain 'damn free' lovability. 

And that is that - my fourth full-length indulgence of things 'bake'ed and I must admit, there is little room for complaint.  I would have liked an unexpected tangent thrown in here, I would have been delighted to hear a few pace-injected skank attacks but hey, overall this is a pleasurable piece of reflection ska based on the great fundamentals of a solid scene. 



This raw-assed and real 6 track eruption is an attempt to keep things natural and away from the mush of on-line battling and streaming dilution.  We have come a long way from when folks like me used to pop into a shop, pick up some sounds on a hunch and dash home to play.  A picture cover, a strange sounding name, a splash of garish colour would easily swing the decision and money was parted for a whole range of unknown noises that would introduce me to much DIY excellence.  I am still of the same bent, I am now in a minority - it isn't good enough.

So with a couple of clattering louts at the helm this CD opens with the very gratifying sandpaper abrasion known as 'Panto', a song that begins with a quick string flick, a raw holler and some boisterous bollock-stomping spirit.  The structure may be relatively primitive but therein true success is found, especially for those who are keen to shake off the realms of poseurs, the affected and insincere.  The unoriginality is originality in itself and all doubters need to rethink where the Hell they are swinging in from with their lousy critique.  'Obedience' is a word I have always found difficult to understand. This gruff and terse tirade reminds me why.  It rolls with spirit, has a certain unstoppable (and slightly unstable) force like an avalanche of crumbling DIY detritus that is a delight to get covered by.  Look, this offering is not looking to bowl you over with technical twattery or tinsel-town trash posing - it is straight ahead noise thrown your way with a belief in what is what - I like it rather than lump it.
'Broken Toys' may be a cover song but it slots in here with the greatest of slightly contrasting ease that is, in itself, a minor pleasurable paradox.  A fine lilt, a certain degree of off-the-cuff naturalness and a flow that is both magnetic and upbeat.  The playthings may be busted but the joy of being creative and positive transcends these minor niggles. The simple things in life are always the best.

'Shiny Shoes' is straight at the jugular, biting deep and looking, via wild-rolled back eyes, to shake out a bloodied response.  I haven't a clue what the song is about but I do know I have no polished footwear in my house, I have better things to do tha' knows.  The energy here is enough to carry the song without delving deeply into the lyrics and the gobwork is a ruddy delight.  One can almost see the neck sinews pulled taught, the scarlet countenance and the spittle flying as the lead lout busts a tonsil in his efforts to be as one with the sound emanated.  It is rather smashing stuff and borne from realms where my musical soul is always found - in the shithouse of reality.

'Flowers And Thorns' has all previous elements and passions wrapped up in a pastry of goodness and stuffs it down the eavesdroppers gullet with vandalising poise that is both worthy of celebration and noteworthy for its raw-assed intent. The dabbling duo are not looking to change the musical world here (it is beyond hope after all) but what they are doing is adding their own spillage with stubborn idiocy - this is a good thing (as is this track).
Now we have one other matter to deal with but I am sworn to secrecy so what can I do?  I may perhaps hint at a double-edge epee of acoustic danger that cuts with purpose before dropping back in time to sever with a reflection of times pure.  'Anti-Social' is as it is, it may ring very true with folk polluted by the pack, appalled by the Oi Polloi - I know the score, I smile come the end with a certain sarcastic and niggled sub-expression - some things can't change, no matter what guise they come in.
And there ya go, the secret is out, loose lips sink ships but I reckon SS Snapblades can ride on its own currents and make some headway into some rather cliquey and wayward niches.  I hope the players release another 6 tracker soon, adopt the same format and avoid playing gigs that are drenched in fraudulence - then and only then will a statement be truly made.  Whilst waiting I am happy to enjoy this some more!



I am on a severe go slow with CD reviews at the mo, a recent health scare as seen me re-assess where my time is spent and where my main focus must be, this doesn't mean I will be doing sour FA.  I am keen to keep doing my bit but with a more selective approach.  I am more than happy to dabble with things unfamiliar (what's new) and Metal Postcard Records are always liable to meet my needs.  The Postmen I know bugger all about, I like it this way and so leap into the musical meadow as pure as a well-scrubbed virgin.   

The opening tones are lively, fresh and borne from a certain yesterday where pub-rock blended with things slightly spiked and came out the other end with musical ethics intact.  'Cain And Abel' may deal with the age old traits of vile greed and idiot ambition but the tones radiate a distinct positivity and, may it be said, a certain joy de vivre.  This is a contrast to the content and its works mighty well.  The brisk and flourishing application are stylishly dealt forth with an obvious natural aptitude and a long term knowledge of many sonic sub-niches.  I love this one, it is a really 'living' piece of noise with a melodic clout not to be underestimated.  The immediate follow-up is entitled 'Come What May' - an insouciant song with a groove and kind of lick that exposes a casualness that works well within the general undulating motif.  The approach is non-too complex, the end production has space and a sprinkling of extemporaneous acoustica so as to give the song a subtle edge.  This is easy listening material liable to get you shifting your rear without a care in the world - that is always a good thing. 

'Justified' may be my favourite track mainly down to the magnetising melody and general musicianship.  There is great skill going on, the construction is ideal and done with know-how, the clarity of the end package appeals and the elements of DIY dabbling ring true.  I am finding a musical montage here that is instinctive, cultured and with a swathe of solid touches.  A military essence dictates the verses of this latest track with the segue into the chorus executed without a pause for thought.  Smooth, convincing and robust with a good kick in the heels - this one is a minor gem. 

We sign off with 'One Way Town' - a sanguine sing-a-long snippet with a glorious ray of hope beaming through the grey clouds and keeping one... positive.  I am making comparisons to more pub rock emanations as well as creations by the talents of Nick Lowe and Dave Stewart - I may be off the mark but something rings true.  There is a definite 'bloke in the street' feel here, a familiarity, an easiness of the modus operandi and an earthiness without pretence, whilst all the while the quality of sound is upheld.  I am rather taken once more, The Postmen are on my radar. 

So I left my letterbox ajar, The Postmen came and delivered and upon examining the package and taking good heed I have been mightily impressed.  Metal Postcard Records do what they do and unearth some choice tuneage, here they may just have some real gold on their hands.  I look forward to another 4 track treat from this lot real soon. 



I am a Nouveau Bleach fan, I like the fact that they swing in from an angle not many will grasp and I like the way they do what they do and not give a toss for slotting in to any convenient niches.  Here we are given another splatfest of grungey/post punk, pseudo jazz-jizz that is natural material for the DIY dabbler to become enchanted by.  I go in and see what comes, expectations are merely the feelings of fools (especially in this instance). 

'Pox Americana' is a challenging episode of splunging sonica that finds a slutch-pool, jumps in and duly expresses itself.  I sit back during the first two listens and am happy to be splattered before I strip off and take a dip myself prior making a final decision.  The initial filth vibes of the 4-wired war weapon set out a theme, the scratched and agitated guitar strings add opposition and uncertainty whilst the vocal style is on the brink of a complete mental collapse.  The drums react in a most satisfying fashion, with rules almost abandoned and a 'feel your way' approach almost the result.  This skin work is very reliable and at times bone-jarring - I am not complaining.   As I decide to leave the mushy melee of political disgust I brush myself down, raise my thumbs and reckon this is a ruddy solid start - it is quite fascinating spillage. 

'Caucasian Jerk Circle' works with abstract angularity and a liberated oddness that shows a band unafraid to trespass outside the suffocating zones of 'regularity'.  The spit on the systematic, the questions thrown to the prejudiced and hateful and the uncompromising approach are all very much appreciated by this 'off-kilter' luggite and I dose up on the attitude and the acoustic approach with 'off the leash' pleasure.  I am always sniffing at the arsehole of the musical mutt to see if any new emanations can pique my twitching schnozzle - here I am glad of my time spent around the rhythmic ring. 

'This Septic Isle' starts with a corrupted folkiness before skins are stampeded across and tangent-tones fall from the wires and oral cavern.  Political insight comes, the routine followed is unorthodox and once more the NB trio deliver, defy and direct their din with no thought of traditional decencies and constraints.  The oddball elements, the deconstructed and 'build back up again' feel all confound the senses and cause a certain delightful discombobulation that in many ways pisses on niche labels and the rules and regulations built therein.  This one though is an acquired taste - sip carefully folks. 

The last of the quartet is the title track, namely 'Hostile Architecture' a nerve-jangling creation that has a certain vulgar expressionism and a disturbing cuboid suggestion liable to offend those who like things squeaky clean, formatted and... fashionable.  There is spite and hate thrown into the blender here as well as an obvious contrast of emotions.  The bare-basic dash, clash and trash chorus is one for the hepped up onlookers in the pit to go wild with, the slapdash 'fuck it and see' exhibition of emotion is welcome this end and I think this may be the best track of the lot. 

I have listened to Nouveau Bleach, met the people, interviewed them and seen them play a couple of shows so far.  I have them booked for a couple more - I think this sums up my feelings about this lot.  Their approach is humble, spirited and understanding, the style without affect and the end result as awkward as I could wish for - I remain a fan, I remain absorbed. 



Architectural acoustica built on firm foundations and with melodic material soaked in a sound mix of passion and sonic knowledge.  Again, I have indulged in The Conspiracy on a previous invasion, my thoughts were positive and the cranial juices were forced to think outside the usual box - I prefer things this way!  So, with a 5-track selection to ponder from I go in hopeful and, in some ways, expectant.

'Locust Rain' is water-tight music making with the end piece packing enough melody, gumption and lyrical nouse to keep all and sundry entertained.  The opening electro pulsations are a real surprise and radiate a liveliness that soon leads into a state and surge verse.  From here we hit the chorus that has healthy gumption and a thirst to keep the impetus moving.  We repeat the process, the essence has a certain angsty edge, the lyrics flow with a certain ambiguity but all the while one is left impressed by the zest and execution of the song, I move on wondering what will come next.  What we get is a drum roll, some old school meddling that is given a certain minimalistic feel due to the light skin beats and the gently flicked wire-work.  A sub-sense of the rock and roll basics is nice to pick up on and one is very appreciative of the sunlight twinkles of the guitar and the general tenderness of the tones.  The product comes across as a complete piece with all areas falling into each other and being perfect partners in sonic success.  This is what many would term a genuine 'grower' - there is more depth to this than one play reveals - reach for the 'replay' button and indeed 'Start Again' (think on).

A sober and perhaps moribund tale comes next with a certain shadowy overlay from which the track never truly escapes (if it so wishes to).  'The Pulpit' is thoughtful, reflective, lacks a winning magic and so just strikes me as a number to quickly forget.  This of course is a passing assessment and with more consideration one has to hold one's hands up and respect the care taken and the deliberate approach.  I like the twilight glistenings, the overall arrangement and the easy style of the swing but... I would be a liar to say I truly like this one, I am a mere man who can't like everything.

Track the fourth and 'The Book, The Spine', a song that begins with repeat wire twangs, a cool verse that has great magnetism and a quite wonderful chorus cut that harks back to sub-pop pieces that now and again invaded the ghastly charts that were built on fashionable fraudulence.  This is a crafted piece with an awareness of how a song makes an impact without going Hell for leather and ramming the point home.  I like the weaving of the words and the suggestion of something 'not quite right' and emotions slightly tested.  The book of knowledge is opened, have a nosey and see what you think.

Serious tones and waterfall wires open the strange gothic advancement of 'Twilight II' whilst splashings turn to full-on slaps and a maelstrom of madness ensues.  The voice of doom and threat disappears into a sonic whirlpool of threshing activity where noise-laden nuclear fission takes places and all manner of angular explosions arise under a blanket of creative liberation.  The tympanics hammer and seizure, acute penetrations come via the six-strung sword and more requests of the dead-eyed are had - we are left shaken, stirred and temporarily shattered.  I judge this as an experiment in danger - I like to walk the precipice.

There ya go, I have done my bit with an open-mind, an ethos of being fair and honest and with the hope of tickling a few tonal taste buds - I am still taken with what this crew do, they have me eternally wondering and entertained - this is what it should always be about.



I am back with the incandescent and luminescent pussycats again, this time with an extended procession of quirky curios to abuse my lugholes with and hopefully make some sense of.  What this creative force does is test one's equilibrium and bombard one with curveballs, this is most necessary to those who want to partake of a perfectly imbalanced sonic diet.  The relishes, the spices, the fruity additions are all blended with naturally reactive hands, I gorge myself on the end recipe and puke up the following results. 

Treacle bass, vulgar guitar spasms, fidget fuck tympanics and statements from beyond the realms of the acceptable (perhaps to some).  ‘451’ deals with the diluters of thought, the self-appointed censors that are creating an army of freedom assassins, they burn your books, they burn your cranial creativity.  There is a great deal of misshapen upheaval borne from fear and disgust at the way matters are going, the jazzed approach only enhances this emotion - lovely. 'Footprints' shimmer shakes and sludge wallows whilst a slow sidewind of sonic angularity takes the eavesdroppers head to places best labelled as 'unsafe'.  I tiptoe through the tangential tonal tulips and fail to maintain my cerebral footing.  This is short sojourn best taken when the head is well prepared.  I am not overly taken by this one, there is something jarring and imbalanced and I feel that when offering up these awkward arrangements things, for my ears at last, need to be just so.  'Eyes And Hands' can almost be categorised in the same way as its predecessor but has a little more regimentation in the rhythm and so holds one's attention with a slightly firmer grip.  The strings are akin to misfiring and somewhat malcontent machines - machines kicking back against the players creative force and therefore contributing to a cacophonic conflict.  Amidst the shell shocks and spark sprays the battleground is a place to ponder - I am sure many will fall by the wayside, those who survive will find something to applaud.  I am the walking wounded who has been struck by an odd shard of fascination. 

A quick quartet - 'Portable Fire' shatter shits sharded turdage with an intent to throw out one's sense of decency.  It does it well with a shadow-aroma and bleeding awkwardness that leaves me dumbfounded.  A very difficult piece of sound to digest and duly pass - I relisten but make sure my rhythmic ring is pre-stretched and, of course, well lubed - I can still feel the pain. I like 'Frozen Peas' - both as a food source and a bass-driven palpitation fest as shown here. A stubborn roll-out of whispered sinisterism with a glass-fracture of sound providing a substrate to be wary of.  A quite threatening piece I rate this, who would have thought it!  'Mono' has an undercurrent of agitation with an opening sequence that has touches of mid-west meddling.  The she-vocals are calculated and disarming with a certain untrustworthiness always present.  Questions arise, answers to the age-old question remain, we fall from the tail end of this intriguing song none the wiser and wondering if we are indeed the only God.  In truth, the way we behave I rather think not!  The last of the fistful of four is slagged down as 'Rosemary's Surrogate' a homage to the Polanski classic with legs parted, a demon farted and all manner of unholy upset had.  A weird and warped seduction opens the creation before penetration is had and before long the outcome is exposed.  A feeling of invasive molestation is only part of the picture with a sensation of being abused by many wayward hands also deeply felt.  This is an episode of shuffling horror done in a cool and somewhat twisted way - I duly shudder. 

'Spine' is rustled, wind-blown, unsettled. A smogged apparition arises from depths untold with the vocal efforts semi-muffled and nebulous.  There is a suffocation factor here that shouldn't be taken too lightly whilst the very gist of the song remains somewhat slippery and untamed.  The bass is once more the organising pivot around which the construct holds some semblance of cohesion - God bless the four-wired weapon. 

'Kinetik' is a piqued automaton stating its case, perhaps justifying its existence.  A song that is awkward in gait in some ways and yet in others, free-flowing and ad-hoc.  This paradoxical clash is the way the Kittens operate - I am used to it by now and happy to fall in line with yet another oddment of acoustica.  'Joy' has workings that remind me of Metropilis-ised machinations fucked through with things Joke Killed.  The future toys with the present, pisses on the past but just reaches out for the odd fragment of influence. Sexual undertones, violent overtones and insecurities all get wanked through here whilst the pistons pump and the cylinders exude perspired steam in a manner of utter indifference - these are feeling created by a soundscape many may consider an abomination - ooh the useless fools. 

Closure comes with 'Everything Is Going Up' - a political multi-faceted masturbation of mis-melodic meandering.  A patient under duress ponders, proffers posers and pisses the bed of decency.  As drugs course through disease veins and the mind melts, the result is a lengthened mush of discomforting dinnage.  I am not keen on this closing piece of abstraction - the running time and perhaps the lack obvious arrangement hinder. I know when I am beat but hey, I am not one to say this is a duffer due to my own weakened lugs - the fact is by not following set procedure is the only way to roll. 

Of course, the Neon Kittens stretch my patience, of course they don't play by the rolls and by heck, even if I hate this shit I still think it deserves a thumbs up.  The DIY decadence, the awkwardness and the 'no fucks given' approach should be applauded and applaud I do. We have to keep these pluckers enthused and keep our earholes menaced - it is a perversion I am not ashamed of. 

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