Hoogerland played a gig for my Myco-self in Wombwell, an all dayer showcasing many fruity flavours from this beloved underdog pit. I was more than happy with the sonic shizzle thrown forth and so this CD was greedily lapped up and spun to buggery - I do get enthused. The band sprout from York, label the output as 'Noisy Britpop' and do things ultimately their own way. I like noisy things, I thought Britpop was a load of overhyped wank, it seems I may be torn down the middle here - not for the first time I'll have ye all know. Needless to say I will go in unconcerned by labels, do my bit with unbiased sincerity and sleep well despite many who think I am a wayward wanker who spouts his gob off a little too much - fuck ya. Now to the tuneage at hand...

A collision of feedback puke, promise of something vibrantly vile is suggested, a hint at grimed scuzz that may flip the innards upside down and inside out...but no, Hoogerland get in control and deliver a fine pulsed pillow fluffed tune that is in keeping with my foaming expectations. Popped and honey streaked with chilled and love aching vibrology this charming drift of inoffensive fragility has that magnetic honesty and careful lo-fi innocence to draw in even the most rough edged rhythm lout. 'Amber' is sun kissed, played with intentional loose-wristed appliance and warmed throughout by vocal tones that soothed. As many know, I like a good rough up, a good thrash attack but I equally love things well breezed, poppy and unsleazed - this is a crackin' opening spillage. 'Everything About You' is flimsy gauze caressed by oral utterances, fluttered by heartfelt pangs and so continues the set style with a spaciousness and emotive ambience. Again we are given a delicate piece that is awash with unaffected harmony and melody thus creating a sweet listening experience with more layers than at first deemed possible. Again the gob work is choice, the backing application acoustically exact and this DIY produce is utterly admirable and slots in to the whole shebang of underground noise with ease. I find myself making comparisons to more mainstream bilge water that takes the attention of the moronic masses and am utterly convinced that noise like we have here far outweighs the validity and success levels of the mass marketed dross. Stick at it lads, any fucker with any sense realises these are genuine sonic creations with high merit - that is true triumph.

'Drown In This Sea' contemplates, sicks up a saccharined froth that effervesces with passion and zoned in sub-generic accuracy. The band keep it wonderfully wishy washy (in the most positive sense), uphold the pastelised shading rather than opt for a garish splash here and there and so complete a massaging hat-trick to thoroughly throw yourself into in between bouts of harder edged cacophonies. This number rubber stamps the fact that Hoogerland know their intentions and refuse to get distracted by nearby noise neighbours chomping for the same old, same old. The clarity of each component, the gelled security, the drifting mode - all combine to convince this assessing crustacean that the sea of sound the band are washing my way is teeming with life - ooh me perky pincers. 'Something Going On' peps things up, jacks up the juice level and gushes with extra whisked up vitality. The stripped out effect isn't abandoned though and that distinct lo-radar rockin' is located and with extra featherlight 'whoo ee ooh's' counterbalancing the sturdier crispness of the 6 strung serpent and savoury quadro-cabled weaver bird inclusions we get a most excellent mix to chirp along with - I remain enthused.

‘Let It Go’ is vaulted rock and roll etched with a grainy retro footage that embraces the monochrome feel and makes this a real 60’s burst that salivates with garaged goodness and slow waltzing wonderment. The harsh string crushes, the soaring vocal emotions and the fractured glass sensation make this a surprisingly easy number to praise despite its intrinsically simplified style. ‘Stay Out Late’ follows up with a zippier zest, a fluttering gut excitement that spills over the eavesdropper and enthuses one to ping and pump to the sugary pop tones. Far from ingenious rocket science, in no way a nominee for groundbreaking discordance but...this type of titillating ditty doesn’t have to be – just noise to take as it is and utterly devour. The charming hooks, the running juices and the faithfulness to the thread all make this another contribution to a fine 9 track pip.

Suburban clashed strings, a 60's underscrubbed bout of melody tinged with streaks of melancholia that soaks up the listeners attention even further, that is the first sensation I get from 'Did You See', a very routine song given believability by 'in zone' hands. There is no rush here, no pretension and if a song more polished than this would have been thrown my way I think the favour shown would have been to a lesser degree. The scratched and scathed edge make this more streetwise dinnage, give it a certain underwashed pedigree and that is why I am still loving this CD as an entire product. Clattering in next comes 'Talk To Me', a fast pedalled number full of seaside chirpiness and feel good bouncing bassism and needy emotion - it lasts 48 seconds, a little bit longer than the time it takes to read this account of a sweet quickie. From the shortest to the longest with the closing grandeur and theatrical drama of 'Do You Sleep' a rolling ocean of powerful sonic waves crashing against the cerebral rocks and knocking one off one's feet with its impressive tonal tidal surge. A real weighted number that finds the band surging with their own self made current and punctuating this CD in absolutely convincing style. The octane’s flourish, the grinding, abrasive relentless is unstoppable, it may not be the most preened and puffed up tune of this collection but for some reason it is my pick of the donated pops. A moment to consider further.

I like Hoogerland! I have seen the band, got the CD and now just need to book em' another gig and get the T-shirt too. A real fine outfit filled with decent chaps who can throw a good tune our way without being reliant of anger, whipped chordage and fat arsed riffage - needs must!


Taken from bandcamp - a bold and heart warming slab of wordage - 'NYC's only punk band wrote this in a maelstrom of angst for the friends who died this year'. Now that's sweet and upfront. Comrades contacted me, spoke with zeal and honesty, requested a CD review and after one spin I thought it was worth my time of day. The band seemed to be stoked rather than choked and spill out the fast fuck noise with much gumption. Here, as per, is the Fungalised viewpoint with unbiased words and unwavering belief.

After an intake of breath we first get a slap, and then a good old kick with an alarm call disturbance absolutely awash with youthful hunger and such beautiful untamed joy de vivre. Immediately the lads and lasses flush out any cobwebbed uncertainty and welcome you with a 'happening and having it' song built on nothing more than spirit. The overflow of street ass lyricology makes me smile no end and the utter belief thrown in to the discordant excellence vibrates my sonic soul more than a little pleasurably. This is a hardcore wank off to make you squirt, a superbly shoddy spell to hypnotise your dirtier side, a joyous moment to throw off the shackles of age - get in there dudes and dudettes. The sharp acoustic tools drill deep, we get mind warped, this opening gambit is mouth-wateringly irresistible. 'In Circles' begins with old timer drunken witterings, before striding rather than scampering and with all areas of pace held in strict check. This one takes some adjusting to and isn’t as effective as the first tear up but I understand the need to alternate tempo so as to avoid a repetitive rhythm that will turn the listener to an apathetic ennui created zombie. I listen carefully and flip back and forth on the player - this isn't a bad stroll forth with an honest bass threat and cluttered vocal overlay competing for your main attentive glands - dirty buggers. More pronounced, more thoughtful - yeah, why the hell not. 

Next up and 'Cats Not Cops' sounds like a great idea although I have a distinct hatred for cats as they ain't an indigenous species and do untold damage to the great wild world - bastards. Saying that the robots of the government have many unsavoury elements in their midst who do equal damage to the fabric of trust in society - a tough one but no cats equals more birds, mice etc, no cops equals more crime, more piss-takers putting one over on their neighbours etc. what a shitty world hey? Anyway, I digress - the song is a rip-roaring, arse tearing stunner with all elements at full tilt and throwing in their entire sonic souls with discordant delight and a thrashing thirst.  Fast baby, fast - with the multiple acoustic orgasms achieved along the way due to nothing more than the sweated pounding given and the underfed desire poured forth. At one point the savagery and spirit hurtled at us via a whipped up rhythm is a blinding delight - my goodness my aural privates are blazing - pass the cream please. 'Tompkin's Lullaby' is more tumultuous titivation with a machine-gun mow down the order of the day with the drum whizzed to fuck and all the other roused fuckers dragged along for the ride. Exhausting stuff and done with a big hearted camaraderie that pisses all over the more distant and commercialised dish rag garbage that gets thrown our way. One thing you need when delivering such ramshackle brutality as this is spirit - we have it in delightful abundance - I am convinced, are you?

'Lice Bingo' rattles along in the slipstream with more 200mph mania with that opening verse a wanked sub-skanked female foaming masterclass in how to let ya tuned tits out and swing em' with howling, fuck you distinction and...most importantly...unaffected naturalness. There is a beauty in a roarer who holds nothing back and pushes her/himself to the maximum - this is such an escapade and despite the collapse of performers on the edge this is a screwdriving, jackhammering, spine-breaking, head bursting bout of distress to sweat with? 'Walmart Liberation Front' is a free for all with parts liquid, parts rucked, parts livid, parts fucked - the song is a disjointed runt of rhythm but finds itself winding outward on a very exciting riff up. All components clamber hard over the corpse of silence and rouse with bad assed focused intention that emanates a total disregard for external needs - this crew do it one way - their way - listen up and suck on their exposed sonica - they ain't gonna cater for the delicate! The swift and subtle swap arounds within this intoxicating weave snatch at your excitable senses and pound em' to utter buggery - I like that, pervert I be.

'The Party's Over' is a deliberate raving moment that kicks back at the brainwashing regime and the greed and materialism it undoubtedly encourages. Moving like a stealthy cat ready to pounce on the unaware and scratch the fuck out of the blasted and overwhelmed senses the plan here is to create a wake up call which, hopefully, will expose the stink out there! A fine alteration of pace the CD needed and done in such a menacing way and with a straightforward dig in the ribs of the complacent fuckers wallowing in a mire of money and me, me, me power trips.  This is fine idealism I am convinced by and very much in tune with - for me the extra push of the flaming anger that coarsely interrupts are added bonus balls in a raged piece of unsettled pleading. 'Rich Assholes On TV' speaks for itself and fuck fumbles, shit tumbles, threatens to crumble and yet somehow holds itself together to appear something remotely resembling a tune. A torrid epileptic affair that doesn't have that initial riff and roll snatch but which still pulls you in and shakes your entire being with unwashed ardour. If you have a little patience, a little care for the cacophoneers out there who are trying their best, then you may find some sonic salvation here. Almost straight from the jamming room, with an inbuilt unprocessed flow, an ad-lib spillage comes our way with harsh oral bursts greeted and given a nod of acceptance - you gotta be fair and even though this is far from the best track of the lot I am happy to give a positive verdict. 'Once Upon A Crime' is the most polished piece of the lot and takes a careful decision to keep the thermals steady throughout, the approach organised and the style sub-acousticised with occasional thrills to uphold the interest levels. The sincerity in the delivery is still as impressive, the self conviction in what the band are doing blatantly apparent and this, perhaps, is the song that exhibits what talent we have on our hands and how the belief that hardcore is easy to deliver is of course, complete bullshit. We close with the semi piss about, DIY live shenanigans entitled 'Tompkin's Lullaby' - yes you heard me right and this is a folked and fucked up version of the previous blisterer and done in a totally off the cuff way and no doubt fuelled by desire and, I reckon, a few beers. It is what it is, nothing special but reflective of a band of comrades who love making a racket and refusing to do fuck all. I still find this a most heart-warming attitude despite me being a long term swimmer in the noisy pool and I hope the crew don't get jaded and disillusioned too soon and that they do maintain their obvious innocent love and passion for dinnage.

The Comrades do it for me, simply because their hearts and souls are in the music, the output is loaded with excitement and they have much potential to shake up a few old, and young, arseholes. The growing apathetic and comfort zone zeros in the scene need a good rousing blast to remind them of what it is like to be chomping at the bit and full of bouncing resistance - this will do em' a world of good, I just hope that they get off their fat rears and get tuned in. 



The name should say it all, the raison d’etre for this rhythmic collection is plain to see, if it isn't then kiss my arse as I have 25 tracks to get through and need to deal with those rather than fart about with an intro that will explain the obvious - are ye with me? But to add...and quote '100% of the profits from this compilation will go directly to the Free Pussy Riot cause via The Voice Project until such time Masha and Nadja are free. All proceeds will then go to Amnesty International and their fight for prisoners of conscience everywhere'. Now to press on, rapid, to the point evaluation and tasty teasers to hopefully highlight what the fuck is on offer here.

Skank Agenda open with the rough tumbling tune called, unsurprisingly 'Free Pussy Riot', a dirty crippled dog from vaults of yesteryear with all components threadbare and joined together by the most flimsiest of sonic strands. The vocals are almost inaudible amidst the dustbin kicking that takes places and the resultant plumes of ill tempered dust are blown by the hands of some real eager beavers. Not the SA's best tune but certainly waking one up to this 25 track trek. Barbecued solo shizzle next with Louise Distras offering her commune-style ravings that are etched with androgyny, varied tonal essences and well perspired gushes. 'The Hand You Hold' sees the acoustic operator rise and fall, whisper and roar and at the end of the entire donation we find ourselves reaching for the replay button and reconsidering the initial judgement - it comes out as a very decent effort. Sounds of Swami throw any semblance of routine and predictability out of the fragile window with their usual crash, bang, wank off and wallop diversity, this time thrashing a ditty around that goes under the name of 'Clandestine Movements'. From the utterly raped and ravaged to the groomed and garnered this fine unit torment, tease and ultimately trash your senses with a remarkable burst of modernised melodic molestation. 

The CD moves up a notch as regards riotousness and then we are flipped upside down with a scratch and sniff, dub synth, patchwork sample that gobs off, nervously flutters and throws in a multitude of snippets, Unholy Union create contrast, kick the scrawny cat amongst the complacent pigeons - 'Rasputin's Cornflakes' does the intended business - I have a soft spot for angular intrusions. The Infested skank with speed, 'Keep Droppin' their pills and pants rather than notes thus creating a scurfy, low-fi lump of irate upstroking with the band eventually rolling in a dust creating ball and kicking up one helluva stink. The colours emitted are black and white, the encrusted melee liable to be lapped up in certain sub-genres, and beyond, with the level of squabbling spirit thrown in the most arousing element.

An injection of polished class next with the accomplished Random Hand blowing from many directions with the sincerely accurate and thought provoking 'Tales Of Intervention'. Cleaner shaven than its predecessors, moving with fluidity and precision the switch abouts, the flip overs, the complete alterations are all done by the hands of professionals and no matter how much I abhor that term I have got to bow down and rate this as a real tip top bout of current clued in cacophony. Il Sogno Del Marinaio' next featuring Mike Watt on a number called 'Partisan Song'. A kaleidoscope of multitudinous tones all coffee cup swirling into a slow steaming orchestration that refuses to rise up and rush headlong into a perilous error. This tableau of considered tuneage is an angular effort on a CD of this ilk and with its almost jazzy improv waywardness it somehow works within the overall mush - just! Chumbawumba next and the anarchic patchwork account known as 'Liberation' with an ominous underscore working away whilst the lead gobbers coolly rant and rave about injustice and the overall crushing systemised factory chain. A mechanical plod, a free flowing segment that repeat beats, a poetical almost choirboy invasion, more scuzziness and one final call to arms and we are done - you should get the gist. 

Onwards, jive ass street tympanics, cool slinked brass writhings, synthoid shocks, upbeat funk reminiscences that never quite nail the genre - we have an intriguing listen with Melt Yourself Down keeping me alert via the expulsion 'We Are Enough'. Tuning in with vitality, Brazilian carnival-esque in flavour - this is booty bouncing vigour to shake yer stress away.  Jump, feel the life, enjoy another feisty tangent. Next up and the jaunty class of Citizen Fish, a band who slope in with their usual skanky punkiness that is naked to the waist and sonically jerked with an avalanche of erudite, insightful wordage from a band who have a high pedigree of nouse. The idle arsed, the apathetic, the TV/computer absorbed generation filled with self created flatulation get cornered, criticised and questioned. A solid account from a reliable crew - need I delve any deeper? Foxes Faux chase this rhythmic rabbit with a sweet acousticised lilt that is a million miles away from the harder edge some of these 'erberts dabble with. 'Isabella' is a wonderful drift of cheesy panging that drips with lucid vocal roaming and strung delicacies that really fuckin' does it for me. Of all the tracks thus far this is surely the most unpunk, most unexpected and is in fact my utter favourite - see, I told ya those labels were a load of shite.

Sexed string wanks, off the cuff throat hollers with outside circle essences from realms more alternative coming to the fore as The Red Pills claim they are 'Not A Number'.  The regime resisting throb along we have here copulates the sonic siblings of punk and metal thus serving up a fairly rich treat of grinding noise. Not bad and followed by the complimentary 'Vocation' by Indigo Crow, a more modernised piece with new school suggestions and independent aromas that have a slight metallic underlay which causes the assessing feet to remain unsteady. The verdict like the plates of meat is unsure - I move on and leave this one to you. The Smears bitch it up with delightful squawking spite and duly spittle soak your senses with a bombarding racket built on a fiery throat fuck that sucks your rigid resistance dry. 'Wrath' is indeed an ire filled slammer that makes its point and jabs it right in your disbelieving eye. The Smears are a band I can take or leave, here I am impaled with a desire for more. Counting Coins jump in next, with the strutting skankiness 'What Gives You The Right', an accomplished track that intertwines smooth upstroked sensations with ill tempered upheavals that act as a sugar and spice combo just keeping the tastebuds tantalised. It is played with confidence and controlled talent all making for a fine inclusion into what is fast becoming a very pleasing compilation. The Swindells chase with bog standard punkage and the song scratched as 'Smoke And Mirrors'. No technical marvels, no overwhelming cutlets of crashing, banging and walloping - no, just straight ahead generic noise with inherent values of a scene full of spikes - it has its place even though it is one of the most basic tracks on display. Mike Park offers up a gentle divergence from the previous pelt out via a soft acoustic lullaby snipe called 'Terror Is A Very Special Thing'. A choice inclusion of sweetness done in a sub-hippified style with the mouth at the fore relaxed, unflustered and getting his pertinent point across. The flip over of contradictory flavours is impressive and this mix of restful and restless spillages is a neat trick that works splendidly well. From here we go all madcap with the pop punk puke of The Hairlips raising the bar of positivity and carefree idiocy via the toon called 'Shut Up', an effort straight out of the squeaky, cheeky scene where restraint is hit and miss but the chordage is pretty on the ball and hits an inner vein that can't help but vibrate to the melody fest. This is usual fare for the productive popped pit and with its terse and inoffensive mode I tap my feet without fear of stupid sub-text.

I am getting there - stick with me, it ain't easy trying to assess these devilish collections and give everyone a fair crack of the Fungal whip. Sludgy girl persuasion next with Grim Dylan offering up the grimed and syrupy thick 'Escape', a song that moves with grunged ill-health and has a non-too complimentary edge that doesn't do the band full justice. I have seen this outfit 'live' and they have an abundance of more 'ooomph' than on show here - a shame and just a very average track is had. The Drastics appear with a familiar song known as 'Checkin' Out' - honest, bare earth punkage done with a crisp acuteness and a simple 'punked' mode that appeals to the primitive spiky senses and gets one pinging with pleasure - why the hell shouldn't it? The Human Project however take a different approach and splatter shit the decent realms of discordance with a rewarding articulate expulsion absolutely bursting at the seams with agitation and youthful flamboyant ADHD laden sonica. 'The Best Form Of Defence' is a multi-faceted conglomerate of colliding tuneage that takes some time to swallow but...boy do these bastards know their stuff. Acid Drop turn in with 'Times Of Apathy', a tidy cutlet from the bone of hybridised UK/US excellence that has a bubbling bass drift, a gratifying guitar lick, some fidgety stick work and of course the delicately sandpapered gob upchucks. Reliable as fuck, worthy of your time and one of those bands that keep within the melodic boundaries and have a whole bombardment of robust tunes to tickle your senses with. Well worked and equally well drilled with the production values all meeting the needs of the players and emphasising a pertinent theme to take heed of.

Down to the last stretch, a trio to go with the skanky vibes donated via the tubby tuned hands of Wobbly Bob most delightfully lapped up. Light, upbeat, blended with traditional ska elements and with a free and freshened accent to compliment the harder edged and somewhat stodgier tracks on here. When brass and strings get pumped harder due to the stick insistence we get further involved - well I do anyway! Zounderkite have an excellent song on their hands that is delivered 'live' with a Strummer-esque chomp in the choppers, a collision of strings and sticks, a political questioning that is pumped from a gut on fire - this is a definite Roxyfied sensation that the lovers of the old vibes will adore. We finalise proceedings with a crystal slow-mo waterfall of lucid purity that is sun kissed by femaled oral caresses and enhanced by tender string ripples. Emily Levy offers a punctuating angle with 'Passing Clouds' and shows that this whole collection of songs has something for everyone - a pleasant finale indeed.

So an overview of 25 artistes and their wares all contributing to a worthy cause that kicks back against idiot constraints and governmental bullying. I can't like every song I hear (no one can) but I do appreciate a whole lot on here and in truth, find this a CD you should take time to check out. Compilations are brilliant things to get new listening matter down ya lugs, I wish they were bloody easy to review - bah, bugger, bum. I hope I have done a decent job here and enthused a couple of ya to delve deeper - it is the least I can wish for you lazy set of twats - nudge, nudge!


The last of the 3 Exploited albums to review as requested by Nuclear Blast Promotions - and in truth it is the usual gob off shizzle you would expect from this lot but with some very rewarding highs that make this some of the bands best work to date. As per, I shall not dabble around on things from the past too long, but will give a typical review usually found elsewhere on the world wide wank off. You all should know what this crew are about and here is my humble take on a violent, riffed to fuck CD that has no pretension about being anything other than an ear-bleeding bout of sincere hardcore.

The opening primeval scream grabs the listeners scrotum and squeezes forth bloodied seeds of attention before a machine-gun pump peppers the carcass and pounds one rigid with high power noise. 'Fuck The System' is straight from the genital area to the vulnerable jugular and goes for it with possessed insanity. Lyrically things are basic, it is what the Exploited do, musically this well controlled brutality that says on the tin what the utter intent is. Unapologetic upsurges coming in blinding flash after blinding flash and if its the instantaneous wham factor the band are after then this is it - a fuckin' peach dripping with citric venom. 'Fuckin' Liar' is raging anger, a blistering attack done in no uncertain terms with tonsils raped, strings stretched to utter fuckery, and drums beaten with a somewhat perverse joy, 'Holidays In The Sun' is a grim reality based pustule splatter punking and gunking the whole acoustic shithole with more bewildering venom and unrestrained ferocity - the crew are led by a maniac on a mission, the output is brash and bold, the segments where raw basic riffs are taken and all out gob offs are thrust in your dead eyed face thrill no end and The Exploited, for me at least, are reaching new personal punk zeniths for sure. 'You're A Fuckin' Bastard' is bog brush crudity with a foul mouthed primitiveness that is almost embarrassing. The powerhouse surges and overall violence do grasp at a few threads of salvation but overall this is a song to get hammered to and jump about to with a disregard for noisy intricacies. 

I am speeding on, flavour is the name of the game, I hope I am tickling thy taste buds just enough. 'Lie To Me' and 'There Is No Point' are two more structures basically built on pace, ill temper and roaring energy levels ready to burst many an indifferent dam. For me the latter of the 2 tracks is the pick due to a more direct acuteness and an overall despondency many a spiked cunt should pick up on. Both tracks however turn on my prehistoric inner passions and for that I make no apology. The pinnacle of the album comes, leaves a solid impression and has me thoroughly delighted. 'Never Sell Out' is an anthem, a fuckin' shout out all lovers of racket should yell and believe in! The opening riffs and skin splats menace, rise to a verse that rolls with controlled fury before twisting into a chorus done in simple terms but delivered with magnetic accuracy. The lyrics are far from complex but have an honesty and belief and with that incessant bass grumble pushing all areas to the max this is a fuckin' massive high I have found myself playing many times over the years, especially when the inner flame needs stoking and the battered and bruised muscles of determination need a little extra re-conditioning - have it, scream your bastard lungs out, you know the rest.

'Noize Annoys' is a schizophrenic dog snapping at your complacent heels with infected jaws and sharp flesh tearing teeth - a real diseased runt of raped rhythm on the look out for eardrums to destroy, stomachs to turn and minds to melt - if your mood is tender prepare to be upset. If your outlook is thriving and in need of some therapeutic musical mischief then come forth and go rabid. 'I Never Changed' gets its noggin down, burrows away with fist pumping idiocy, has a bassed up break and flashlights to the finish line - we know what we are getting now, it may be too much for some, The Exploited seem not to care and why the fuck should they? 'Why Are You Doing This To Me' scuzz fucks, pours burning spittle in the face of a hated soul, rips up the whole lung system and ruptures many a circulatory procedure with its disarming din and overall questioning wildness. Some things are not even worth trying to stop and when the band are in this mood you may as well get dragged along kicking and screaming with joy. 

The last 3 with 'Chaos Is My Life' and 'Violent Society' sickening thrash outs on a one way mission to turn their innards to liquid. Nothing new, I didn't expect there to be, just full tilt hardcore with anger the main enthusing factor - fuckin' hell hey? We piss off towards the silence with the billowing control of 'Was It Me' a song moving with more emotive stealth than heard before and offering up many new feisty thoroughfares for the band to run down which I am sure they will stubbornly refuse to take - awkward bastards. A fine finish this one, the creeping tension, the restraint within the simmering sonica is applaudable and closes the CD on an unexpected note.

Loud, crude, spirited and a CD to please the old and young lovers of electrified riffed up hardcore. The band seem set in their ways, they have a good following and this, for me at least, is the best release to date despite the one way formula that has been flogged to buggery!


Another Skank Agenda CD, another 4 tracks to chew over and assess, another chance to get to know this band better. Leeds based, multi-coloured cacophony, I can't keep doing the same old intro's, into the flesh of the music we must delve.

We make an incision, the first tune revealed is scarred with the name of 'Alarm Clock', one to rouse yer aural peepers perhaps? Delicate ripples tick the time, are moved with a trifle more urgency before a desirous diatribe is given within a web of well whisked wire moves and ready rolled skins that encourage the rhythm to progress with good pace. The band intersperse the stripped out rushes with almost abandoned moments that dissect segments with marker pen boldness. The hammer down to the final strum out makes sure this is a swift snip to play over and over to fully digest - not a bad do in all fairness. The next track and 'Ruined Education' has a streetwise old school two-toned/sparsely boned, slightly encrusted patchwork essence that scrawls a bleak message across the piss soaked walls of resentment with the learning system getting the brunt of the steaming golden liquid flow. What Skank Agenda bring to the table is a DIY flavour that is highly soiled and stained with stubborn musicianship that refuses to over-elaborate and stretch out a point. The subject matter is approachable and easily related to and from somewhere within the spartan delivery an attractive tune usually arises. Strictly unorthodox, containing seeming carefree snippets amidst more determined and directed episodes this one is typical of the crew and I have no real complaints.

A song about that old fat arsed parasite next, you know the one, the Nazi yellow toothed thief known as the 'Queen Mum'. This is a scathing attack on the tax dodging shithawk done in straight ahead fashion with venom soaked lyrics throughout the verses and a simplified chorus section that hollers the title with disgust. Tinkle twinkle snippets come after bass and drum pulses give time to prepare for the ensuing nasty avalanche that nails the royal rogue with spiked ardour. Nowt special but needs must sometimes - have that yer blue blooded twat. We close with 'Sunglasses' a loosely constructed piece with flickering strings, undulating bassism and tin can alley stickery avoiding unnecessary trickery.  The ditty leans towards a well-washed piece but just can’t help falling into the Skank Agenda trap and soon finds itself bathing in a pool of swirling scum – the darn buggers.  Not bad and rescued by a terse running time I feel – anything longer would have taken off the layer of scabbing and made the review a very tender spot indeed.

There ya go, real music for fans who like it off the pedestal and down at their very own level. Steptoe and Son noise done with earthy honesty and spiky disgruntlement - come and delve into these rhythm rags.


The MCR crew hail from Imminghan, all together now - 'where the fuck is that'. Apparently this place is near Grimsby and proclamations have been made that this is the best rock and roll band ever to hail from there - incredible ain't it. The style is garaged bluesed up punk with the traditional R n R style blatant and the intent on riffing the melodies equally obvious. The band look the part and initial spins of the CD also suggests they can back up the looks with some quality episodes of scintillating tuneage liable to arouse those who like bare arsed noise without too many anal adornments - will the racket still stand up after several more rotations of the silver circle - only one way to answer this question, Fungal jumps in with assessing pecker swinging - ouch.

The first foreskin tearing ripper to shake my tuned in shaft salivates with the name of 'I Wanna Get Out Of Here But I Can't Take You Anywhere', a basically uncomplicated episode of repeat beat lo-fi garage with primitive rock and roll licks and a thirst in the vocals that sells this product and makes it an easy arse wanking vibrator to enjoy. The mix is sharp, gets the best from a blend of he/she harmonies and maintains the scratched surface many aficionados are in love with. The B-movie style naturalness continues into another wrap-around episode tattooed with the appellation of 'I Don't Like You'. Again, rocket science is avoided, intricacies cast aside and we get a repetitive rhythm soaked bout of simplistic spillage that, when given an injection of volume, appeals top the most caveman cacophonic senses. A tribal opening, a beautiful rumbled bass, sweet unwashed strings and a mouth immersed in the delivered throat induced shit - mucky melody to roll around in ye filthy pigs of noise - yeah!  'Twist It' turns down the pace, maintains the scrubbed and scratched upper surface, plays the usual cards with frontal throat work intersected by harmonised jaw wags and deeply screwing guitar work. The first 3 tracks work a treat but there is a similarity there, a womb from which all the rhythmic runts have been squeezed from which is a good thing but, is one of those aspects of album creation that needs keeping an ear on so as to not limit the longevity for the listener. This slower track is not as effective as the previous 2 tear ups but has enough weighted merit and well processed activity to uphold its presence.

'You Ain't No Friend Of Mine' is slightly more chanted and accented with a routine guitar motif hammered at with industrious concentration, a lyrical spite prevalent in the regurgitated words and a full circle roll. Not the most intricate track in the world, almost suggestive of a band in its embryonic stages and a ditty that is reliant on its raw melody. Half decent but falling into the shadows of the superb shout and scream electro excitement of 'She's A Wrong Un', a song fizzing with life and energy, slutty to the core and spitting up a real knee trembling fucker that will, if blasted out at full volume throttle, blow your fuckin' brains out. The tension at the beginning is stretched to the max, the four count a necessary release - in we go to the wild melee that is guaranteed to grind out your most dirty dancing desires with all pulverising aspects alight with passion - ooh I salivate with spirit whilst pinging to this beauty - a real head through the window song!

'Chic And The Motherfuckers'' and a freeway freewheeling dust kickin' chunk of noise that travels on secure wheels and goes form A to B with scurfy and squarrose affect, thus leaving the riders pleasurably uncomfortable. An insistent piece that gets extra blue treatment and one filled with a crummy oil on which the 4 stoke engine runs. The lack of adornments and the stubbornness to stick to the basics pays off but I am wondering whether or not this, and a few other deliveries, will stand the test of time - we can only wait and see. Next and 'Rosetta', a brief fumble in the undergrowth, an emergence with a verdant arrangement, an accompanying breeze to rustle all areas, safe and slightly slag-shackled with a head hypnotising lick that won't let you free. The strings scurf, surf and shine, the drums plod out a beat and the gob snots itself off - attractive dinnage.

'Crossroads' is, in many ways, another road rattling number, with the radiator steaming, the roof folded back and with a regular hair-whipping breeze flowing. There is a clap happy feel good factor within the liquid rhythm which, however flat-lined, still aggravates interest. 'You're Always Trying Too Hard' isn't a song that turns me on and with so much stark imitation going on within this 11 track teaser I find myself way out of sync with this somewhat arid and over familiar track that whips the ass of the acoustic horse a little too much. The swift surging approach at the start promises much but we get a constant electro assault that doesn't really undulate enough for my personal desires. 'Get Out Of Your Head' is more like it with the contrasting elements of subdued intro and verse becoming emboldened in glorious outline by a stamping explosion of sonica via the stunning chorus. The band delay the full exposure of the song, show patience, build up the levels of anticipation and put their necks on the line - ooh I like the risk. The band must deliver and deliver they do with a lively chorus explosion of rewarding magnitude - a very exciting moment to lead the vulnerable astray and to convince the dabblers in escapism to search even harder. The song has an almost hedonistic 'fuck that' excellence - yeah, I like that!

'Sex Audio' begins with high-heeled drum strides, an interspersed shake of the rear and a pout of the posing lips. Hips grind, sleazoid vocals spurt, this 'Palmer-esque' tinted jaunt is almost aching for a video with weapon caressing ladies doing their sexy stuff. A snippet of desperate lust, sweated bed sheets and wayward fuck meat arousal - hey if that's your thing then go get infected. It is a short screw, in out, shake it all about and done - I expected a more unifying liaison that would prolong the sonic sensations – greedy bastard I be!

The Ming City Rockers come, go and leave behind a smear on the aural receptors that many have taken a liking to. This isn't a bad do but I am unconvinced. For me the band are still in the growing stage and there is a whole lot more to come with a few more acoustic instars to go through before becoming an utterly convincing insect of noise. Some of the songs nail it, some play it too safe and hop along on the more successful shirt tails, one or two just go through the motions - harsh perhaps but there is enough potential here to deserve a quality squeeze - think on, grooming lies are pointless, heartfelt encouragement and a passion to provoke development are what matter.


Jumping in from Terassa (Barcelona) this folky bunch aren't afraid to throw in a few other flavours to their output such as hardcore and punk (which is a mix I do come across on a regular basis) and so give themselves further options. We have here a self-proclaimed concept album, a 14 tracker to tease the imagination with the running story concerning a city called Terramorta where people are subject to their god/ruler Saint Patrick. But 7 strangers arrive and persuade citizens to rebel against him... this is as far as the taster notes go - we best travel inward, unwind the sonic saga and see what the final chapter of assessment brings.

The first page is turned 'L'atac dels Ultrapirates Pecadors', and is sonic sin that opens with al dente wire work and is escorted by the oral delicacies of both he and she. It is a crisp moment, sub whispered and caressing the aural tympanics with tantalising tones and much promise...but, be warned, from here on in we are rolled into a free-wheeling festival of sprightly vivacity constructed with much fervency of appetite stoked by in-scene desires. The feeling is one of alfresco escapism, commune folkiness high flown with political angst and tongue rolling vehemence that is cooled by the fiddling drafts and heel skipping skins - a real zested attacking detonation that blows away any clogging cobwebs and ill temperament. To alter track the gates open on 'A les porta de TerraMorta' a counterpunch to the opening partified paroxysm that sidles along with a most malevolent and blatantly threatening accent with the dual mouth work initially ominous before becoming more inundated with thermal frustration and coughing up an inter-fucking bout of spittle soaked anger. The ascent of the irritation is pleasing and the song comes to the boil right on time with a feeling left of a swift but a deliberate auditory kicking given. Two tracks in and the band have offered a good degree of diversity, suddenly the expectation and anticipation levels have risen and bated breaths come with rhythmically induced regularity.

The streetwalking 'Cockle and Mussel' seller known as 'Molly Malone' is given the Sigelpan treatment next with a terse tear up bestowed into our ever hungry lugs with shindig spiralling and busy bee bustling the order of the day. Strings and drums are hepped up on adrenalin rushes of living energy, whilst the gushing enthusiasm poured in by our lead couple is persuasive and, may it be set, infectious. A ditty to take your time with I suspect or one to either ponder or just jump up and jig along to - either way you will do well to find any flaws. 'Nens Perduts' comes across as the most gallant and unflinching inclusion thus far with all the lost children out there embraced and given note. The musical march is forthright, steadfast and, despite the varied tones, without any deviation. Quiet moments where points are made are intercut with 'scratch and sniff the reality' time outs and chanted hollers that capture an emboldened hankering to etch a sonic streak within our noise-laden receptors. The song at times, seems about to snap, break apart and lose its aim, but that feeling of direct line focus is there throughout and we remain on route without any real worry. A track that may have the longest shelf life but one I thoroughly lap up, primarily down to the throat emitted passion.

'Sant Patrick' has a quivering intro I remain unsure of but after the stop/start and woven fluidity I get a little more into the drift although I find this one the most higgledy piggledy construct of the lot with the palpitating effect not suiting my desires at this sonic stage. Plenty of gusto means plenty of eavesdroppers may disagree so I move sheepishly on with my stubborn streak in tact - blah. 'Bule bule' has a lovely countrified corn chewing, hell flicking waltzoid intro before the vocals intertwine with joyous youthful keenness that entrances this music lover with its kaleidoscope of garish colours all making for a great ditty. Eventually a few small pots of darker acoustic shadings are pouring into the mix but they are soon swallowed up by the more vibrant tones and we are left with a cosmopolitan splatter to swim within. 'La cloaca' flushes in, swirls with darker colours before scuffling stringwork wipes the backside of uncertainty. Impetus rises, another burst of the bowels comes and the spasmodic upheavals fill the awaiting basin with healthy toned turdage. The shitheap of sound attracts dancing flies who like to spread dinned disease and with wings aflutter true appreciation is given. The crew rise, make a greater stink and find themselves in a zone well and truly suited. Alterations come, relief in easier expulsions is gratefully received and although this is a lengthy donation to the sewerage of sound you will be fully absorbed throughout.

More six string scarcity, a skin wobble and jaunted tonality tries to hide the ensuing fidget that is delivered with bumbling excitement and vivid intention. 'Aquest cos es meu' is a solid body of sound built on opposing traits and varied degrees of the unexpected. A somewhat awkward piece that one finds difficulty fully settling into and I feel totally justified in saying at this point that the band are over brewing their well cooked broth. It happens, runaway enthusiasm can be a crippling bastard who leads one astray. Without any control over ones legs caution and care must be had and a certain degree of self restraint when delivering ditties of this style or severe errors can be made. I shan't apply a strait jacket of criticism because being eager and hungry is a joyous thing to behold but I would suggest the crew watch their step and keep things a trifle more structured at times.  Not for me this one. I much prefer the adventure of 'Explotar', a fizzing song with equal variation and gusto to the previous track but with a more organised feel and a definite boundary between each intrusive attack. The band free wheel, power batter, party up, unify themselves with heightened glory and show their inner desires with confidence rather than vulgarity. A real treasure trove of alternating styles this and one to keep you dipping in over and over again.

'La nit que el Rei Pat Murphy ha mort' is a double quick outburst that scuffles around, throws forth a swift bubble of lyrics and rises to the finale with usual feistiness - in and out and no room for error. Creeping with malevolence next is the shifty sidewind of 'La Passio del Trist' a journey that weaves and winds off the beaten track and makes a great meal out of the whole escapade. I am left a trifle worn out and left in the cold with this one as it is just way too long to be comfortable and has too many driftings to be fully comprehensible. It would have been far better to have 3 expulsions instead of the one and taken the most complimentary components and bunged them together in one swifter mush. Here we have too many nebulous boundaries that have fuzzy grey edges that blur the distinctions between each opposing section. The language barrier also plays a part and maybe I can't get too involved due to this restricting factor - it seems to be the case. I move on humbly rather than dissect for the sake of it.

'Metamorfolkcore' gently rocks the boat, has a certain control in the undulations and cuts its running time to just over 4 minutes which is highly beneficial to the band and my poor folk soaked lugs. A more orchestrated piece here with a deliberate strategy adopted that sees the band place and pronounce each note and gob off with accuracy whilst the accordion provides the inner swish that adds genuine life. Not bad and worthy of its place on this CD but my preference lies with the latter two tracks namely 'Deixant Terramorta' and 'Un dia ens morirem', with the former having a stylish aroma that rises into the rhythmic nostrils with sultry persuasion before slightly moving around the emotional scale with more forcefulness applied. The vocal textures are quite impressive, the aural airwaves sweetly rippled before the crew decide to up the ante with a more flourishing approach that sees the song thrive as a result. Primarily built on 2 sensations, both having great distinction and sitting side by side with equal authority. The coolly strung acoustic snip that adheres both sections together is ideal and the final rush is thoroughly convincing - excellent tune. The latter song, and the overall closing piece, is typical Sigelpa spillage with plenty of pace, oodles of spirit and a general joy in the output that attracts the most unfolked fucker. Back to that initial spiciness that enthuses a smiling response and a foot tapping agreement - a full stop that is more than a little apt.

Overall this CD is a decent effort with just one or two moments leaving me flaccid but more than enough output to maintain a storker. There are many moments here that give the band room to manoeuvre on future efforts and it will be interesting to see if they take any of these opportunities or just dabble here and there and stick to the sub-generic pattern involved. Either way it keeps one thinking but in the meantime play this beggar loud and have a dance.


A compilation EP featuring several 'in for a penny, in for a pound bands' (good on em') done in true DIY fashion by Orchestrated Dystopia Records - applause all round I demand, moving arses are a fine thing to encourage. 9 tracks to savour, to rock yer knackers off with get shit faced with.  Some I am familiar with, some I am not - here goes a Fungalised dissection with critical claws loaded with honesty and care and the aural receptors keen to lap up the vibrology - you should know what I do by now.

'Westerburg' chuck up their noisy contents first with 'Katie' a real well blended poppoid jaunt oozing easy drift swagger and lemon popsicle innocence. The US flavour is obvious, the semi dark lyrics a good contrast and the overall production values perfect for this kind of shizzle - you can't beat a bit of pop punk and the feathery light touches here, the wonderful liquidity and overall 'get up and join in' features make this a reliable in-scene lollipop on which to suck over and over again. Mmmm - so sweeeeet! What better way to follow up a song of this ilk than throwing in a more toxic offering just like the epileptic chuggery fuck of 'Weekender' by the beer swilling bastards known as Freedumb. The aptitude shown to build a construct of harsh racket colliding rhythms and the destructive dynamism in this new/old school hybrid is blatant with all components in sync and happy to thrash slap along to the maelstrom of mania. Death Zone is sparse and uncluttered with the trunk of tonality fissured and flaking thus emanating a DIY flavour many may not be comfortable with. 'Victim Of Crime' is another contrasting cut that keeps the CD varied and with a good level of unexpected hullabaloo. It is the most naked track of the lot with all warts on show and all elementary acoustica thrown forth but, that retro warehouse earthiness and scatterscum rawness has its merits - never overlook the unwashed.

Total Bloody Chaos next and the forceful bitch/bastard crossover style so often encountered by the current TBC set-up with 'Black' a decaying scurfy cunt of noise that is thrust your way with irritated and impassioned unease. Sub-generic penetration of the silent void - whamming it, hammering away and thanking you in no uncertain terms ma'am. Brace For Impact rattle slightly harder with a Discharged approach and stark brutality that harks back to days of Clay and that post apocalyptic war raping rhythm built on utter rage. 'Excuse' offers no excuses, tightens the reins and thunders along on hooves of hellbound intent with the players wading in and throwing fiery fists of unified mania - it is what it is, get in the slipstream and get your balls burnt off.

'Surgery Without Research open their offering with a granite riff before semi-Oi'ed gobbage throws in a different accent to keep the mix bubbling. A more rhythmic grind out with 'Fight' a persuasive piece to raise the rebellion levels and to enthuse a kick back against the bullying regimes out there. The tension is heightened to a finale that crescendos over and over again with waves of troubled temper climaxing in pure restless glory - good effort. B-Movie Britz next and a glistening intro leads us into a thumping episode of boom, bang, scorch and holler with moments of thrusting desire and snippets of 'wake up and smell the angst' passion liable to rouse the dead heads and indifferent. 'Control' calls for cerebral liberation, swaps its angles with insightful articulation, combines power and craft in equal measure and leaves a sweet aftertaste. The final blow comes in the form of utter insanity with Eye Licker and the fast billowing violence known as 'Cosmetic Con'. A scorching shit of supreme power punishment that smashes your senses to smithereens and hits a brick wall with a death holler to cower from - I love this kind of purity when kept so short and to the point and Eye Licker are fuckin' fine artistes when it comes to knackering your neurones - a fitting closure.

Excellent is the word I choose here, everything a good compilation should be - varied, DIY, kept at 9 tracks and thus not over-facing the listener and with some mighty fine underdog bands on show - the question is - can it be maintained and will people stay motivated - I fuckin' hope so, we need these fine taster CD's and roll on the next one.


A band from Burnley who have been around since the beginning of the century (sounds impressive doesn't it) and who have swapped and changed their line-up over the years and mixed and matched their vibes with a fluent DIY essence.  A consistency has been had, despite the minor upheavals and here we have Sunken Monkey's latest burst, a mere 13 tracks, all awaiting a Fungal shakedown - ooh I should know better!
The curtain rises and 'This Town Ain't Big Enough (For The Both Of Us)' hits us in the cakehole with a safe pulsation that moves into a stabile and consistent flow with trimmings kept tidy and the overflow maintained with certain attention.  The composition is a hybridised self-made effort etched with silky smooth manoeuvres and a fair input of activity with new school etchings made and displayed.  It is a very consistent opening with the band seemingly thoroughly at ease despite the bitterness spilled via the lyrics - a quite decent commencement.  'That's What She Said' pursues with similarity at the helm and danger kept to a minimum but with the staggered discomfort of the chorus the most ardent seekers of angularity will find possible interest in.  The overall flow is plodded with the defiling chorus breaking up any liquidity and forcing one to rethink any overall opinion made.  Drums batter beat in parts, the guitars mix up the blend, the gob at the front keeps controlled - I think this is a fair rattle off but I remain unsure of my verdict - maybe a payment or two could help clarify things a little more (worth a try don't ya think).  'Don't Dodge A Game Of Dares' is the most sanguine, assuming and authoritative piece thus far with the band thoroughly in command of our attention from the first twinge and twang seizures through the breeze blown verses and gallant sub-choruses.  The whole percussive impact is relentless throughout and the genuine hefty gravity the song has is by far and away the most impressive thus far.  Volume and appreciation of the back hollers will heighten the listening experience - a very substantial contribution.
'O To Pissed (In 60 Seconds)' is a swifter number and a tale of speedy binge drinking with all hands at the helm and travelling fast with a need no doubt to get the job done and head for the bar.  In truth it is a theme flogged to buggery and one I can still appreciate due to my fondness for a healthy blow-out.  The song zips along, offers no new flavours, doesn't really need to and delivers a fair account of itself with a well scuttled honesty and loutish approach. Again the band keep it tidy, refrain from an immersion into an alcho-fuelled bout of blitzing madness - decent enough.  'Party Scars' are revealed next via a meaner and leaner tune that sticks to the mid-paced undulations and relies on a texturisation rather than a mug smacking assault.  The verses are low wired, sparsely fed, of an ascending style that move from a drip to a flow with attentive ease.  The song is a casual effort with just enough power chuggery to make the grade - again the band reveal much to ponder further.  'Too Old For This Shit (Riggs)' starts life as a rough diamond with enough shine peeking through and plenty of tidy affect shown.  We have more stop/start engineering, an assortment of tones and an overspill of realisation that time has passed and things aren't what they used to be.  A bit of dreamy eyed soppiness is captured and with a distinct feel of days gone by this is a bit too comfortable for me but many will say I am a cunt for that so we will have to agree to disagree - gits.   Not a bad effort though and chased along by the more tribalised and purposeful passage of sound called 'More Beer Than Blood', a semi-capricious affair that seems liable to go off on a tangent at any given moment (just like a bleary eyed sot with many a thread to follow).  A spasmodic chain of events unfolds with fidget levels high and tenacity of tonality undeviating - a good chomping bout for sure.

4 quick flicks of the wrist with sonic assessing spunkage splattered in double quick time.  'Lookin' Ain't Fuckin', is mellow in tone, manly in theme and follows a route rocked along several times over.  One of those that seems a Frankensteinian framework built from cutlets of previous cacophonies - a lustful number that needs a slap on the wrist - you naughty tinkers.  'Red Raw Stump' could well be the result after the previous wankable desires (ooh nasty) but is a song with a tough tirade that adopts a stuttered approach interwoven with a sing-a-long stated chorus which duly freshens the whole offering and raises the bar.  I think the band are over whipping a few themes at the mo and although highly delightful there is a threat of too much of the same sneaking in here - watch your step lads.  'After All' is a concrete bout of confident musicianship with a coffee table appeal that will have many less ardent spiky tops and casual passersby nodding their heads to the rhythm.  No straying into perilous boundaries, no wandering into a wilderness of unpredictability  - just a well delivered  session with slight metalised elements creeping alongside the overall hygienic output.  'Pissing In The Wind' is the last of the quick quartet with a disgruntled edge and ruffling of the feathers done with a more commanding, vehement approach that snatches at our aural drums and makes them listen up and take heed.  Coherence and production values are in keeping with all that has transpired, dependability on the musicians is easily had and bears fruit with another well rated track pounded in our direction.

Last two and 'Never Look Back' is sage, agreeable advice with the opening bars of light and fluffy stringwork  unsurprising and the inner throb par for the course - like I say, watch yer steps lads.  Shuffle, breathe, holler - repeat - the formula is scripted, well worn and only just convincing at this late stage but the band deliver with good heartfelt spirit and have those chorus cuts that are so simple but get an effective job done.   The bass break dissects and leads into a section where the band can toss off a little - nowt wrong with that.  The final wind down is done with aplomb and into the finale of 'Til' Death Do US Party' we go, a song I expect to be a rip roaring fiasco that full stops with effervescing tempo.  Wrong!   What we get is a 1 minute 57 second bout of defiant acoustica that skips on pride, honesty and inner flame dedication.  A track for the ones in the mood to rock on, one for those who wanna cuddle up and contemplate what has been and what will be.  It is a typical 6 wired wander and signs off the whole CD in sanguine style with rough edges nicely glided through.

Overall this band have talent, can compose a good tune and deliver it with comfort.  The CD under scrutiny is of a fine standard and leaves little room for complaint with my only two concerns being it may be 3 or 4 tracks too long and the variation of song structure is quite limited.  I hope this review encourages a further stretching of the wings and the band fulfil their potential but, in the meantime, this will more than suffice.



The second release from this Midlands based DIY (Orchestrated Dystopia) label that keeps it short, to the point and, as a result, perfectly effective. A veritable titbit for the salivating Underdogs out there who can't get enough of the overlooked noise and believe that the best racket making is going on below that scum laden upper surface. After the first 9 band belter I was chomping for more and I was given this octet of acoustica to chew on - give the Fungal dog a bone and he'll do his bit - seems the only way.

We open with Picasso Blot and their 'Desperate Cry', an oscillating piece of tension that begins with restraint before letting rip and savaging the soundscape with repeat thrash attacks that are only saved by an inner switch off that gives time for contemplation. The tribal ponder is surrounded by a barrage of holler soaked clamour and it isn't soon before we collapse to the final exhausted strum - and much needed it is - nice. Slightly less diseased is the chasing 'We're Not Satisfied' by the powerful Clayface, a band who ram pack their modernised approach with old school elements and so make for a weighty mix. Detonation points are frequent, an underlying threat apparent and a wholesome DIY end production that keeps this from being over indulgent and too greasy for its own good. A hectic song done in swift time which always emboldens the impact - 2 decent dits to start. Wolf Bites Boy come next, a band who do it 'live' and obviously do it on CD with this rhythm soaked coruscation emblazoned with good ring craft and noisy knowledge. The vocals are hard fought, the clashing instruments are in sync and the overall melody is just what the doctor ordered at this stage and nicely moves this tasty collection along with subtle assortment. No such subtlety is had next as Battery Humans go down the full hardcore route with throat tearing violence aplenty and heavy duty weaponry battering the fuck out of the receptors. A head down, knuckledust fuck over with the beating given unapologetic and of the most wound up kind. Once started there is no turning back and once more the CD takes an applaudable twist to savour - ooomph.

The hardcore theme continues but with more flamboyance via the crafted and craving hands of Dischord, a band I hold in high esteem and one who kick and flail with artistic spontaneity and fidgeting, spasmodic unpredictability. This piece is an anarchic working with no guarantee of what may come next. The passion poured into ‘Three Chords’ is consistent, the smash and grab mania, the overall desire and the intent to tear up any rhythmic rules is utterly wondrous and Dischord still get the Fungal vote. Viki Vortex and the Cumshots squirt out ‘Window Shopping’ a tuneful piece that rallies against consumerism and makes fun whilst bobbing along on a wave of creamy fun that has a message that it keeps plain, simple and chipper. The bass line weaves, the strings invade, the drums rustle, the she tonsils hold fort and screech off in various directions – a very likeable titbit.

2 left and the riffery excellence of ‘Cake’ by Benefit State is a real admirable chug out that prods its finger at some fat glutton with an addiction to the cocaine of the confectionary world where a realm of comforting escapism can be had all at the expense of your physique. In this ever increasing fat fuck society the song has more relevance than perhaps deemed and it is a real stodgy piece of sonica many will like to nibble on – a quite satisfy serving for sure…and, as in the words of the Dickensian chap ‘More please’. Foxpunch bring the curtain down to this 8 track journey with the angularity of ‘Days Gone By’ a barbecued piece that shit stains the walls of noise with discomforting urgency and switch and swap awkwardness that may not sit well in many a listeners lap. The precipice that surrounds the pit of piss is walked along, the crew waver, threaten to fall but just hang on and by hook, crook or sheer luck. The early morn crows await a feast but this sub-skanky upchuck is too smart for that and it is the underpinning anger that keeps it swift and to the point thus avoiding a dangerous dawdler.

Again the label comes up trumps with a mix that showcases just what quality is out there. I have no need to praise for the sake of it and feel no need to push this down ya throats – if you like compilations that don’t fuck around and get on with proceedings then you’ll know what to do here. Just don’t hang about – these are limited editions tha' knows.
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