A definite streak of old school innocence runs through this release with The Transitions keeping things melodic and fairly spartan with all players highly exposed and easily praised or razed. Hailing from Melbourne, Australia this crew pour in an obvious mix of post-punk nuances and despite being around since 2012 this is their first release. What we get within the weave is a band who are almost blatantly searching for a niche whilst they ply this often overlooked scrubbed down generic shit - I like the transparency and in I go wondering what to truly make of these familiar proceedings.

'Waiting For The Man' is a chilled song with a devout detachment donated from the lead gobbage that should deter but instead draws one in with intriguing magnetism. The pace is middling and the whole delivery is built on casual and crisp guitar strums, stabilising sticks and a firm cable rumble from the bass. The whole song contains a certain authority, a veritable sub-demand on your attentive sensors and has a real inner strength to admire. This commanding approach and inner episode of repeat beat threat is what gives the song character and as a result a rewarding accent - a good, robust start with grabbing desperation. 'Shouting At Silence' is an expulsion of frustrated tension pushed along on wheels of scuzzy guitar, buzzing bassism and structuring stickwork. The songs moves with ease but has moments that cough and splutter and so hinder the smoothness and create a little ill favour with this pernickety reviewer. Despite these sticky intrusions the song is kept somewhat minimal and yet given impact by the clarity between each component. The fact that it compliments the opening gambit is an added bonus and all in all these 2 A-side representatives get the job done.

Flipping over and Side B greets us with the rebellious entitled 'Live Fast, Die Young', a song that oozes punked noncompliant disobedience with that self destructive chant out very ensnaring especially to the younger and more wayward eavesdroppers. The slagged vocal offering has many carefree edges, works marvellously alongside the old school vibrology that will surely embrace a whole range of admirers who like a more dangerously ruinous slant to the sonic fodder. 'No More Yesterday' closes proceedings with a greater texturisation and a more emboldened stride in the steps. Still an avoidance of pace is the decision but the band make up for it with an assured approach that knows its target and goes for it with blinkered focus. The icy vocal mode persists, a shimmery sequence invades, the progress made is steady and one still can't help but enjoy this rather starved sonic style that has garaged and retro'ed streaks copulating incessantly and creating many moments to mull over - nice enough if you ask me.

The Transitions have their own style, deliver their tuned brand with a multitude of suggestive flavours and are instantly recognisable mainly due to the much-mentioned oral lilt. Now the question is, can they vary things enough on future ventures to maintain favour or are they borne with only one trick up their sleeves? At this stage who cares, this is a fine 4 tracker and is a great alternative to many modes of melody ear is on the future, keep on yer toes.



No need to introduce the gothically punked band we have here but special need to make note of how the band progressed and moved away from their initial rawness and came up with many a fine sound that displayed delightful intelligence and musical nouse. Here we have the bands 11th and final studio album which came in for a bit of criticism from those stuck in a fishbowl of expectation and not allowing for a band to continue, experiment and stretch outward. Don't misunderstand me, all the criticism wasn't bad and many more famed journalists did give it a very positive thumbs up. Just to add before I delve deeper that many of the tracks were produced by John Cale, this is the 2014 re-mastered re-isssue and done as requested by Prescription Press.

In we go with 'O Baby' scratchily shuffling the sonic surface before offering a classy champagne sparkle that is sensuously swirled by the oral gifts of our lead lady. A sub-calypsotic sunshine twinkle is maintained, the slip from verse to blended chorus is pillow gentle, the inner release of emotive essences gratifying and this cheerful loved up opener is a delight. The follow up to this soft starter is the brilliantly innocent sounding ballad known as 'Tearing Apart', a simply beautiful composition that advertises Soiuxsie's range of oral utterances with moments from child-like fragility, through pleading bouts of anguish and dream-like wonder to more sanguine bursts of androgynous focus - it is all there, blatant, unadulterated and most sincerely effective. The backdrop of plucked heartstrings is sublime and clashes with the lead gob work in a quite ideal way with extra overlays building to an uplifting climax. The best song of the entire CD for me and one of the bands most exemplary moments.

'Stargazer' has multicultural elements that re-emphasises the bands restless and ever-seeking acoustic outlook. The maelstrom of sound here has a further texturised impetus with a complete fluidity and drifting naturalness. Borne from clouded landscapes where mists are blown aside and spangled attire is brandished by dancing dreamers who are entranced by the whole outpouring. The song has a dominant underscore, an inner strength that insists, a low-lying power that persuades and despite the floated upper refinery do not underestimate the snagging abilities of this applaudable effort. 'Fall From Grace' is mystical, merging and sub erotic with sand blown forms rising from sun kissed deserts in an abundance of humbled poses. The blanket of sound is ruffled with semi-sensual intent, an inner break reaches a refined and well saturated zenith and Soiuxsie's vocal imprint is writhing within the whole soft swirl of sound - a gratifying moment. 'Not Forgotten' opens with 'King Rockerised' skin work before mechanically solarising the soundscape with ghostly thermals and ominous overtones. A primeval death cadence is wailed out over a landscape of pre-apocalyptic threat and the promise of warfare is soon granted as the colliding weapons of tonality clash and thunder amid an orgasmic down pour of androgynous excitement. The darkness that claws through the billowing fabric eventually wins the day and we are left in disarray as the song folds in on its suicidal self.

'Sick Child' murmurs, flickers with life, sparkles with inner hope. A floating phantasmagoria of fever induced imagery is offered via a slow montage of many musical inclusions with shimmering forms coming to the fore in equal abundance as similar visions fade into the background. The Banshees signature angularity and multi-national aromas are all there to be enjoyed and this is quite a sturdy song not to be overlooked. Next up and a jaunty bout of seemingly submissive she teasing via 'The Lonely One', a positive bout of daydream believing done in ideal settings borne a million miles away from reality. A funny little track this that has much life, much tweaking and twanging of the nipples of noise that leaves me flustered rather than relieved. I find the drift perfectly mixed but the route taken a trifle uncertain with the meandering effect leaving the mind slightly confounded. I move on rather than wallow out of my chosen depth and try to find better rewards from the chasing chunk. 'Falling Down' is a spasmodic number like an electric eel re-wired and sparking its own arse in unregulated fashion. A real agitated piece of multi-functional gizmos all colliding and clashing for attention it seems whilst the lead lass tries to gain some semblance of order with howlings slightly more orthodox. The band still find time to intertwine the worldwide flavours that are so apparent in all that transpires and this one, although a fidgety flutterer of fuckeroonoid dabbling gets my nod of appreciation.

4 quickies for ya now. 'Forever' races by and leaves a splash of waterfall diamonds whilst continuing on with a steady downpour. A mood laden piece one needs to adjust to or miss out on the acquired taste. Flat-lined in the main and one of those occasional pieces to dabble with only now and again. 'The Rapture', title track, a self indulgent bout of dabbling that scratches its arse for too long, weaves around in the most mundane fashion and really gets on my old thre'penny bits. A morose episode that is overstretched and not containing enough counter punching contrast - just really not my thing although some of the artistry isn't wasted and if you have untold patience then you will find small snippets of salvation. Overall though - horrible stuff for the Fungalised lugs. 'The Double Life' is a snaking ascension that slides on its sonic belly with hypnotic grace and sexual threat. The anticipation of something orgasmic is had but the end thrill never meets the expectations. The saturation of sound is gratifying though, the mystical inclusions intriguing so a split decision is reached. It isn't the most exciting song but has an experimental edge that gives promise of areas untouched. The last of the rapido four is 'Love Out Me', a tempestuous bout of troubled anxiety with an elevated degree of electro impulses and tumble crumble effect. The lead vocals float through the stressed potential of wreckage and fly loose amid the advancing warzone. Take time, adjust, pick up on the power - not as bad as one first deems it to be.

I like the feel of 'New Skin', so fresh and revitalising at this late stage with a casual aplomb wafting through the chipper tones that flutterwing their way within verdant vines of vibrology. There is a low application of guitar with skanked skips offered whilst the bass cements matters with a good rhythmic route taken. Skins are tip-tapped with effervescing effect and overall we have an upbeat episode to swing with. 'FGM' is a harsh mechanism that tribally hotfoots it with hard toiled perspiration seemingly dripping from the automated players flesh. An absorbing escapade of wanked up machinery on the cusp of mode 'haywire'. You feel that this is an 'in sub-scene' bout of dance-along hypnotica designed to keep the camaraderie for those in the know, solid. A tub thump with big chief overtones and aromas of yesteryear - it has its merits despite the primitive overlay. We shut down harshly and enter the final song which is called 'New Skin', again, this time an effort that starts with coruscated effect and then pupates into a elevated free flown bout of liberation that exudes a new found belief, a new found glory that promises much. Ideal for a mean and determined, recently heart broken victim of a fractured relationship - yeah 'kick out the trash' and move on, keep all positivity at the helm and sail sincerely with wounds healed and brow furrowed for the fight. The song does grind out its own innards a little too long and rather than punctuate with a finalising flourish it ponses about and loses some necessary impact. A shame indeed.

And that is that, the first of 4 Banshees albums I have been asked to review with thoughts on this one of a mixed bag of sub-experimentation with some serious zeniths reached and one of two personal nadirs had down to nothing more than individual taste. Overall the album is sweetly produced, highlights the bands tinkering and talented nature and captures the ever-searching punk desires which refuse to settle in one place and flog out the same old routine. A rewarding album indeed and one to embrace the needs of many a music lover.


I have just reviewed this lots album, it gave me much to ponder and of course, bop around too. Here is a quick overview of the bands latest single, oooh just 2 tracks, a real taster indeed. Extra info for you is that this is a 4-piece, 1 girl, 3 boys (oooh naughty), they are on a good roll, make an effort in looking the part and looking unified with androgyny playing a major role and they come from Immingham, nr Grimsby - how’s that?

Side A and 'Get Outta Your Head' a song I have reviewed recently but am happy to do so again without looking at my previous wordage for sway. The song opens with gently attending guitars that melt away beneath a tribal tub thump that has a determination not to be dabbled with. The gob has a thirst and seems to be leading us somewhere special - my Fungal streak keeps me sceptical. I need not be so pessimistic as the all consuming repeat thrust fuck of the chorus is a sub-garaged Utopia with a complete saturated shout out lunging at you, grabbing you by the collar and getting you utterly involved. The passion and zeal ascends forthwith and this triumphant song never looks back with all involved becoming more and more fervent and insisting you all aim for some finalising oblivion. A cracking song with solid 'A' side status.

The B-side harks to times of yore in several ways with a cover of Del Shannon's gem 'Runaway' done in snotted, souped up, fun filled style with a real zipping appetite shown throughout and an ensnaring whizzed along vibe to just indulge in. No sub-textual bullshit, no politico-irritation and a complete lack of scrubbed up insincerity - no, just a good wholesome rock out with a riffed melody to lose yourself in. The vocal style has elements of Dickie-oid frivolity, the scarred soundscape is nicely neglected (for all the right reasons) and what we get is a superb unwashed fuck that reeks to buggery. An ideal partner to its flipped comrade.

2 songs, both highlighting a band on the up - and I am thrilled. The Ming City Rockers have a certain something that one just feels within the melodic marrow and I am hoping that the band play their cards exactly right and grab the knackers of chance and swallow all the resultant seeds on offer without offering their asses to the devils. Suck on and see I reckon is the message here - oooh errrr!


An off shoot of the Virgin label Front Line Records came and went within the space of nearly 2 years (78-79) and blasted out over forty albums before coming to an abrupt end. A full 5 set box collection is now available and here is a sampler I was asked to review so as to give you a flavour of what to expect. I welcome the variation of some highly esteemed operators within this generic gene pool of noise and do my thing as per.

The Mighty Diamonds open with the harmonised, bass bubbling 'Right Time' a totally laid back crawl that is typical of this trio who started out in 1969 from Trenchtown, an area in Kingston, Jamaica. The initial belly rumble soon calms down and we saunter down a switched off avenue that seems tuned out but is, believe me, accurately tuned in. The accented gobbage, the lyrical content that quotes the bible and the political inspiration Marcus Garvey, the underlying prophesy and the irresistible movement make this typical Rasta rockin' rhythm and opens up this taster with aplomb. Next up and U Roy (aka Ewart Beckford) and his toasted cruise known as 'Natty Rebel', a song that adopts a 'riddim', floats with crucial care and streetwise earthiness that is totally exact for the sub-generic circle. The guy deejays amid the dub-esque treacle of tones and operates splendidly within a self-made melding pot of molten melody. The semi conversant style works well against the upstroked background with drums and bass moving around the framework of the guitar in almost ad lib style - marvellous.

The Gladiators offer up an absolute marvel next with 'Chatty, Chatty Man' loaded with religious suggestions and Jah provoked passion that has such a positive emmitance of self-assured belief - you cannot wish for anything better. The Jamaican reggae roots band who achieved greatest prominence during the 1970's are nailing a classic here that drips with purity and such delicate solidity. The vocals and ushered backing harmonies are mouth-wateringly delightful and the tangible faith that invades our souls with persuasive acoustic osmosis is unreal - a stunner. Poet and the Roots next and the sleek and smoky classy threat branded as 'Dread Beat An' Blood', a real dark number loaded with danger and ominous intention with an almost voodoo-esque warrior overspill that comes from shaded corners, sable doorways, abyss-like alleyways. A dread drenched number that is sub-improv, utterly off the cuff and natural - a cutlet to chew on for a goodly while. 'Free Africa' by The Twinkle Brothers (namely Norman and Ralston Grant) is a thoroughly indigenous old-school piece with strains of calypso weighted up with gutsy bass and melodicised with keyed delicacies and soft reggae driftings. A wailing plea, an encouraging tympanic temperament that remains subtly busy and a charming cadence give this sweet tune an air of unflustered complexity which, in itself, remains a paradox but seems to sum up the vibe most adequately.

We alter the tonality and generic restrictions with subtle sensitivity to the collection as a whole with the slightly more skankoid flavouring of 'Cairo' poured into mix by the lucid warmth of Joyella Blade. This is a real conglomerate of sonic shadings with 2 tones blending with synthoid suggestions and more commercialised sub-pop elements thus creating a very listenable piece of product that reeks of class and, surprisingly, purity. The front oral output is shadowed by deep utterances that give an almost unnoticed strength during the chorus chunks - sublime baby. Tapper Zukie next and the sacred croon and Pied Piper slant called 'Oh Lord', a staggering tune built on finger picked bass notes and sub-rappoid ad-lib wordage that takes some adjusting to. The lack of liquidity, the unpredictability of what may spill from the mouth next and the general discomfort within the tune makes this a tester that really doesn't get under my skin for all the right reasons. One, I feel, for the truly involved, the totally immersed and the in-scene fanatics - I may be keen but I can't like everything. Onwards with pace I think. The familiar tones of The Abyssinians next and the super softness of the love lilt 'Hey You', a declaration of attachments severed and a stand alone stance taken with emotions spilt via a commercial slop of heart exposing slushiness. The song has good vibes, a thoroughly attained acoustic emotion and trimmings of all the more sloppier generic sensations but I am afraid that this is not for me and despite several spins and appreciation of the target aimed for I find it a song that will not be a serial rotator on my tried and tested turntable.

'The Upful One' follows with its chipper key tinkle and jazzy throat tumble that takes us into a superb brass and tympanised round of gentle roaming with guitars minimal and drums equally sparse. This is exact produce from Big Youth and outlines the fact that power scuzz is not the only answer to a sonic punks needs.  This relaxed and smiling song is an example to all those seeking alternative spillage to listen up and absorb. Doctor Alimantado chases with a lengthy slitherer known as 'Slavery, Let It Go', a panging and wailing number that has a sultry feel despite the title of the song. The tones that come are all creamy smooth with no rough edges in aural distance and the vocal immersion is complete as our lead crooner seems to be at one with every delicate note issued. The sagacity and insight from brutal times past eases forth and adds a stark reality to the song with liberation the key focus.

'Althea and Donna' rank it up with the subtly spirited account known as 'Going To Negril', a real wise ass street rhythm that has a distinct style you may recognise from their more obvious hit that went to No 1 in the charts back in 1977. A duo delivery with brass and funky bass undulations providing the greater part of the back drop upon which these two chipper lasses can do their thang 'ma'an. There is a real freshness and uncomplicated honesty about this song and it lacks any pretentious affect and makes for a very uplifting sensation - I, of course, like that! Gregory Isaacs lilts, serenades amid verdant tendrils of tonality with a pleading passion that is utterly absorbing via the charmer known as 'Soon Forward'. The solar-kissed donation is sub-calypsoed and has a sand walking freedom only artistes like this can create. A sexual sweetness has gossamer flimsiness, a keen ear for the most tender acoustic accoutrements is clearly had and this barely touched offering has an impact seemingly borne from nowhere - how do they do it? I move on with a smile and am at perfect ease whilst being greeted by 'Can't Study The Rastaman' by Culture, a slipper footed amble that holds no stress, keeps the limbs loose and swinging with the accented lead vocals backed by honey harmonies, punctuated by brass intrusions and just tickled in the rear by oh so simple adornments of sparkling lusciousness - you should know the score by now - what a fine old tasty CD.

An instrumental next, a penultimate piece that takes us to the finale with all guns switched off and all pipes of peace blazing - just how it should be. 'Bone Dub' is just that and delivered from the insightful hands of Jah Lloyd The Black Lion. Despite the attractive flow this isn't populist fodder and has a deep-rooted underlay of exact in-scene feeling with sharp ears well and truly zoned in. Switch off but stay wired in, you may just miss the point. We close proceedings with 'Prince Fari' and the well funked juiciness of 'Throw Away A Gun'. The call for an end to war and trouble, the desire to have some peace and fun is captured in a cool and meaty mellow out, pushed into your receptors with firm persuasion without being overly testing and wonderfully escorted into your aural airspace with natural improv know how - slap yer wang to this dudes and dudettes, stop all this hate and conflict.

That is it, a short taster for what is a full set of old releases from the Frontline production line. John Lydon adds notes to the full release and has his usually forthright say, should that make a difference? Not really, but it seems he has a good ear for tonality so have a taste and then swallow a fuckin' huge gutful and stop sonically starving on the same old shit.


The opening spillage from new dudes on the block known as Red Lucy. Hailing from New York the band offer this DIY recording which was done in a bedroom/live session in a 3 storey house with emphasis laid on a honest and 'this is what we are approach'. The band chuck in varied flavours such as punk, surf, garage, grunge and other such underground vibes. The attitude is to make earthy noise filled with a 90's punk attitude and with a laid back bong loading mentality it seems - now this sounds intriguing. The spliff of sound is lit, now it is time to take a few critical draws - oh man.

The first flavour to be inhaled is scrawled as 'Crucify Me', a song with a rusted tin can approach and a blasted smokiness that invades each chug, pollutes each oral utterance and makes this a quite fouled up crawl along built on strained guts and equally stretched unease that pervades all aspects and makes for a quite uneven and coruscated wall of sound. The essence is unwashed, the flavour harsh, the ones intrigued will be connoisseurs, the DIY sniffers and the encouragers of natural flow and hungry chompers like yours truly. Not the most free flowing track but a mere scene setter. 'Hit Me With Everything' clogs the aural lungs with a toxic intake of creeping filth loaded with homemade dustiness and unaffected hands-on attention. The song threatens to collapse at any time and after a semi-crippled stretch we finally crumble in a heap only to rise from the lifeless ashes and be taken on a surging track that shadow echoes, finds more focus and counterpunches the opening segment. The plod is re-adopted, clotting and infection comes and what we are left with is a discombobulating discordance found on deaths door and awaiting a final kick in the non-too rhythmic ribs - bear with me, judgement is withheld as I examine the track further and as part of this whole dismembered offering. 

'Wearing An Apron' is initially more sonically scant in its approach before moving into a semi-terraced gob off that alternates proceedings quite nicely. The loose and skimpy guitar cutlets, the choppy undulations and the overall cruddy style may, in some instances, nauseate the eavesdropper, in others (those who like things puked up without expectation and arrogance) will appreciate the stench. The negligence of piss arse sonic posturing and the desire to keep all things warted is noted and Fungal, despite the many who say they know better, gives this one a firm nod - so fuck ya. 'Never Coming Back' is disillusioned and almost detached with an opening sequence ready to give in and let it all fall apart. A tightness of the tonality comes and we have a scarring terror interrupting the disconnected style - a subtle mix. A time to fight back is pondered, emotive wirework is contemplative and we take a brief pause to summon up some inner fire. Oral flames reach high, lick the rear of lethargy, feed themselves with a petrol of passion which smoulders away and destroys all that has gone before. A final roar finishes the job and what we are left with is a good residue of alternating rhythm that radiates decent thermals.

'Wristwatch Switchblade' haunts, shimmers, lurks - what damned bastard of malevolent music awaits? A crushing step comes forth, a bleak shadowed foot smashes all in its path, rocks the rafters with a deliberate slo-mo push. Our rickety resistances fights back, refuse to be overwhelmed by the sable presence that desires our very soul - it may be a lost cause. Glimpses of light are ahead when moments of consideration are had but destruction of the senses is never far away as an irrefusable thrust of treacled tonality is slopped onto aural sensors. This is flagitious, nefarious noise laden with velvet voids in which to get crushed. Absence of melody, presence of sludgery - this is hard work but has a weight that we need to take into consideration. Compare with its predecessor and with the chaser and many meritous aspects can be had, as a stand alone however it is a darn difficult listening experience. All I can be is honest!

The blatant accuracy of 'Nothing In The World Is Free' comes as an opposing pleasure and makes scuttling advancement on multi-corroded areas before chopping up the slipstream and then burrowing away into the senses with a meat flung horror style that operates from grimy vaults where purist DIY-ism is cultivated. The perceptible realism, the feculent murk, the ragged warrior delivery all make for a concoction that is far from attractive but one that needs replaying several times over to truly appreciate - not bad shit at all. My most preferred track of the lot is enslaved with the moniker of 'What A Mug' a real counterpunching construct basically built on twanging melodica and driving force riffage that finds a sonic equilibrium and nails it with all outpouring ethics and flavours kept in tact. The blasted heath guitar sequences, the bi-flick of the wires, the terraced chant gob offs and the whole patchwork uniformity make this a solid song that pushes the band into new areas. It may in fact be the most orthodox piece but sometimes that is the only way no matter how you view it. A good episode this and followed by the closing plod of 'Subhuman', a degenerate sound with a similarity had with a bubbling quagmire that may seem harmless but which can, once a hold is taken, suck in your veritable entirety. Commune-ised, unhurried, almost a dirge - this almost malevolent kickback is a sobering punctuation mark at the end of a quite stirring CD that has many facets to contemplate.

The review is done, the result, for me at least, is of a band saturated with a DIY ethic and tentatively reaching out and probing varied acoustic angles. There is more to come from this lot, who knows what form it will take, but it will be strictly within the bands beliefs and as real as you like. This initial produce that has invaded the underdog lugs of Fungal has been well received and I ponder the future with high anticipation.


Formed originally in 1978 and hailing from the Isle of Sheppey this lot play traditional punkage that is built on nothing more than energy, anger and determination. Many vibes that seep in have all been heard before but, as should be the most crucial aspect of making this sub-generic racket, the attitude that spills over is what should be of utmost importance. The whole scene is awash with wanked off bands who have shot their bolt and are going round and round in circles playing to the senseless herds who have nothing to say and nothing that they want to particularly hear - only the same old shit. I don't hold back if I find spirit lacking, I will be fair as the music goes and will come up with an end verdict as honest as the day is long - you have been warned, the certificate as per is X and if your stomach is weak you may want to fuck right off…now!.

The whelp of silence is jerked, the first globule of yellowing sonic spunkage to splat on the lap of the listener is the gruff and heavily molested 'Mental', a song of robust upfront stature with a primitive punked streak raging through and grabbing your attentive knackers. The song has an indispensable raw, angry and 'fuck you' edge with the band creating something without originality but with much inherent honesty that saturated spikers will not be able to resist. This is one of those moments when something externally tells you that you should know better but that inner spirit insists you just fuckin' have it and enjoy. Again I feel it important to re-emphasise that if this produce was pissed forth back in the so-called day it would have been absolutely lapped up by the raw hungry dogs on the street and yet today gets sniffed at by those oh so self appointed progressive punks and those new school techno twats who think they have more credibility because they are more clued in with their instruments. Look, it is all noise and if it has a good rhythm, a good spirit and some real passion then what more do you want - up yours, this is a decent bog brush start and certainly cleans out my clogged sonic shitter. 'Lazy Hacks' goes at it with crust down, peepers looking ahead and those musical limbs speeding away on volcanic bassism and shit streaked guitar whilst slap ass drums redden the output and enhance the flash light desire. The gob at the fore is gravelled and highly diseased and despite this being an undistinguished tune it is still tolerable due to its diseased temper. Not great but 'Last Night Out' is more like it and is a more substantial affair with sinews pulled taut, muscles flexed to fuck and eyes bulging with brain blistering desire. One can feel the animated frenzy within the weave and the ungarnished recipe is highly rewarding to anyone with a thriving palate. The chunks of nutritious noise offered are laden with hard endeavour and what we get here is a good wholesome gutful of dinnage to digest many times over. Next, and a 4 count, a good old clatter and a kickback against the sable monster that invades the mind and blocks out the sun of positivity. The bass here snakes around with a searching eagerness, the skins and cymbals are knocked about with delectable ardour and the six strung asp spits out the rhythm with necessity whilst that front cunt rips it up and screams out with 'Depression' the last emotion on our minds. That tendency to fuck it all is cultivated through a darn decent upchuck and my advice with this one is to leap in headfirst and forget every stress and strain that comes your way – why the fuck not?

'Brezhnevs To You' is a well-bolted piece with all components tight and sturdy. No change in the style, more boisterous bother bollocks that inflate with the abundant sonic spunk found within the general sac of disgruntlement. A short hammer blow to the head, no frills, few skills - just a thump in the goolies and into the follow up. 'Wake Up! Get Up! Play Up!' is a rousing grenade that detonates your manic side and insists that you let your anger fly free and make yourself known. The initial twist gets beneath the skin, the pursuing throb creates direction, the lyrical forcefulness kicks out all lethargy - are you ready to fly in the face of your oppressors? Well you fuckin' well should be? This ebullient overspill of cock solidity has a good rampaging ethos and hopefully results in unsettling consequences - noise isn't a fuckin' game tha' knows. Crackin' moment and one built, yet again, on the most fundamental tones and red raw lust - sometimes that is all that is needed.

'Got It All Wrong' is to the point, churns up its own guts, tirades with sordid shades, spouts off from a rickety platform built on spit, shit and bollocks and all finalised with a Crassite statement twisted into a finger poke at the apathy out there within these septic shores. Bog standard stuff but listenable and followed by the more effective 'Hate (Police State)', a charged up song that seems destined to lose control via the livid opening puke ups. Disgruntlement rules the roost here with a hefty whack of temper thrown into our faces. The restraint is too much to bear,  the toned strait jacket is shredded via a maniacal tear up that sees the band almost lost their minds. The song crashes into oblivion which paves the way for the exciting bass intro of 'Lets Build A Factory', a vicious paced up chug out with the sword of fury brandished with the usual irritation and cutting intent. The Committed have many bugbears on their chest and froth up the sonic scene with tempestuous savagery borne from natural rage. The songs are flying by, numerous points are made, much therapy is had, an abundance of provocation spilled. Again this is quick and without fuss, just like the chasing 'Whose War', a questioning gruff grumble with all areas boorish and nicely grouchy - nowt wrong with a blaze in ya belly. There is no change of style here, and to be vulgarly honest, there doesn't need to be, this is nothing more than an unsettled collection of big booted blast-outs with hairy arses bared, wrinkled old knackers dangling and tickers rattling with all out rhythm. Harsh, robust, rockin' and raw - I know some who will fuckin' hate this, I know some who will fuckin' love it - such is the scene.

6 left, would it be fruitless to labour the point? I reckon so!  So get off my back and let me tear ahead, I gotta try and keep up with these insuppressible buggers.

'Losers' is flustered chaos whipped back into a semblance of order within a very austere running time. The slapdash edginess finds the crew taking a fair risk with all output liable to collapse at any given moment. The cloud burst, the rumble of thunder and the gale blown storm all come, saturate and leave a taste of things marvellously overcooked and ornately shabby. I like the crummier side of sound and love this acute eruption. 'Big Pharma' is a steadier offering with a regularity within the construct and a complete lack of tuned trespassing that stays with set bounds and sees the band coasting. What rescues the song is the gruff weight and easily picked up and played style that has a tempo even the fussiest can't complain over. Very commonplace cacophony holding no threat but with a decent message against the pharmaceutical bandits who create and make ‘ad infinatum’ at our expense.

'Free Speech' gets stuck in a loop, chugs up its innards before hightailing its own arse with double quick gusto that sees things get heavily nailed with admirable accuracy. A juggernaut effect is reached for and the band make a good effort to fully capture that melodic methodology with this head bashing blunt instrument of sound. The swift running times work and keep ennui at bay. 'Social Spies' is over in similar time, this time with the foot off the gas and a more moderated mode taken. A crispness combines with the abrasive gobbage and that 'get outta my face' rage is a winning element that will have the lovers of 77 punk salivating - it is what it is - don't except no ground breaking dinnage here. The last 2 slam out with 'Fuck Conscription' being another fast fucker with prolonged tails to each versed statement and a chorus clutter to admire and with 'Fast Lane' a full on punctuating gem that makes me wanna drink big, pogo in a crowd and put my addled head through a door - it seems most apt. A good one two combo that leaves me little else to say and if I added any more and tried to explain what this CD is all about (which you should fuckin' well get by now) then I could be accused of producing to much verbal padding (and we don't want that now do we).

Typical punk (in robust brackets) with all sub-generic criteria met and no outside the box gambles taken - is that enough for ya, well you tell me! Personally I like it all ways (oh baby) and no matter how much diversity of din comes my way I still have a lot of time for spiked shizzle such as this. I know I should perhaps be a trifle more critical in my report but this noisy style of shittery is in my blood and from day one, to the day I die, I will I guess always be infected – hey ho, it ain’t a bad way to be!


Writing reviews is never easy and the intro's are a bit of a bugger sometimes so, when the chance is had to let someone else do it, then why not? The following text came from the band, I thought it wise to copy and paste - 'Ottokraft is an Electro Rock project from the Parisian Indie and Underground scene, formed by William Dark. This three piece band has for members Jeremy T on drums, Stef T on bass and William Dark on keyboards/machines and vocals. Their music is a combination of Traditional Rock and Modern Alternative sounds'. I think that about sums things up, now here go the Fungal Fingers, tapping out the thoughts from the over abused sonic noggin - well who else will do it? You bastards!

From eternal sable silence a pronouncement is made 'The Kraft' makes way for your attention, opens the gateway to a cold and calculated bout of electro articulation where wired intestines sprawl across polished floors and pulse with a regulated activity to arouse your receptors. The message that radiates is of chances lost, opportunities wasted - man is the ultimate culprit, eternally damned within his own idiot confines - the final apocalyptic whitewash is relevant and, may it be brutally said, fuckin' utterly deserved – a choice opener. 'Do It Baby' is automaton lust, programmed sensuality with chrome plated erogenous zones sheened with crystal clear perspiration and mechanoid hormonal essences. The careful positioning of each note, the sincere plea of the vocal victim and oh so slight attention has sensually takes over is exact. From a somewhat tentative start we move into rhythmic realms which flow like sexualised lotions that smooth the groove, aid the slip and slide sensation and push this absorbing song onto more exciting, pleasure drenched plateaus than at first deemed possible. What is most impressive about this second burst is the high clarity levels and the solid precision that has been had in the production room - each key push, every oral expulsion, the entire gathering of musical adornments is bang on the mark and this is undoubtedly a very refined and rewarding moment of electro execution.

'Undergods' is a superb song with a blasting backhand swipe at the eternal abusers and users of Mother Earth with no thought of anything else except...self. The opening unsettlement blossoms into a chopping bout of deliberate energy that plumes upwards with demanding perception and overpowering ardour. The tympanic work connects all corrosive blasts and bounces around with efficient eagerness whilst the fuzzed, buzzed and scuzzed laser lights and acoustic acidity splash the walls of lethargy with sizzling spirit. The multitudinous attack of sparked sonic components hits us with force and makes a quite shuddering impression that keeps this CD in the upper echelons of our attention. Very futuristic and very accomplished - excellent work. 'Greedyfied' rasps with deep resonance before crawling over raped terrain on bloodied, almost defeated hands and knees. Rivers of puke flow against the sonic grain and join up with the general ocean of shit that the human race has passed forth from its overfed, all-consuming gut - the noise presses forward nonetheless and hopes are for some glimpses of salvation. It duly comes, but only after a smart verse that will not be resisted with its kind of granulating insistence and efficient operational style. The finale hits with force, stunner.

'I Am A Mutant' tinkles with innocence before bomb-blasting with culpable menace. All components throb and chug as one whilst the whispering serpent at the helm of all machinations remains almost dictatorial without straining. A confession of mutanoid status comes, a recognition of a complete alienation. Outsiders, external sliders - this is for you, an outside the circle sensation, trying to combat circuited emotions processed by moronic switch flickers. Again a purist composite with much weight and appreciable high definition impact - Ottokraft are zoned in, my applause is a matter of course. 'Fuck You' highlights the discombobulated and disgruntled humanoid circuitry that is responsible for the tuneage and brings to the aural screens visions of a band with a gripe in the gut. The opening buzzomania here blooms with sparking intensity and bone-numbing power that grows along with the impetus and so creates a dragging digitised discordance that you cannot escape. The desire that works with the rhythm is energetic and totally hypnotic with an inner soul alight with passionate need. I like the defiance in the strain of the delivery and the almost poisonous edge that drips from the tongue of resistance - tidy work.

2 left and 'Dirty Looks' trembles with deep vibrology and sleazed leanings before ploughing forth with criss-cross wires fusing the joints and underpinning the more commercialised mouthwork. Sexualised for sure, enslaving and dominating with high heeled efficiency grinding the conviction factor into the dirt. The song moves with liquid erotica over sweat soaked sonic flesh whilst fuck pumping to a deliberate rhythm and now and again reaching zeniths of pleasuredome excellence. Ottokraft are producing the goods here and this is another fine track to admire. Proceedings are full stopped with a doom laden episode that emphasises the fact that the human race has lost its path and become attached to a leash that is borne of greed, ego and idiot need. A call for the basic qualities that can only result in happiness is had and although there is a sampling of hope the apocalyptic finale is surely a suggestion of how everything will end up - in a blinding ascending mushroom of toxic noise - an appropriate closure.

Ottokraft are built on futuristic tones and come with reality and unbiased thinking at the fore. The style of delivery is a clashing mix of that which is heartfelt flesh and that which is cold unemotional steel - when combined with the crew’s artistry it makes for a thrilling experience that is forever on the cusp.


A trio of young gents who blend 60's garage, rhythm and blues before salting with a mod-esque flavour and vinegaring with a spite of psychedelia and surfiness. The band have trawled through past sonic sensations, swirled them around and come up with an output of their own with much room to manoeuvre and venture outwards. The release came to me via Dirty Water Records and yes - I have every right to expect much, the label have many classy releases to their name.

Scrambling in, undergrowth pushed aside and the first sonic shroom to puff its spores my way is named as 'Mr Devil', a very happening, 60's montage of feelgood vibrancy that bounces along on pure musical desire and gyrating dynamics borne from guts awash in this influential scene. The accuracy with which the acoustic walls are left piss stained, the semi-rickety rhythm, the gentle abrasion of sleazed snottiness and the Cuban heel beat all ingratiate this listener and I am fully enthralled. A real deep grooved opener that is well versed in its chosen sonic artistry and delivered quite ideally by these shaded ambassadors - yeah baby! Ghost ride carousel keys next with a jaunt in the jiggery and a monochrome B-movie backwash that all make for a character-clustered absorption known as 'We're Arrogant'. The song is an angularised assortment of tones that don't just sit right but somehow escape in unison with something resembling a song. It is a watershed of almost mismatched aural fabrics but with a little insight, some crafty noised up needlework the band scrape through. Not bad and in keeping with the style but, I expect better.

'Drunk Blues' chops, blows, snots up and peppers the listener with a clued in bout of multifaceted music that has many inspirations primarily borne from the musty vaults of yesteryear. The accentuation of the incessant keys, the veritable let loose and hang low liberation of the vibe and the somewhat slaggish cum loutish sluttery of the trap at the fore all magnetise those primitive instincts to penetrate deeper into the cunt of clattering cacophony. There are many reasons not to like this, there are an equal many facets that win your favour and I believe, that in the main, the latter aspect will win the day - pure absorbed generic shizzle to drown in. 'It's An Experience' lowers the heat, shuffles with a funkoid thermality that shakes off a constipated strain and pebbledashes with much effort. A sub-sinister rivulet of rhythm trickles down the main walls of tonality whilst all crashes and clashes blend in a garish shit splat of involving obsession. We are on a purist jaunt, with apologies absent and utter immersion the order of the day - the question is, can you take it? Individually the song works but how would it fare as part of a long, drawn out album - maybe a little too much I reckon but for now the thumbs get raised, albeit a little tentatively.

The CD here is an acquired taste and will be flying over and under the general rhythmic radars of the many. No doubt though, the ones in this specific tunnel of toneage will absolutely love this generic output and be seen dancing away beneath the psychedelic lights and getting their noise fix over and over again. I don't mind an injection of this melodic drug now and again and when in the genuine mood can really flow with the vibe man - why not, when in the zone then anything should go!


Rash Decision speedburst inwards from a corner of this septic island where pasties dictate and tin mines are used by black-eyed pixies - well so the drugs tell me. These Cornish cunts of clatter nail it hard and offer up a dark density of sound that has only one purpose - to turn your brain to diarrhoea. This could end up a very messy listen so I block up my nasal passages and await the cerebral shite to drip from my lugs - anything less than an aural raping and I shall sue for lack of damages - no pressure like!  I apologise in advance for the wayward sexual leanings – ooh me arse!

I await the first penetrative thrust, it comes my way via 'M. R. C. C.' a knuckleduster piece that at first follows almost a procedure drenched with orthodox normality with regular rocked up H/C riffage the order of the day. The tonsil work comes and is inflamed and adequately barbecued, a certain nettling of the enthusiasm is had, a brief respite and the songs finds its true impetus - ferocity borne from ill will and utter disgust. Rash Decision are in their element here and this sudden increase in bestial rage is, more than likely set to continue. I, for one, fuckin' well hope so. A solid scene setter with the larynx sweetly warmed up. Welcome to the flames of fury. 'Boredom' segues in, soon stamps itself down as a raw rectal ripper from Hades that shreds the sonic sphincter with blinding bomb blasts of brutal incessancy. The stick work is possessed, the guitars utterly unified and focussed to grim fuckery whilst the lead tongue lashing come from a blackened orifice seared by external annoyances. 1 minute 24 seconds is the running time, which, as I often repeat, is ideal for the unapologetic sonic warmongering - the impact is choice, Rash Decision are more than masters at their art form and 2 tracks in and I am thoroughly absorbed - massive.

'The Cost Of My Pride' toothaches, spitefully toys with the nerve endings before grabbing the real cause of the problem and yanking it free with demonic vindictiveness and all powerful intention. The head is shocked into attention, left rattled and in a state beyond repair. 'Sea Biscuit' gallops up next, is lashed with razored whips and given a metallic beating second to none. Lyrically basic and unhinged, schizophrenic in all other areas and with cock stamping brutality that is of lightning bolt swiftness that leaves one writhing and uttering 'what the fuck happened there then'. 'Dislocate' is hard worked artistry with the RD ramrodders alternating pace, opting from an initially head mushing flurry into a mauling molestation that is undoubtedly perverse in its approach. When at full tilt the band glow with passion, when opting for a crawling tempo the crew radiate menace - both aspects contradict and compliment in the same black plumed breath - astounding. 'Learning Things About The World Part 3' is a nineteen seconds shit spray of undigested angst and ill smelling restlessness. The arsehole is held open, the inner gases propel the main lumps of shitty noise outward and the resultant pebbledash is totally conclusive - this is unapologetic brutality created for the fuckin' love of it and without thought for those who get in the way. That is 4 double quick time tunes and reviewed in the same manner - I can't see anything changing anytime soon.

Pause. Re-adjustment. Reflection. 4 more fast blasts – literally!

'Ratican' is haemorrhoid bursting mega noise with a scorching wildness rattled out with tight-assed pain. The punctuating gob offs accentuate the whole untamed piece before we plunge headlong into the superb incandescent hatred of 'Losing The Fight'. Yet more mad fuck speed rushed hardcore with all areas battered to buggery and left in a state of disrepair. Be warned, these guys are rapists, they have no morality when it comes to melody and will pin you down, place their toned todgers in your lugs and fuck you senseless. As though these two blasts are not enough they are trumped by the absolutely absorbing 'Bottom Feeder' a fuckin' mammoth moment that impales you on tuned in tusks and nails you to the walls of disbelief. As tight as a gnats chuff the wrecking bollock avalanche of noise is mesmerising and Rash Decision uphold all levels of excitement throughout. 'Cathcart, Robert A' power fists, grabs the tail end of your bowels and yanks out a good 20 foot of intestine with which to whip you with. The shit, the blood, the rank flesh all sting the flesh with discordant venom. From the opening flagellation through to a rib-kicking riot to a riff and rough up shout out cum cruise experience - this is hefty stuff!

Deep breathes. A stretch of the taut and somewhat bruised muscles. The last 4. Can I make it?

'Protection' rhymes with erection and that is just what this song is - a big shaft of cacophony that bursts into your sonic jacksie with abandoned delight. Each arse pounding is a painful pleasure be ye gay or straight or even celibate. I won't say anymore than that - just spread yer cheeks and let the depravity happen, I reckon you'll be smiling all the way through ye perverse gits. 'Gears' grinds, eventually blinds, with usual forthright focus before a fascinating tumble away with all cables crippled with riffage really do the business. The throat is still in inferno mode and if your sonic digestive system is still retaining the fodder consumed then you may just swallow this with glee. 'Rotted Out' segues in, begins with unhinged utterances from a man with visions of self-gratifying doom and is followed by implosive vandalism of the senses before the usual decadence comes. This one is a routine quick shit with the basin left unwashed afterwards, nothing special at all and saved by the brief running time. 'Kobayashi Maru' is the finale, a nasty streak that smears the final punctuation all over that which has gone before and somehow leaves a final 'fuck you' imprint with various angles thrown at us without thought for the injuries liable to be caused. Of course the delivery is tight as hell, for sure the virulence is high, it goes without saying the intoxication levels are through the roof - it seems Rash Decision will not be changing their direction anytime soon, and why should they? I give this finale a tentative nod of agreement although something super violent would have been more apt - a real end blast done in a pure evil way - hey ho.

Despite the latter two songs not truly rattling my neurones this is an impressive session of hardcore malevolence and thoughtful angst. Rash Decision are not only on the ball but are kicking it to fuck that it will no doubt make it explode anytime soon. The band are well versed in their art with the only predictable problem being that how long can they survive on this style of spillage? A fair while I reckon, but to add longevity I suggest the next tear up has some real orthodox riffage and various unexpected angles to keep the listener knocked off their feet. Other than that, headbanging nuts - go get it!


Antagonizers ATL deliver retro rock and roll noise scarred with streetpunk and are made up of 4 noise makers with a long history within the manky scene. They have played with many fine bands and proven themselves over and over with a gritty sound that retains varied essences but...and a very twatty but at that...what does this well worn reviewer think? Let us see what these Atlanta-based buggers offer up here.

The first fireball to be shot from the cauldron of cacophony is entitled 'Pressure', a song that belts along from first to last with spellbinding hunger. The opening musical fluidity thrashes out its own guts with highly riffed and charged up desire to get your lugs well and truly fuckin' tuned in. The 2 skip introduces, the instruments are brandished and after a brief guitar burst the avid and active verse foams upwards and into our open gobs with steel-capped impact. This is a release from the belly, a veritable primeval scream to relieve tension, to soothe the tested soul. From the verse we hit the repeat strains of a concussive chorus that feels the strain and tries its hardest to break away. Wham, wham, wham - 1 minute 45 seconds of juddering tuneage to get bruised by. Impressive.

'The Crew' crisply introduces itself before tumble punching on a sub-tribalised minimalism. Do not fear, the full throttle is soon hit with a bovver boy street quality kicking at your doors of resistance with predictable earthiness and gang pride so often encountered within this sub-pit. The band give a good account of themselves due to the reliance on routine rhythms and exacting production levels that compliments the bands sonic needs and gets the best out of each component. The song is to the point and bruises the rockin' ribcage without caving in the whole framework - a tidy dust up.

DDC started life in 2011 and never had plans to be a full time band but found themselves playing regular gigs in their hometown of Atlanta with many well known names. Again we have some streetpunk on offer, again I go in unbiased - what more can I add, oh yes the review.

The foreskin of silence is ripped backwards, a good rubbing of the sonic shaft is had, the first rockin' expulsion achieved is splashed under the signature of 'Victory' a melodic chug stomp that begins with bass bubbles eventually merging into a cock-steady, sure footed cruise that has all the trimmings of typical earthy Oi leakages. The essence is of a swollen chest pride, a resolute belief that will not have sand kicked in its face and of a tune with a target in mind. The band play their shit well and the general 'ooomph' and harmonised rear hollers all commingle to create a very rewarding offering that is archetypal acoustica from a scene that has no real pretensions. Working mans escapism with confidence building clout - join in or jerk off or, if you are real keen, do em' both whilst rockin' yer knackers off. 

'Hated' for me is the better of the 2 DDC songs as it stokes the flames of noise with more focused fury and has much more deliberate punching power. The balls of the listener are gripped with a greater level of spitefulness and the resultant watery eyes are borne from nothing more than a sincere appreciation. The ascension from the rattled drums to the flashing urgent guitar work through to the searing temperament of the front gob and of course the simply scorched chorus this passionate blood vessel bursting episode of self belief and foul-mouthed kick back is a delight and the fact that anger is indeed an energy is accentuated here with a very upfront explosion. One can almost feel the perspiration fly, the muscles become taut and the throat bleed like fuckery - surely everyone likes a dose of this stuff now and again.

A small showcase of what it seems is two more than capable bands. These tasters are a joy to review and when you get two units really doing themselves proud you can’t help but shout out the praises from the rooftops. Listen up, two more bands are here to get your hungry lugs wrapped around - keep moving, fuck the static, swill this sonic shit down and let the passion poison ya.
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