I know a man whom I find most appealing, his name is Gary Eagle aka Eagle Spits and his approach to life and music is awkward and angular enough to get my vote. I don't want people to be shimmering shapeshifters, nebulous no-marks without a stance, cardboard cut-outs with a distinct lack of cuntism running through their veins. No, I prefer people to be off the straight line the masses draw in the murky consuming sands, I like them to be eclectically seeking and have a streak that will always question and keep anything resembling punk on its nasty infected toes. And to add - I also like swines who are thoroughly Anti-Static no matter how the odds are stacked - you get my drift. So, with his Punk For The Homeless beliefs getting no-airing in Manc land I decided that I would organise a couple with him up this neck of the woods and hopefully spread the word of his charitable desires and of course of some fine unassuming, unaffected minstrels who do it with a love! It seemed a case of 'as per', meaning that the shout out would be lost in the wild winds of complacency, excuse and spitefulness with only the few ‘fuck it and support’ bandits turning up and having a good day of DIY discordance - ah but we know the script only too well and still fight, fight, fight like seasoned dogs with plenty of spirit in the tank. We have both taken kickings over the years - financial, personal and spiritual but why not continue and cause consternation by those who deem honesty, forthrightness and natural inner restlessness as an affront to their own self-made status and standing - silly bastards. So with a spring in the step I had a morning wildlife wander, had my lunch and prepared for the gig only to have my scram interrupted by a gutted Eagle who was in a broken down car at the side of the motorway with his Spitune comrades saying that they may not make the gig after all. Fuck it - poor buggers.  A phone call later in the day confirmed their non-attendance - now that is shit.

So, a solo flight it seemed and on the show went with yours truly stuck on door duties and making sure no bands were missed in the process. Here is the review, this one built on essences, visions and sensations - it is always best to go with the inner flow rather than stick to tradition.

Tio Rico commenced the giggage with an uncertainty in the stride, a hiccup in the tempo that caused me deep rooted concern. Mental sights of an embryonic whelp on the swollen leaking teat of the Mother Bitch came to the fore of the grey gunk, a gummy suckling unable to fully grasp the nipple of noise and drink in the full contents of appreciation from the early oglers. The variation in suck pace was applaudable but that pink bud of life just wouldn’t slot home and I remained cautious as to the outcome. Eventually a grasp of the wine cork was had, temper helped, and tympanic encouragement gave bold outlines to the spectacle. I became involved, a pervert of the obvious pleasure and the new school slants, sub-tribal moments and ground out bouts of filthy drudgery kept the onlookers clamped to the spot. From the midway spot a full on grip of the whole cacophonic pap was had and the gushing that issued forth splashed with greater success and had more consideration that, with time, will help the band improve. For now my judgement is tentative and hazy, the occasional time slips didn't help matters. Another viewing soon is needed...watch this space, I may just go for an orthodox assessment!

So after a hit and miss beginning the room went dead, beers were grabbed and chances to chatter nabbed before, from the top hat of tonality the invisible manky magician pulled some Deadflowers and had them up on stage doing their welcome bit. Tight assed poppage with a cheek clenching undercurrent of punkiness and numerous anal exhalations of alternative/indiefied exhaustage that roared deep and throaty from the off and seared many victims with the dual gobbage, rock and roll honesty, rhythmic feistiness, unpredictability and vibromatic garage surges. A distinct hark back to pub rock pleasure when bands got down to producing more perspiration rather than pretentious pomp and as result got overlooked by the major masses - gits! And so the set went on, odours became harsher, the clatter factor more imposing, the cog work more smooth and bulldozing and yeah, you know what...I was fuckin' impressed. Hair raising hot riffage and high volumes are a thing I ultimately desire - I felt as though a fair portion was had here - belch!

From the vault of the intervalised space came a slow upward spiral of visual echoes, disjointed horror effects and electro discomfort deliberately wired up to channel ‘awkward’. With sidewinding hate, stark terror and withering flex this storm of sound delivered from a unified 3-piece seemed to come from as breeze blasted 80’s wasteland of twisted, recently tortured metal and clashing sonic wank wars where resistance to conformity arose and refurbished mechanisation gave birth to dashed exciting bouts of fringe trouble and political tension. The set delivered here by the latest form of the Black Light Mutants was thoroughly entertaining and lapped up by this dog with a tongue for many flavours. The threat emitted flew over some heads but was appreciated in warped measure by others, and so it should be. There is a style here that is sticking many fingers up the jacksie of the future – that is a good thing and I hope it keeps hammering away and drawing consternation and thought!

Next and the spiders of silence fled, made haste for corners of sable seclusion, tucked themselves away in crannies of comfort to avoid any vibrations and sonic rousing - oh what stupid, stupid creatures. Nevertheless there came a creation, something far more rewarding than a noiseless dance of mute arachnids, this time we were going to be ensnared by The Webb (not just any old tangling mess). During the initial synthed downpour the baroque brolly was lifted by our nimble vixen who propelled her throat warbles forth amid an automated, hard stated computed cacophony. Gothika scratched art flow in static filled sheets that billowed with beauty, emotion and futurised pleas. Terror chants and postured deliveries were sublimely executed amid corrupt ballet distortion whilst bleak tonality copulated with dictated key commands and gave rise to the onlooker’s finest orgasmic highs. Tremendous bounce merged with robotic rhythm and sensual manoeuvres with cultish invasions liable to cause many cerebral factures were had. A magnetic display built on fine music and insightful intelligence - the dance of the duo was a final unifying moment and added strength to one mesmerising structure.

Familiarity they say breeds neglect, contempt or, may it be said, unavoidable ignorance. Not so I say as when Brocker enter the fray on more and more Fungalised jaunts I get more and more thrilled and have a concrete belief that the band are something special. There is a distinct cut above the norm here with execution values extremely high and the concoction of sub-genres mixed by masterful hands. The attitude of the band and their overall approach to this music business and the people therein is without flaw and success is surely deserved if ever it comes. Tonight, as per, the smooth embrace of the noise drew one in, the harder hugging moments left one breathless and the artistic touches of class paved the way for another exemplary bout of irresistible tuneage. Lugs widened, peepers too, feet tapped and bodies began to twitch and it wasn't long before the bands acoustic tendrils snatched harder and drew even further attention. Wires operated with unified depth, rebounded off each other only to spring back in an all-devouring direction whilst the drum clatter was ablaze and sizzled the set even harder - wow man, bloody big fat wow! Need I be forced to add more...maybe on the next booking I get em'. NB: - Make sure you watch these guys at the Nice and Sleazy pre-show - you won't be disappointed.

DSA were placed on this gig by Eagle, he spouted off with gusto and his judgement is not to be taken lightly (the intro to this review I hope elucidates this). Animation and activity knobs were turned so far past the max that they fell in a state of disrepair (oh how I can relate to that feeling) and the coarse rough house mania began and never let up until the final throw of the discordant dice. Built on yesterday's foundations and spat into the face of today this was a spellbinding treat for those with a passion for shit-kickin' reality and raw-boned liveliness without concern of error. The irritation had gusto, the aggravation borne was from a pimpled arse bloated with irked spirit and the fast, tight and tetchy result was only to be expected. The ravenous hunger displayed brought many a goosebump to the flesh, the soaring zeniths raised follicles on the nape and the overall intensity melted the lug drums with ease. More self-established fuckwits may not get this, may miss out on the honesty within but for me it was totally in accordance with what the day should be about and after chatting with the characters of the crew I came away...convinced.

Rabid - indeed! From the first to the last the saliva was dripping from 4 aged warriors who are currently on a recharge and giving a pure form of battle cry that is all aflame and borne from deep within. At such a late juncture in proceedings we needed a set to start in white hot fashion. A cry from yore about the silver age did just that and as soon as the opening rattle kicked in I was well and truly addicted. Musically expectations were of something tidy, unassuming and utterly reliable - it came as a sweet surprise that we got so much more. The arc of confidence grew and whilst doing so radiated many colours and many sonic shadings that gave the whole performance believable depth and power laden strength. True to form this was old school in the main but there was something else there, a new DIY strain that wormed its way to the fore and showed that some old dogs still breathe the real intent and go for it without prospect of financial gain or worldwide success - just how it should be. I thought Rabid fitted the headline slot quite nicely and full stopped an eclectic mix in sturdy style. Be interesting to see how they progress this time around.

Gig done, goodbyes, and home. In retrospect a gig to be proud of and one that continues what I have always set out to do - keep the variety coming. This time it was good to do it in cahoots with Eagle and raise some needy conkers for the Punk for the Homeless cause - I slept soundly that night (well as close as I could) and know that deep down the way I walk and talk is the only way I can be and the passion I have for good earthy noise is with me forever - up the underdogs!

review by Fungalpunk/OMD (8 March 2015)