This lot played a Fungalised gig recently, they were a man down and still rocked the rafters.  I was mesmerised and quite taken by the approach, the DIY warmth and sincerity and the darn good tunes.  They have the right idea, are playing for the love of it and considering anything else a bonus.  Here my thoughts on a quick CD that does the business and has been used several times whilst I work out on the punchbag - oomph!

Away we go with 'Cocaine Boner Casanova' - ooh the dirty blighters.  This is a 'live for the moment' kick arse blow out that moves on in with effective gumption and a bit of flamboyance before cracking on with a reckless rock and roll movement that has a 'fuck it' approach that many will adore.  The pluckers plead for more beer, drugs and nob stiffening sonica - by heck, and here's me thinking they were all gentle homosexuals happy to read back issues of 'Raised Rings'.  This is a fruity piece and has wallop, the basic lunatic riffery and some added nobs on and, as a bonus, all areas are loud, clear and brash - yes man.  Ooh where's me blue pills and jazz mags.  Play loud and wank man but please, don't spill yer beer.

We follow on with the same vibe but with a greater control.  'Let's Get Wasted' is a theme long whipped but here the verse is highly enticing and the slip into the chorus is sublime.  This latter component has a sing-a-long corn quality that may be typical and orthodox but which has a magnetism that I can truly appreciate.  It is a short and simple song but walloped home by boozers and wreckheads who are doing things mighty fuckin' well.  Yes - a joy, I may get the sherry out again.

'You're A Nazi' is another topic that does the rounds, here dealt with in forthright and no nonsense style.  A fine up-standing song in a world where too much shit-flinging has diluted the 'Nazi' slag which is a shame because there are some real hateful twats out there.  Some folk need to wake up - on both sides of the fence, stop the hate ya silly cunts and just get on.  The band put their conkers on the line and show where they stand which should always be applauded.  I love the approach and ethos and always adore the following contrast which calls for 'Absolute Freedom' which could be accused of contradicting the preceding outburst - not so!  We are all entitled to opinions, the only way to alter matters is to be open, talk and think.  Fists will fly and only cement divisions, there are knuckleheads on all sides, they are defeating freedom and their own objectives.  A really well-crafted and thought provoking song this and maybe, the best of the lot - it is neatly arranged and has a good weight behind the hoofing - watch yer delicate conkers folks.

'Let's Get Tattoos' is a politically-free bout of fine old nonsense.  It is great escapism with a lovable riff, an idiot sing-a-long sequence and will more than likely see some daft bugger wake up after a morn of the lash with a permanent mark of embarrassing quality.  A fine flowing effort this, played by lads having fun and switching styles quite ruddy nicely.  It would be easy to harp on about the gripes and gear grinds in life, sometimes we just need something less profound - neat work lads.

2 more songs come, namely 'Let's Get Wasted (Radio Edit' and 'Let's Get Tattoos (Radio Edit) - I have commented on these, this is more of the same with a slight change in the end product.  Two good songs but I would have preferred 2 new tracks - ooh the twisting devils.

So - 5 tracks, 2 semi-repeats but still worth your lug time.  This is a really good unit who are easy to get into and enjoy without too much brain strain.  Accommodating chaps, happy to muck in, no egos and as good 'live' as on CD - now what more could you ask for - ah yes, another CD release, some up-to-date Razzle mags and an added kick in the pecker pills - whoosh.

I am back in the midst of the lo-fi/no-fi DIY masters who stay outside the circles and create their own brand of raw and slow-drifting grooves.  Acquired taste acoustica for the dustbin deviant who scrambles within the sonic scraps looking for the odd neglected tasty morsel.  Metal Postcards help the creators to radiate their acoustic aromas, I am a passing hungry mongrel, sniffing and seeking and occasionally pissing some feedback up your negligible lamppost.

The leg is raised, the cock of critique is squeezed and the first textual jets come as thus.  'Cool Like You' begins, is an earthy charmer that is a comfy cupboard song sang from a tucked away tinkerer happy to croon out his thoughts atop a layer of natural and unassuming strumming that appeals to the core.  This is 'have a go' music without pretence, self-indulgence and anything arrogant - it feels real, off the cuff and posted without any attention seeking subtext.  The added unwashed accents all help - tis short, semi-sweet and doesn't piss about - now then, what can one add?  

To follow the opening effort we have murky water twanging almost reminiscent of an early B52's escapade.  The vocals however are nothing of the sort and are a suffering scrawl across the acoustic wall and a test of one’s patience.  'Deadwood' could be deemed as such if one doesn't put in any thought or consideration.  It is a hard listen, gloomy, idling and moribund with a repeat motif that is like the flickering ticker of a would be corpse.  A moment of vitality rises, the flakes and motes swirl and smother but a tribal need is exposed.  Overall I am not keen, but the more I explore the more the time invested is rewarded.  I won't be playing this too often (if at all) but it has more to it than I may be giving little credit for!  'Fish Race' meanders in with many touches the band are known for.  A very languid and eased up current drifts arounds ones attentive ankles in a somewhat naturalised manner.  Going nowhere, borne from who knows where, this Piscean piece leaves me pondering what the heck is going on - perhaps a drug-influenced word spill of abstraction ambiguity.  Take a watery perspective, jump in with the scaled wrigglers and perhaps one may get the gist - an odd beast that is a struggle to swim alongside.

'Hop To It Bunny Girls' appeals to my garage loving side, the forthright motif, the scuzzy mix and the groove all hit home although the lyrical content and general vocal arrangement is worthy of a clearer airspace. This latter aspect hinders the overall praise spill but the throbbed wirework, the Joy Division-esque accents and the filthy approach have something many will be taken by and many will be repulsed by - the job is worthy methinks. 'Lonely Girl' is a casual blue-tinted tickle that keeps everything minimal and softly, softly serenading.  All areas are dealt forth with a distinct delicacy and almost insouciant ease that gives the song an appeal to those who wanna take it mighty easy and just laze within the lilt.  Strings are caressed, the mouth organ kissed with care and the vocal drippings donated forth with an almost bashful innocence - hey it works and is another ideal poppet to slip between the sandwich of heavier fodder.  'My Ex-Girlfriend' follows suit, asks a few questions and seems to be in a place of loss, uncertainty and hurt.  At times it feels as though the song will sugar-lump dissolve and we will be left with a sweet stain to contemplate but, structure is held and so is a certain self-belief.  This is still a very fragile and spider-web light snippet of thoughtful creativity that is one to drift away with. The destination is slumberland - and that ain't a bad thing at all.

'New York Girl' has a very basic backbone of sound, a certain  cold and sinister essence that comes from a realm of solitude pondering where  the arrangement is deliberately kept lowbrow and undernourished as way of an acoustic hunger strike.  The starvation seems designed to make one take note of the most basic components and to appreciate the bare bones of the overall framework.  I look on, listen in and can see the style making an impression with those who have patience and an understanding for different approaches.  This isn't a bad moment but overshadowed by the lovely structure known as 'Sleeptight'.  A very retro sub-60's affair with slow-swirl rhythms of a sub-pop culture that floated below the upper echelons where all sorts of claptrap dictated.  The canvas is laid down, the artist approaches and appreciates the opportunities that the bare surface offers - as a result the sonic brushstrokes that come are water coloured, semi-transparent but with a hue soaked comfort.  There is warmth, sincerity and a real good essence emanated – nice, and the winner of the Fungal pop prize for sure.

We fall into the last hat-trick with the sinister sounding 'These Boots Are Made For Stalking'.  Slow tin-foil wire-ripples, fagged out vocals and a drawl-scrawl that is reminiscent of Bordellonian tracks.  If you are in a state of recline, bordering on the precipice of Nod and are fighting the downward drag of the peeper lids then this is one to be wary of.  A real Mogadon moment that finally wakes up and goes at it with a repeat threat towards the latter end.  Despite initial reservations this one eventually rouses the inner spirit and achieves some sense of success - I think.  Next and murky tribal twangs are escorted by shattered glass mesmerisms and an oral accompaniment that is almost awash with anguish and pain.  The result is a ditty entitled 'Velvet Mind'.  The verses cause me unrest and discomfort, the choruses go some way to soothing matters but overall I am left nervously shaken rather than sexually stirred.  A strange and twisted piece that is too nasal and noxious for its own good.  The closure is 'You Vagabond You' - a song I have reviewed before and one I am not doing again although I will say it is a smooth 'angels delight' moment that is without any hindering lumpage and slips down the awaiting aural orifice with ease.  For a few more hints - read the other review ya buggers or, buy a disk and write your own summing up.

My 15th review regarding this creative force - and if you want something raw, DIY and without pretension this is the band to have a look at.  From the bedroom, the kitchen, the bog - this noise comes at ya and avoids the potential blemishes cause by the mixing room - hey, some people like it this way, some like it polished and some, like a bit of everything - by heck, have a fuckin' listen will ya.

I was requested to listen into this CD long before the release date and duly pen some thoughts - here is what I slapped down - 'A slagheap of disjointed spasmoid cacophony all brought together by players absorbed, beyond hope and mentally unified - this is what we get here and when one adds a gutful of regurgitated spice and high-inducing sonic sugars, one is sure to find something perversely wonderful.  From their first 'live' exposure on a Fungalised stage through more gigs and a few releases we are here at the stage of the first full length release.  A composite of many songs I know and many that have vulgarly invaded the orifices of those who have dared get too close.  This is a gloriously unleashed bout of 'wank off' jizzery, jazzism with many anglings, discordant danglings and incessant restlessness.  The application is spot on, the passion decisive and the end collection a very gratifying burst indeed. Many old farts may frown, a few delicates may dither and a few self-appointed punk police may point fingers - these folk need to get a grip and toss off out of it - this is 21st century shit-kicking and we need it baby!'.  From here I promised to do a full review, here is a more focused assessment - I must be fuckin' mad!

'Turn The Radio Off' begins with a patchwork piss play of digital dross that is prevalent all over the airwaves.  Matters come to a head, a phone-in sees a response delivered in fine style and then the madness comes.  A cutting cable carving, a raw and scorched gob and controlled stickwork contrasts whilst the bass remains focused and adds the all-important structure.  The tantrum tossery, the overspill of annoyed aggravation is a delight and the resistance to those mundane airwaves is delicious.  The band throw in their all with a paradoxical controlled recklessness - it works mighty well and sets the senses reeling.  'Streetwalker' is a more organised construct but only just.  Verses and choruses careen and collide in a lunatic frenzy with an inner respite offering up a clarity and insight into what transpires and the content of the song.  The wire work throughout is gorgeously exciting and is awash with idiot enthusiasm and rabid relish whilst at the core of matters is a concrete solidity some may overlook whilst they are bummed by the more spit-splatter horror show - for me it is all rather fuckin' splendid.

'Frot Till Ya Rot' is a cock-rubbing stimulant for sure, with a self-loathing opening assault that attacks with a controlled savagery that walks a precipice to be wary of.  An inner sexual frustration causes internal and external turmoil in a wank off that is done and dusted in fine time and leaves one fagged and no doubt, shagged.  The end splash is borne from deviant hands that know how to toss out a tune or two - this one is short, penetrating and another nasty stain on the blankets of your mind.  'School Of Cock' comes across as an almost orthodox number but as matters progress these thoughts are shown to be founded on loose foundations that are easily blown away by the maelstrom kicked up.  The sleazy lick and skiddings, the snotty gob, the binding bass and the rock steady sticks all copulate in all manner of exotic cum erotic positions and duly give rise to a real concrete crack-up that holds the flow of the CD together.  The least flamboyant and capricious number thus far but a very good listening experience nonetheless and right up my back passage of DIY favour!

A voice that we know comes (or cums) next with 'Jimmy Is A Kiddie Fiddler' operating with a real sleazy edge whilst pointing the finger at the corruptive forces that ego-copulate and ultimately cripple in cahoots.  This is a slinky mover with a soiled essence of distrust permeating every nook, cranny, arsehole and fanny... of your mind!  Dirty noise done with a relish and disgust and of course, a spiked gung-ho that refuses to be shackled.  A barbed and biting titbit that works well in the midst of a mucky mush.

A fuckful of 3 - a narration, breathing and a request before a greater pronouncement.  'Crack Killer' bass weaves in, whizz wanks with great frenzied ambition before escaping from the manic verse and seizuring into the simple but active chorus.  A full on thrust, a lunatic release that is on the brink of falling into realms beyond help.  A quick break, an ascending passion, a final puking of unbridled capriciousness and boom, we are done - phew - I feel shafted man.  'Licence To Kill' coolly waltzes forth from mysterious avenues where distrust and malevolence dictate.  A throwback NY feel comes, borne via the time of degenerate sleaze and despondency.  Kill and be killed or get slain by the cacophony - your call.  During the verses things are suffocated and shackled with a real chomping at the leash whilst the choruses are moments of tension relieving expenditure that sees the cock of disgruntlement waggled with a venomous glint in the eye. I find this one a satisfying switch twitch and on we go with flags of success flying.  The final fling of the trio comes under the dubious nob angle of 'Begging For A Pegging'.  A phone call, a seeming asthmatic gets his wishes granted, a venue of questionable virtue is chosen and the song celebrates the situation with a low-slung sing-a-along fuckwit barnyard jig. The mind becomes awash with visions of boss-eyed bum boys with dungarees lowered and encrusted members quivering, all waiting in line for their next victim - fuckin' hell I need to stop taking these pills.  This one is a song I can take or leave, perhaps the mental images are blurring my true judgement.

'Flagshagger' is what it is, we know who it is aimed at and for me, every flag is there to wipe ones arse on as I don't need this divisive shite interfering with my quest for cerebral anarchy.  Alas we live in a world of labels, emblems, signatures and signs that many cling to - hence some of the frustration here.  A fast and furious injection that sees the band work mighty hard to hold all in check and maintain a tight ship.  A surging 'anti' song, some will take heed of, some will ignore and so the loop into hates-ville continues.  'What They Deserve' begins with a brace of neuralgic twinges before avalanching into a shit spill of questions and answers.  A violent and mentally unstable episode of fidgetry that clatters along with lunatic vigour and tempestuous tantrumisation.  Crumpled and rumpled and alive and certainly kicking, this is a huff and puff arse kicker to keep you awake.  'Sinkpisser' could be a homage to those who like to take a leak in a place many deem unsuitable.  I am one of these 'erberts who occasionally splash the wash basin due to the influence of alcohol or general idleness.  To rest the scrotum on the sink and let the gold flow is a wonderful thing methinks and far more comfortable than letting the globes hang free - ooh err.  A reggae interlude fucks the flow up the arse, wafflings comes that I really can't see the point of but it is quite comedic in its own way.  From here we drop into the sombre and quite effective emo-dope of 'Sad Samba'.  I can't help envisioning some washed up Sesame Street Character invading the fun time show with this sober moment that is almost confessional in its approach.  For a switch in style and a quite obtuse cutlet of creative awkwardness this one is a surprising ear worm that wriggles in, dumbs one down and gets one all maudlin.

And that, is in fact, fuckin' that!  The band began the life on a Fungal stage, have moved on, and are doing mighty fuckin' well.  They bring to the table a salty peppering of angularity and multi-limbed lilt dropping and their recent return to a Fungalised stage was a fuckin' joy.  This is a good rambunctious mix of salivating sonica and it makes me happy to see fuckers out there really kicking up the shit in their own non-generic style - ooh have that yer static fuckers!

Long term contributors to the cacophonic realms with many frustrations and disgruntlements rising, this lot continue to crack on and defy the dilution and the cranial corruption that seems to have crippled many.  I am a fan, a doofer, all I can do is do my bit and try and keep fellow buggers moving.  A recent gig highlighted that the quality and gumption is still there, I was given a couple of CD's and requested to do a review - the honesty, non-arse-licking approach continues but it is all done with an intent to keep bands on their toes - it gets me nowhere but I hope it gets the bands somewhere.

Up and away we go with 'Corporate Evil' a clubbing cacophonic bastard that digs deep from the off and adds the expected metalised touches the band are so fond of.  A gritty verse casting pearls before many punctured swines who are gaping wide and swallowing the whole shebang.  The message here comes from those against the all-consuming business bastards who want ya hooked, habitually hanging on and not really thinking for yourself.  Make your choice but please - think first!  This is a molten larva movement with big heaps of spittle-soaked kick back and some watertight musicianship.  Some will lap it up, some will switch off due to the content - I fuckin' love it baby and reckon it is heavy duty hardware mowing down all in its track.  

'All Fall Down' begins with deep-rooted gut rumbles before finding its lick and rolling with a spartan opening verse.  Snarling, asking questions, there ain't no answers man.  We live in times of digital deadheads, the rebels are tamed, the boisterous blanketed and all told to just get the next hit and smile to the grave.  This is walloping punk piquing that will unsettle some and get others pinging.  The divisions rise, the lack of respect for those not following the norm is appalling, here we have folk not giving a fuck.  The waves of hefty noise slap-hammer home with forceful intent and a blending that gets the utmost impact out of the players.  The fact that the crew don’t over extend matters works – boom!

'1984 (It's Not A Story Anymore)' is what it is and surely gets one wondering 'how the fuck did we end up here?'  Unapologetic sonic sizzling with a content that has been dealt with many times over and yet we still slide into the shackles and restrictions.  Keep the people getting their fill and the fuckers will roll over when the screws are turned.  Fuck me up the arse if ya want but I ain't missing my holiday, missing out on my night out or limiting my spending on materialistic crap' - you get the picture (I hope).  Here the mush is screwed up once more, the disgust and anger is bold and the streak of spitback refusal is strong - is anyone listening?  The band are blazing and over this 4 track course they hit the neurones with ease and good power.

Talking of 4 tracks, the last blast comes under the slag tag of 'Don't Believe The Hype'.  A digital spearing, a swishing of the blades of war and big pronouncements made.  Political mania overspills with a fury backed by some very tense-laden strings and a rigid military stick guide.  The leash is loosened for the chorus, the band go at it and let fly with an incandescent thermality that will surely scorch many senses and make folk sit up and take note.  Perhaps I live in a dream world - good music such as this flies under many radars - is it too much for scenes middling and comfortable?  Well, my thumb is raised once more, this old dog likes it on the edge.

Yeah, for chickens that are losing the spring but not the spunk, and are certainly trembling their giblets with a fuck-you flourish, this is darn healthy noise to get the rear in gear.  It ain't background music, it ain't socialising sonica and it ain't music with lyrics to overlook - play, play loud, ponder and come up with your outcome.  Agree or disagree with the ethos but man, appreciate the bombardment of dinnage.

The Puncturists are a female fronted four piece melodic, garage punk band who rehearse in Barnsley in South Yorkshire, England, UK.  Well, that is the pilfered piece done, and here I have a CD to tackle that I have great expectations of.  The string maestro sent me the goods, he is a good egg whom I have known for many year but somehow, I have yet to see him ping his plectrum in this latest unit.  I shall hopefully amend this oversight but busy lives is all about juggling and paths may cross or paths may just not meet - such is life.  Now, I like 60's garage, I like melodic movements and I am still not sure what all this punk shizzle is about but here I go, head on the block, time invested and arse in gear.

'Pissing Me Off' could be a song about anything, in this life and the modern day there are many things that fall into the irritation category.  A crisp and slightly scuzzed intro, a steady mid-paced beat follows and then the lucid lilt of the lead lady flows with unflustered sanguinity.  From the somewhat gentle verse comes a chorus that is easily joined in with and has a fine salted spite for good measure.  Moments of heavy strummage, the same languorous strain and lyrics that expose a lass not to be trifled with - this is a very steady and appealing start with some tidy turns, a good threat level and some uncomplicated but tidy musicianship.  A sweet serenade with a nasty streak - crikey.  '55' is a fuckin' peach - a real flowing sugar-coated episode of self-will and focused determination.  The flow is radiant and full of feel-good lush leaning whilst the blend of all areas is spot on the mark.  The popsicle is enhanced further by the delicious vocals that fall down like scented petals from a gently swaying tree located in the most exquisite acoustic orchard.  Come forth, admire and taste the fruit of a real stunner that really has me digging the heels in and smiling away - what wonders are found in the fecund realms of DIY - it is a place to do your bit and keep on cultivating the mouth-watering treats.

'I Wish I Was French' trickles in from the shadows, comes to the fore and steadily entrances with a bog-basic offering that rolls through the verses and chorus cuts with very little fuss.  An interlude of 'Frere Jacques' and a repeatoid cruise all give this song its own feel but it is one that leaves me a trifle underwhelmed and I think it outstays its welcome.  A neat little mover that just needs a little extra spice and to up the pace methinks.  All areas are mixed well and if folk want something very easy to listen to then this is it - for me, I was overwhelmed by the first two numbers and so feel deflated here.  'Everybody's On Drugs' is a song I have reviewed before and brings back some appreciated snagging elements and a real juicy drift that is only tempered by another overly long playing time. The band certainly know how to expose the best of their abilities, get a rewarding balance between all components and create poppy meanderings that are highly pleasant and unobtrusive.  This ain't no bad song, a trimming would help I reckon but many may disagree - ooh them darn blighters.

A musical break and what a fuckin' gorgeous moment it is.  Why the CD doesn't start and end with this textured snippet of surfy sublimity is beyond me - a real faux pas and I mean that as a sincere compliment.  I love this shimmering psychedelic spume trip and reckon this is an area where the band could progress further and create something fresh, happening and outside the many current norms.  'Theme From Commit Nuisance' is now labelled as 'great stuff'.         

'Spectre' appears from the brief silence, manifests itself with an authority that cuts to the core.  The opening throes are concrete and bear hug forth a positive reaction from this pernickety old fuck.  A really comforting drift envelopes the senses with a saccharined seasoning helping keep things relaxed and very approachable.  Within the weft and weave the bass does a real fine job at adding layered melody and stability and the strings are crisp and the sticks stabilising.  The move from all sub-sections is liquid and the chug factor is really well done.  The band do not go overboard, play within themselves and offer up a fine reliable rock out.  'It's Untrue' clobbers in, pounds with a glowing healthiness. A robust riffery without being too confrontational with the usual rhythmic qualities and casual flow all making for a uncomplicated affair that just over-repeats and hangs around for far too long.  It is an inoffensive number but a trimming, a switch in the modus operandi and some added twinkle-twankles would enhance all.  Hey, these are the usual Fungalised thoughts, if it is of help or disregarded as crap I can only be fair and offer up honesty! This song is still a smooth operator though and does what it does well.

The back stretch, 'Give Blood' is reminiscent of many songs I have heard over the years and again, throws away any idea of being an elaborate and profound episode and just sticks to the rock and roll basics.  The motif is found, stretched out and played to buggery but, the running time is terse, the music compact and things are all the better for it.  'They Don't Pay Support Bands' is the eternal pertinent piece, in a world of so-called punk rock where the big players take all, leave the floundering abandoned with fuck all and yet these latter souls still hold their heroes high and keep repeating the imbalanced process.  The key - avoid the dross, make your own path and keep it DIY!  A tapping from the side-stage, a gruff and ill-tempered wind up and into the first verse we go.  A lovely start and a gritty feel is had as the revolving situation is retold via a very strong song that digs in its heels and states its case.  A fine reminder to avoid this crud and to keep it real at a level where no-one is fussed about profit, playing with big names and falling into the trappings of a cacophonic cobweb where the big sonic spiders of deception will... devour.  Tidy man!

'Leave Me Alone' skips in on a lo-fi lick, ups the tonal ante and maintains a vigorous vitality throughout.  The riff is familiar, the swashbuckling swishings expected and the arrangement now predictable but this is still a delightful little ass-jiggler that avoids anything 'in-yer-face', political and acidic.  The core is clean and tidy, the overall blend as hygienic as usual and at this point what more can I add - just play loud and have a good jig folks.  Closure comes via 'I'm Not Alright' a quite convincing and emotive number that vies for the pick of the pops in my opinion.  Inner struggles, hidden torments and a misfiring mental state are all familiar areas and this one hits home big time.  The stripped bare verses have a great tenderness and a feeling that is tangible. The liquid move into the slowly swirled chorus is sublime.  A high standard offering that is played with a great exactitude and a snap, crackle and pop innocence that really touches the soul.  My applause are big here, a superb full stop to a CD of polished care.

Overall I like this, even though my dabblings into the land of garage punk are always where the dirtier sounds are found and the mix is more manky.  A few songs don't truly hit the Fungalised mark but this doesn't indicate any duffers here.  The crew have found their style, have produced a quality end product and are a unit I do need to catch up with.  This offering should serve them well and long may the spillages continue.

An octet of anarcho-punk from France comes my way via the DIY label that is Grow Your Own Records.  The band are new to me, I noted the titles of the songs were in a foreign tongue and tried to get to grips with the meaning and content.  The reviewing life is a hard one, a thankless task when done with honesty but there ya go - I go in with good intent and hope to do my thing with fair critique, passion and good will - I like to hear new vibes and jump in again with a keen spirit.  Fear not the state of things, kick back and do!

'Ur Bed Kri' is about who knows what but the musical content is active, of many old school elements and with a distinct freshness that appeals to the long term punk core.  The world cries, the bands holler, there is a great need for this ongoing passion that spits forth with gratifying spirit. The opening machine-grumble fuck, the snarling anger and the fluency of this lo-fi sub-garaged anarcho spill is appealing. With added moments of seeming reaction ad-hoc vitality, a danger that always looks prone to overload and a great electric animation,  this is a delicious initial gambit to set the stage and get the juices flowing.  I like the persistent feeling of unrest and the overall mania - yes!

'An Amzer' blows in and kicks up a storm, but does so in a quite organised way.  Essences of the sub-generic labelling and something that rings true as regards elements post-punk, this is a fascinating mix and maybe the best track of the lot.  There is texture here, blemished emotive content and of course, an energised anger.  The components are balanced well for such a worked up kerfuffle and the ride and fall of the tonality, the switch from the verses to the chorus cuts is clashing, contrasting but somehow, complimentary.  Matters are careful and then chaotic, but the organisation of the band is sound and we are never left feeling that this unit are out of control.  This one works mighty well. 'Nathalie Lemel' prepares with crushed tin-foil textures before unwinding itself like a coiled viper with a tribal intent.  Tribute is paid to a social activist who got off her arse and did what she felt  needed doing.  The song has multifaceted wallop and rolls and fractures whilst somehow holding itself in one piece.  The drums are highly fidgeted and roll with zest whilst the bass bobs along, adds the glue between the string strums and banshee hollering.  Overall we have a construct right in line with what is expected and what the certain sub-generic pool is renowned for - natural and earthy too - bonus. 

'An Anver' pronounces with a weaving bass and regulated stickwork holding all in place and allowing the guitar strum to shake up the shit and throw in the odd tickle of angularity.  Episodes of straight ahead driving, bumble-bee fidget fuckery are all escorted by the unleashed banshee who has a problem to alleviate.  Raw, unwashed and as real and honest as you like it, this is a black and white throwback that has projected itself forward, done a reverse switch, and brought a new and lively account to the fore.  Spasmodic in part, rolling with intent in other areas - this is one of those outbursts you will fall in line with after 3 or 4 listens - and you won't regret it.

The snatching of two sees 'Polis Peplec'h / Justis Neblec'h' leads the way and is a real highpoint that kicks back against the governing gits out there, some uniformed, some not, some just-self-appointed cunts trying to keep all in check whilst boosting their own ego and self-satisfied holier than thou stance.  An enraged piece that is wonderfully played, awash with kick-arse activity and a good all-round feel that has rhythm, power and a magnetising rebellious streak.  I rate this as the pinnacle - what a beauty!  From this moment of rambunctious magnificence we get the sobered intro of 'Massive'.  A strange moment followed by a straight ahead gallop with interspersed oral tumblings and  some broken episodes and frayed edges that lead us into an almost patchwork cloth that really does take some adjusting to.  One of those that is played well and has good articulation but a number that needs time so as to acquire the taste.  I am still not utterly smitten which may be a personal thing but hey, so far the CD has been intriguing and acidic and one snippet that doesn't appeal is no bad thing - it may indicate a band doing things just right!

The last brace, 'Hurle Brûle' continues the savagery and the unpredictable nature of this stampeding shenanigans.  A good lick, a tantrumised spit splat and a focused energy that sears and serenades in enthused proportions not to be underestimated.  Glassy shards are exposed, twists and turns and electro burns are prevalent and the screaming sincerity isn't wasted on these lugs.  A fine affair of incessant and rabid hunger and taking us into the last beauty with passionate pride.  The closure is slapped down as 'Da Ruez' - a fine street-based DIY explosion of classy talent with the band creating some real sweet vibes amidst the seeming whirlwind of chaos.  A pseudo-military mock march, a slow and steady rise and a verse awash with threat before a string break, a further push and then a mixture of tonality that is a joy. The zenith comes though when the band lighten matters, add a sprinkling of sing-a-along pop-esque pinging and help all areas radiate with great brilliance.  The number ends, a brief acousticised snippet is an extra treat and then we are done - and so are my lugs.

Unsettled, fizzing, disgruntled, and raucous but amid all this there is an acute talent working together as a unit and making for a great racket that gathers sonic spices of old, acoustic herbs from the now and makes for a bubbling broth to savour. Even if you don't like it or prefer this in small doses, admire the intent folks and remember - we need many flavours served up at the table of tonality so as to keep our options varied and our greedy guts sated.

A three-cornered cacophonic product from a unit new to the Metal Postcards label.  Matt Nauseous of various sonic guises is joined by Lame Impala and the result is an off-the-wall peculiarity with an aberrant charm not to be underestimated but to be wary of.  There is no dawdling or over-elaborating and within the labels elastic peripheries things are what they are - bizarro baby, fuckin' bizarro.

We open with 'Matt 67' - a gossamer light flowing with a he/she vocal overlay that compliments the supportive string work.  The mix is DIY radiofied and very lo-fi with a distinct unrushed approach one can use to chill by.  The words relate to being cool but it leaves me standing and so I remain an uncool dude outside of another mini-niche (yes).  This is a very soothing number and just about holds itself together whilst dancing on the cusp of deranged experimentation.  Thankfully the players know when enough is enough and don't go overboard on the dabblings.  I don't mind this at all although the latter end pixies of the perverse doth truly unsettle.

A brief sub-interlude number comes next, namely 'Ball Face' - a quite massaging number with no real point.  The musical score eases the soul whilst the semi-automaton style of verbals contrasts.  A bubble-bath of slowly shuffling sounds with an innuendo never far away (especially if your head is addled).  I am sure all is innocent and I have no gyps with this tension relieving episode of terse simplicity.

The closure is the suffocated cavern blues known as 'Sexual Baptist' - a grubby fucker from way on down below with a filthy chug eventually escorted by bowel-dwelling hollers that are utterly indiscernible.  The lyrics on Bandcamp are necessary and then one still wonders what the fuck is transpiring.  A very dubious piece that disarms ones sense of stability and decency and leaves one feeling rather flea-bitten and… infected.  Pure absorbed playing with a deviant streak - would you place your trust here? That is the ultimate question!

Well, I expected to be disturbed, left in a state of unease and duly befuddled.  The arrangements that have been offered are angular, eccentric and individualistic - like or loathe, they are what they are and must stay that way.  Tis’ pure creativity that keeps one thinking and in these small doses I cannot argue with that.  The second gift is my fave - therein further success may be discovered.

A female fronted rock band from Ipswich with a player in the mix who has been under the Fungal spotlight before.  I was requested to do a review and having done one previously I thought it would be good to try and reinforce my feelings and see what comes this time around.  I am merely one DIY dabbler doing what I can in a mush of multi-faceted music.  People have the temerity (or warped ego) to believe I can like everything that comes my way, I am in a no-win- situation many shy away from.  Here is a take on something that is not my usual listening matter but then I ask myself, what is?  It is all about putting back and keeping people on the edge, moving and striving to improve - well, that is the theory!

We open with 'Dysturbia' - a poetical monologue of a verbosity not to be overlooked or halted.  A voice states its case, a case of many, in a world where hordes are shackled and down-beaten.  The strings that accompany are tender and barely touched before the words halt and a great grandiose musical intro arises.  The magnificence of the ascending tonality is not wasted on me and it is a very impressive salvo on which to begin a CD (or indeed, I would suggest a 'live' performance).  The blend of all components and the production levels are impressive and I am instantly ready for the following bombardment of noise.

'Take Your Foot Off The Gas' is rocked up and ready to roll from the off.  A supersonic highway tonal turbo charge played with an attention to detail and a technical know-how whilst all the while making sure the song snags, charms and gets one involved.  The vocals are clear and of the generic sub-pool standards that are always of lofty heights.  The rolling waves of sound are both tight and flamboyant with that cleansed heavy rock approach given a good bollock kicking 'oomph' and so avoiding anything easily designated as 'coffee table crud'.  This is a powerhouse that moves with a graceful and lithesome sanguinity and from first to last, and in between all compartments contribute to a complete musical escapade.

A retro-video racing game springs to mind as the opening thrust comes and leads into 'Diamonds Aren't Forever' - a cooler song with an almost threatening accent.  Bitterness and a matter-of-fact stance comes with a love-sick suffering the prescribed cause.  The verses flow, the chorus cuts roll on staggering waves, the band make sure though that power is maximised at all times and the production values are spot.  From the initial chops, the Americanised string accoutrements to the opening semi-clad moments and the overall well-nourished flow - this one compliments the opening rackets quite ruddy nicely.

The next coupling and 'Can't Stand Still' has an eager beaver throwback groove, almost from a whizzed up countrified line-dance 80's club where goofballs are dosed up and the punters are sozzled with the sonic sensations arising from the dancefloor. For me, the music is not of an ilk where I would reach out and play but, when I listen in here I feel my arse begin to jiggle, my feet start to tap and my head nod along to a highly relished product. A really full on saturation of sonic wholesomeness that captures a generic style and catapults it forth with sincere know-how.  I must be going soft in my old age but those keys are energising man.  The icy winds of discontent blow, great pronouncement are made and the she-orifice opens and offers a strong primeval salutation.  'Freak Of Nature' prepares and then takes a step into the shadows of thought with a tentative scenario set in many ways.  Like a lyrical horror yarn the song plays out and the intensity of a situation arises.  The players all invest their individual qualities and help to strike a chord with this spirted listener.  The crisp wire strokes, the naked chorus areas, the craft of the bass manipulations and the restraint and release of the tympanics all assist in making for a well-round and quite professional sounding escapade.  The lead lass is on her game and has vocal depth - hey, I am a scabby, gutter-grubbed DIY mongrel but even I can appreciate what transpires here.

Next and the emotive architecture of 'The Silence' displays itself with a subtle but imposing prowess and looms large over the whole CD and makes it a stand-out moment.  Slow, brooding and contemplative of the bewildering bagatelle of life and all its darn irrelevances, this is a soothing and unsettling snippet that touches the soul.  We all have questions, the answers are few but if we think less of self and getting what we can, and instead consider what we can put back, then we may go some way to success.  As the words say 'people come, people go' and so it should be - we are crooked enough, immortality would be a real horror-show.  A beautifully crafted number done with a certain uncomplicated approach - decent indeed.

'You Could've Been Friends' is a punchy parade of uplifting noise with a vibrancy that glows with great passion.  Missed chances, times moving - hey the song still blossoms with good intent and has a snappy edge that is quite irresistible.  A few names are dropped, I care not for these and am happy to piss on heroes and hail the zeroes.  This is a real joy jaunt and one that adds a real perk to the CD. It works perfectly as a follow up to the preceding piece that was doused in soberness.  'Only You' is a lovelorn, soppy toffee trickle that many doe-eyed dues and dudettes will love.  These kind of songs are what they are, they leave my boat only half afloat with a need to bail out weeping water before I get swallowed up by the consuming sloppiness.  Having said this, and stated that this shizzle is not my thing, I can appreciate the standard and the sublime quality that helps accentuate all areas and give the song good affect.  I play a few times over, I am not keen at all though but am too impressed to kick the creation in the knackers with idiot criticism.  A job well done with Fungal left trailing!

'Passion' begins with a wealth of texture and rock steady writhing before the opening verse prowls around the senses and prepares to pounce.  Matters ascend, the orchestration power perspires with great exactitude whilst all those involved in the construction process seem absorbed and totally in cahoots.  Again, I am finding this noise of a specific ilk and perhaps of a certain time but, a regeneration of rhythms perhaps neglected and overlooked is no bad thing and if this lot find their true niche they will blow many cobwebs away from those in need of a discordant dusting.  Slightly unorthodox and majestically sinewy - this is an emboldened piece with a strange scatter-attack towards to tail end where the lead banshee lets rip.  'Have You Ever Seen The Rains' begins with fractured heavens and a lost soul calling from the depths of the cloudburst.  The song develops and flows along with a very easy and fluent manner with just an honest and healthy blend of all components making for a listen that is quite pleasurable.  No political sniping, no hatred, no rage - just a matter-of-fact waltz that is simplistic, clean cut and very effective.  Need I add more?  I think not!

Into the final quartet with 'The Battle' welcoming with a strummed intro, a massage and a cruising cadence of believable prowess.  I feel a struggle, a dredging of the inner resolve and a defiance.  The heels are dug in, the phoenix rises and a muscular and quite liberated approach is taken.  A dynamic subtlety cascades from the speakers into the lugs and I admit, I am once again absorbed by the directness, the overall mix and the fact that for a rock band, they refuse to go up their own arses and ponce around with an overly prolonged product.  Neat man, neat.  'The Black Mountains' is a stripped to the waist number with a self-examination borne from the basics.  Atmospheric resonations ascend from bleak and considered caverns, the progression of all thoughts is slow and steady and comes from blasted scapes of seeming desolation and despair. From a victim comes defiance, from a prepared palette comes a portrait of cast off pain.  This is composite that appears languid and carefree, let your feet sink into the substrate and discover its depths. A hefty inclusion that needs time invested and when the flourish comes, we are taken to stratospheres impressive with a band utterly airborne and unified.

'Misery' ensues (not literally of course) - a plea, a hope and then a feisty thrasher that kicks up a good plume of fuss via some eager chugging and charging that has a impacting electro-vibrancy not to be underestimated.  The wire work is beyond efficient, the skin attention sees a good slapping issued whilst the oral hollerer does what she does with flamboyant and convincing success.  This one I regard as an unstoppable force dashing forth with arse cheeks clenched and allowing no chance for any penetrative criticism.  The todger of appraisal is tucked away, I am no rock loving 'erbert but I am not fool enough to kick a good song in the nethers of noise – the final impish titter almost proves my decision to be the correct one!  We shut down with 'Rip' - a drawn out raindrop tickling of emotive personality that, for me at least, outstays its welcome.  Do not be deterred by these thoughts though, I am a lover of things short and sharp and very raucous but I do transcend these boundaries and listen to all sorts of tuneage.  This one though is not an extravagant punctuating piece that I like to see a CD finalised with.  The band play it cool and are happy to roll one out with gentle and tepid care.  It is a mellow and delicately sugared closure with a lonesome soul aching with loss and pouring out the turmoil and trauma thus adding to the overall downbeat piece.  Despite not liking this one it is played well, has a resounding profundity of feeling and brings to a close a very good CD of an enhanced standard.

I have this lot booked, I am keen to see what transpires in the flesh.  I expect a treat and an erudite lesson in musical creativity and application.  If the band find their certain niche they will rock the rafters. I am hoping to win them a few new fans too, they deserve it.  All I ask is they keep it humble, their feet on the ground and keep producing the quality.

A recent Welsh Wankers Invasion saw me come across many usual faces in different guises and a couple of bands that I hadn't seen before.  One of these was Rumbrave, a band I had heard the name of but one that had not registered on the Fungal sensors.  They came, they played, they buggered off and left me... fuckin' mightily impressed.  Wow and I mean wow!  It was a treat and I was also given a 4 track EP to savour which I said I would review (hence the textual ticklings here).  I have taken my time due to being overly stretched and not willing to rush out any old codswallop.  Here are the thoughts of honesty, integrity and Fungally threaded intention.

Nah then, I was unsure as to how good matters would be as regards this CD due to the fact the band were so fuckin' good in the flesh.  I can't just make up false praise and I have to be honest at all times but by heck, the opening number here is a complete gem.  'Johnny's Shoes' rolls in on great emotive waves of sublime texture before cutting back and delivering a bass driven first verse that has a steady slap escort and solid vocals.  The six strung assistance comes, the song burns bright with a unique take on an accident and the blame that is casually thrown around.  There is something fascinating about taking something that appears inconsequential but when dissected reveals the failings of this human gunk.  The flow increases in the joy factor with the chorus cuts utterly mesmeric, the punchy tuneage a fine partner of cacophonic crimes and the overall mix perfectly blended.  The more I play the more invested and intrigued I become - what a moment!

'Forty Minutes' is of equal outstanding stature and deals with a call on the phone that left deeps scars and inescapable trauma.  The feeling behind the whole affair is tangible, the zeal poured in from all players and the vocal desire to release untold turmoil are all played out in a frighteningly effective manner.  The 'whoa hoas' help lighten the palette, the life given is something to behold and the unity between the players something to certainly put them in good stead with anyone willing to listen.  A strip down, an acoustic haunting invades and leads us by the hand into the final oblivion - a quite stunning track.

'Nowhere Town' is a tale of a man tied to the bottle and who refuse to change his ways.  We have all indulged, some though just seem to be lost causes and end up playing with fire and their very existence - it is all very sad.  The drilling wire work, the repeat tap and the feisty words could even be seen as a celebration of the piss-up but do not misread the message - take care folks.  This is a real stomping chomper that will devour your senses and have you absorbed with its distinct punky spunky edge and yet again, the watertight delivery.  A holler to 'just fuckin' do it' gets us thrown into some flamboyant guitarmanship and racing headlong further into the song.  Another less saturated respite and we hammer along, hopeless, doom laden and in a state that is what it is.  Another complete and satisfying explosion from a band of top notch merit.

The closure is the neatly constructed and very gothic acoustic arrangement of 'Forty Minutes'.  A rehash of that which has been and that which still haunts.  This final snippet shows that the band are coming in from different angles, willing to avoid the trappings of any strangling sub-scene and are quite adept at producing full-frontal subtleties.  The resonating hurt, the crushing tenderness of content and application all work. The inner desperation to release the ravaging ravens that peck at the soul and see them fly away once and for all are all donated forth with great care, conviction and classic DIY honesty.  Marvellous.

Well, I was worried that this CD would let me down, that it wouldn't match up to the belief borne from the virginal viewing I had recently partaken of.  How wrong I was!  This is one of the best EP's I have reviewed for a long time and it makes me quite ruddy happy to say so.  I am fucked, aging and burnt out in many ways but... the delight at the DIY depths is unsurpassable and people at this level, making music of such a standard without thought of coin, kudos and some kind of silly status, fuckin' matters.  Thank you chaps.  We go on... FOREVER and guys, keep these 4 track Volumes going - it will be a winning recipe for sure.

Another strange and scatter fuck splat of sound via a band of mystery and self-expression.  Volume 1 was devoured, digested, dealt with and dumped down from the assessing anus onto the great worldwide wankspread.  Does it all make any difference?  Are we so divided and absorbed in our own flimsy niches to be really making any impact?  It is a warped world but for me, if folk are doing things humbly and with good reason and not looking for coin, kudos and a pat on the back, therein beauty is found.

'Escaping' begins with heavy pulses, a scuttling underscore and a slow and steady rise before nervous scratches are issued and the spoken words come.  A multitude of scars are carved deep within a soul that is still recovering from early years trauma.  A sad and soul searching encounter played out with respectable honesty and unashamed admissions.  Bare boned and a demon beating deliverance with a cold and sober steadiness - this is a perverse intro into a very truthful essay of tonal clarity.  'Darkness' is a soft texture of sound with a blatant exposure of fear, reality and nervousness.  Despite the soft core of the sonica and the slow and sanguine motif the words that come invade and disrupt and are borne from a soul struggling, looking for answers and getting nowhere.  The contrasting juxtaposition of emotions and arrangements should not work but, the fact remains it does.  One can almost feel the head wank dogs run for cover as some semblance of sanity is achieved via a quite neat snippet.

'Echoes' is fine artistry with all realms barely touched and placed on the attentive canvas with gentleness and poetical consideration.  A youthful arising of multifaceted fears and trepidations that leads to a long term suffering from which there is no escape - all the while a control, a sedate care and a straitjacketed frustration seem to be the main ingredients all vying for attention but working in gratifying cahoots - a very sincere and winning inclusion.  'Stuck' begins with a real jive joy and a cock-sure strut that takes me to fresh assed ghettos where the dubious roam.  The song is a million miles away from this realm though where we get a lonely neglect confessed and an addiction exposed.  Honest and direct and done in just under 63 seconds - this is always a good way to keep folks interested - short, to the point and fluent - with added depths.  Nice!

'S. A. D.' is a twisted song with the content dealing with the downer delivered by the dreary but the opening sequence rather disco-fied and upbeat.  A nastiness and snarling frustration comes as the electro-agitation increases.  The clashing trashing of cerebral confoundedness all makes for a cruelty within the weave that does indeed work.  Fucked off and feeling low and the rains fall and the dark clouds grow - it is all a test of the mettle, thank goodness we have the powers of creativity.  A printing sequence, the data rolls and a self-deprecating admission comes.  'Commodity' has a funk bass, a computerised orchestration and a cold and unmoved vocal style.  A carcass crushed, is there any comeback?  From the last vestiges of tumultuous life comes flickerings uncanny and unsettling.  A grim piece that is almost flatlined.  This is one that fails to raise any erection of positivity but it is all part of the overall emotive plea.

'I Cried' resonates, it brings to the fore all the faces and fuckers who tried their best to suffocate the soul, to regiment the individual and to blanket any sign of uniqueness.  The opening soundbite works, the flow that comes is almost shackled and overwhelmed only just releasing itself via a very moribund snippet.  This and the ensuing 'Forsaken' are a draining duo with a distinct negativity taking the reins and not allowing for any respite or glimpse of hope.  I am touched but not to the point of being enthused - it is all distinctly moribund and the tones just lack an upbeat pop factor that would provide a needed contrast and ray of possible sunshine.

Next and retro digital escalations/de-escalations, subtle pumpings and inner beats with whispery vocals explaining the situation of 'Lost The Heart'.  This is a song that oozes frustration whilst seeking a place to find positivity and a response.  It seems as though a brick wall has been hit and there is no chance of progression.  The popping and sub-disco duality all help this penultimate track get by.  The closure comes via another quest, this time pasted down under the tag of 'Inner Peace'.  A slow gloopy piece that provokes thought and has us wondering if we ourselves are doing OK?  Are we repressing things, are we victims of scars not yet healed?  The black clouds loom heavy and this is a short and sable cutlet that signs us off into a silence that seems more and more ominous.  The intention is not to defraud or piss about with pseudo-happy-clappy codswallop - what you see is what you get - bare bollocked honesty.

Well, Volume 2 is done and I have 1 to go.  Is this music, is this something else?  There should be no questions as regards the emotion and the DIY aspects and if you can't use the audio platform to expose torment and suffering whilst being yourself then we are all truly fucked.  This isn't fun-time frivolity trying to win fans and it certainly isn't tick-box produce to boost sales - make of it what you will but do not deny the ethos and the depth of the content.