THE COUNTRY DARK - COOKIE TRAIL

Fuckery from Finland with a bleak and insidious blade of sound cutting through absorbing flesh with vindictive psychobilly spite and leaving one unsettled, unclean and...unsure.  All 3 sensations are far from negative, with the latter an ambiguous side-effect of listening to closely to the work of...musical madmen.  The nuances and tonal qualities are all of a certain strain here with an abandonment of the experimental.  A tiptoeing and a reliable routine of rhythm is had, in-keeping with sub-cultural standards and deviant-based rules - ooh heck!  So the asylum is left in ruins, the lunatics are free to make mischief and along the way they concoct the odd tune to tickle!

'Death Of Kay Kent' is an ominous title and proceeds through the undergrowth like a contemptible little rat clued in to the smell of underhand behaviour.  A clanking breakdown of a musical mind and a pattern emerges.  A disturbance finds rhythm, a voice weighted with mystery and horror manifests itself, the freakshow begins and what we get for our penny payment is a peep into a world where things are cursed, cruel and disabled.  This opening gambit is a substrate layer, nothing more, nothing less - I wanted more and feel a trifle deflated at the offering, I move on, still hopeful of a real frightfest.  'Bella In The Witch Elm' is a hot dog delivery up the jacksie of safety and gets one chewing the maize and aurally gawking like a bumpkin possessed.  The dungarees release flies of interest as the inner carcass twitches to a beat that is quite invigorating.  A motif flicks away throughout, there is a distinct relish in the output and even the most insensitive sensors find an excuse to flash.  I slug some moonshine and dim the lights, bring on more goosebumps baby!

'Every Skull Has A Story' gallops over well-used wasteland, kicks up a small swirl of discordant dust and deviates away with an untrustable stride in the sonics.  The song is within the cacophonic keep-net thus dipped so far, but here the sinister edge comes more to the fore and one feels a certain underhand grooming is going on.  Beneath the table of honesty the band shiftily work away and donate a tune that is laden with mystery and impish intent - not bad at all.  'Just Because You Killed Jesse James' shows that the band are maintaining mentally injured thematics with this oddment crossing boundaries of time, turkey-assing the terrors but also keeping a tongue firmly in the cheek.  I am not overly keen on this one, tis a toothless goon of comedic idiocy and although I can see many swivel-eyed lunks reeling around the barnyard, whilst scratching pimpled arses and chewing on the old maize, I fail to get plucked into some kind of arousal - it happens, or not as in this case.

'Slippery Slimy Slut' and 'Beauty Queen Sodomized' are a couple of cheap, vulgar tonal tits with nasty nipples of noisy intent on leaking sour milk for only the most perverse listener to feed upon.  The first is a sneaky snake up the trouser leg of the vulnerable with the aim to penetrate any vacant orifice and slink out its shifty stuff.  The waltz riff is exotic, the vocalisation corrupt and disrobing, there are some folk out there waiting to fall victim, of that I am sure.  The second assault has a dead man walking feel, a zombified monologue begins from a soul too far gone to have any hope of salvation.  The bumming that comes is truly ours as we are shafted by a Tex Ritter mocking that deals dirt rather than cards - ooh mother.  Both songs will appeal to the warped, I hope I avoid that category!

The next brace of unsettling upchucks comes with the highly disturbed 'Today, I Killed My Best Friend'.  This is a song soaked in retro Noir-esque tremulations and monochromed 60's TV shimmerings borne of viewings such as The Mysteries of Edgar Wallace (albeit with added deviancy).  There is a great atmospheric vein coursing with wicked blood running the full length of this pseudo-confessional track that gives more insight into heads with many clashing marbles - strange man, strange.  'Black Diamond Train' is a contrasting song and trundles along a track of quirky affect that oozes fun and upbeat escapism.  There is a 'run-out-of-town' essence that indicates the carriages awaiting are  only for those with a dodgy criminal record of a dubious listening slant.  This is a simple song that travels round and round and leaves one entertained - no bad thing hey?

We fuck off into the wastelands of sound free annoyance with the tendril-twining tune known as 'Magic Empire'.  This one is a conglomerate of hocus pocus nonsense, tribalised tickling and that old-school twanging as mentioned before.  An odd twist of lunatic lemon to add to the cacophonic cocktail already mixed, a song that ventures down the homestretch and weaves off track in a kind of experimental way.  This was always going to happen, if you have lasted this far you may still get entertained here.

A curiosity for sure, a CD that walks a fine line and sometimes staggers into that which is appreciated and now and again falls into that which is spat upon.  It is a mix for the wayward, do you fall into this criminal category?

THE DARTS - SUBSONIC DREAM

2 songs from The Darts, an outfit who play a garaged-psych rock and who hail from Los Angeles and Phoenix in the bad old U, S of A.  The band have been a couple of years on the block, are on something akin to a roll and are being tickled along on the reliable Dirty Water Records label.  They have undertaken several tours, are carving out a niche, they offer up another two songs here and in I go with the tail flicking.

Side the first, 'Subsonic Dream', crunch strums in whilst the shadowy vixen escort hypnotises with profound mystery.  The deliberateness of the opening bars is chased with a freer burst of developing verdancy that sees all components blossom and get keyed up to greater echelons of success.  A suggestion of sanguine snottiness is had, a display of honest gumption dictates the day and a nice retro-garaged sensation is spruced up and given a good dose of modern day realism.  Overall we have a concoction of swirling colour, all tonally opposing but when moving as one gives an appearance that is aesthetic and, exciting.  I swirl and twirl, I recommend this to all to back-street jivers and down and out dogs of discordance - get with it baby!

Flip and spin, next please.

'Bullet' is a hybridised mix of that which is bitchily metalised and that which is rock and rolled to synthed up zeniths of a blatantly sexual style.  The writhing music masturbates itself on the substrate of slinky confidence and gets itself worked higher and higher into the realms of fiery gratification.  Beads of perspiration taste of liquid silk, the tease and please copulation emanates a foxiness of muscular certainty and the lick lip lusciousness all adds a dangerous element not to be taken too lightly.  Amidst the going's-on we get a full on saturation, I shall leave that to your imagination.

2 songs, of a style and pleasing to the lug.  I like these quick dips into varied puddles of buzz.  Here, the quick splashing pays dividends although I have been moistened on a brace of previous occasions - ooh I am the lucky listener. NB - this CD is released on Alternative Tentacles and Dirty Water labels - I think that says a lot!

PHANTASTIC FERNITURE - SELF-TITLED

Phantastic Ferniture come from Sydney, New South Wales and offer up an odd CD that lies on the outer fringes of my ever-flexible listening arena.  I take in all sorts, some I find shite, some I find alright, some I find shines ever bright but...I have a go...such is my punk spirit.  I have travelled through this collection of songs, rolled around in the music like a cow in a flower-filled meadow and have been blessed with many scents and tonal colours.  I take all in, inhale, exhale and eventually cough up an assessment, it goes as thus:-

'Uncomfortable Teenager' is a very fresh feeling piece that has a deep-rooted emotion running through a sub-tremulous tune that floats like an autumnal leaf down a crystal clear river of gently driving decisiveness.  The initial throat inclusions are wary, seemingly sweetly nervous and so win favour that is without affect and any patronising bullshit.  The rear lick is simple, the upper layers smooth and although, at the latter end of the song, I feel matters tail off and swirl in a pool without aim, I am quite keen on what I am hearing.  I move on, wondering!  'Bad Timing' feels its way in with tentative bassism before matters develop and a swinging swish of blossom patterned serenading comes our way.  The fragrance emitted is spacious, passionate and full of layered depths that slowly manifest themselves as the song ascends to its full potential.  The development of the discordance comes with little fuss, the inclusion of shadowy she-vocals adds atmosphere and when the moors of melody get blown over with greater force the song takes on a new lofty standard - interesting indeed.

'Fuckin And Rollin' is a little too self-indulgent although when I play further I find this judgement a little harsh and slap myself on my wrist.  The stroll of sonica is through summer lanes of carefree attitude that falls onto a mattress of copulating involvement and just 'goes for it'.  The perspired effect radiated is languid, chilled and idle-inducing - it is far from a noxious effect but one you have to be in the mood for - I am sure the more hygienic and toned out parts of society will indulge with favour.  'Gap Year' swirls upward in a gathered zephyr of tepid texturisation that animatedly combines to become the best song of the CD thus far.  The slow curve upwards of all sonic applications is neatly done with the rippling of the rhythm executed with care and clean cut accuracy.  The vocalist is given space and time in which to shine, the players are in no rush and I think make for a pleasant creation of easily digested matter.  I like this one, can you tell?

'Take It Off', strolls in, tests the sonic substrate and then moves with a certain feline grace and subtle muscularity.  The skins are flicked over, a lapping movement is adopted with a mere glimpse of things sub-garaged offered to those who have dabbled in such dubious recesses.  The limp and languid approach is borne from thermalised mechanoid forests of deep summer where time is best taken so as to avoid a situation of over-heating.  The metallic leaves are rustled, the wired root system seeking, the lazy accents invasive - make of this what you will.  'Parks' begins with a warm embrace, slightly increases the hold and ripples the rhythm of the cuddle with slow, well-practised persuasion.  The movement is completed with lucid vocals and unflustered musical kisses that flow over the carcass with unassuming ease.  Tonally, this is a song of subdued appearance given life through the ease of the strokes and the aural swish of the patternisation, technically, this is a construction of simple arrangement given enhancement by hands that care for the end art form - I nod with satisfaction! 'I Need It' is at the opposite end of the listening scale for me and although slow and sultry it burns too long, expands a theme and leaves one dozing off at the latter end.  This is poison to my soul and, after the previous number with all its similar traits I can't wait to bail - sorry folks.

Next, and 'Dark Corner Dance Floor' has a smart lilt and swing in the inner core of the delivery that immediately gets one in the moody groove.  The fluent aspects are maintained even when the throat work joins in the composition and all the while we get a feeling of something not too fussy, stress free and floating on a cloud close to that number '9'.  If all songs on this album were best likened to a chocolate bar then this would be the 'Aero', - well aerated, inoffensive and easily consumed without any outrageous flavours - that will do for me - chomp, chomp.  We shut down with 'Mummy Y Papa', a song that starts with a pseudo-80's stick tickle and one that develops into an early session of cultured insight exuding a quality and subtle generosity from hands very much in control.  I will go so far as to state that this opening segment of sound is perhaps the best found on the CD and has a very profound and impressive effect.  From here emotion spills in greater waves, the rise in the sonic spume is far from overpowering which is a good thing, anything more than what laps at the listening feet would be just vulgar and perhaps cause an overspill in the judgement - not a bad way to finish me thinks.

Another one bites the dust, another one that keeps me thoughtful and another offering that exposes the depth of musical flavours out there.  This is not my first choice of listening material and never will be for that matter but there are many elements to delight in and many nuances that keep one thinking which in itself is no bad thing.  In parts the band drift on for too long and in some ways flat-line, in others they capture a certain gossamer exquisiteness that exposes a distinct quality - you may well agree or disagree but to do so, you will have to listen in, he says with a gentle elbow aimed at the ribs. 

RASH DECISION - KAROSHI

Like a duck on a nest of eggs I have sat on this nest of noise waiting for thoughts to hatch about a band who have changed their staff many times, have had an acoustic hiatus hernia and toured here, there and everywhere within this septic isle and abroad.  They are now still foaming over with their brand of thrashy noise liable to tear one a new mucky ring and  I know what I am getting into here and yet refuse to skip in, skip out and palm matters off in double quick time.  Care needs to be taken and that is what these Cornish cacophoneers will get.  In fact, after this intro, I am taking another break and contemplating the spillage.  Eventually though I spill the following thoughts...

Side A...

'900 Minutes' is a marvellous boom banging belt out of pacey urgency that defies initial logic and blows one's underpants of attention clean off.  I didn't expect such a virile and violent start, what about the foreplay chaps - oh ye brutal bastards.  As I run for my shredded duds and attempt to cover my exposed privates I notice a noise based swelling around my still trembling nob - I think this may suggest I am rather taken by this first explosion.  'The Martockian' counts down and paradoxically rises, with each pulsation danger gets closer.  The trigger point is reached, the holler avalanche comes, the ill-temper, wildness and unified gob eruptions are all escorted and mauled by some big string and skin smacks.  Despite the intense application the whole playing unit maintain a crisp and clear moment to appreciate.  The fact is, Rash Decision are on their game here and nudging each other along onto plateaus that become loftier and loftier.  These short explosions do it for me and when played with such exactness I would be foolish to gripe.  'Snakes' will not be charmed or play the charmer, it is a rough writhing asp of raucous brutality that uses much venom and many constricting muscles to keep the explorer of sound on the back foot and eventually on their knees.  It is  not a lengthy serpent of sound but a short stocky reptile of uneven rhythm that takes one or two squeezes to force out a full on appreciation.  I am in the groove with this one, the opening riffery causes a tension, a tension that causes a bloodied perspiration, a perspiration that reeks of spirited acknowledgement of a band banging out a belter - oomph!

Question - isn't 'Buzzsaw Tomahawk' a wonderful title for a song.  It brings images of musical violence, idiot mentality and a need to smash ones carcass against a wall of ignorance over and over again.  The band thrown weaponry all over the fuckin' place in this beautifully messed up shitkick of defying power chordage.  Try and keep up, tis all over in a flash and in that small space of time, things get hammered and one gets...busted.  'The Seagull Has Landed' is a pecking fucker and just like the avian delight is a fuckin' flying beauty.  The song blasts in, shows its inner fire and then takes to the wing and flies with a glorious zoned in power before swooping down and snatching away any chips of resistance you feebly hold onto.  The spite of sound comes like a swish of malevolent wings and warns of peril to come, a peril you will never escape.  The soaring moments do it for me though, encapsulate everything mighty about this shithawk of noise - one of the best this, play loud, expose your privates if you dare!  'Glass Canons' is in a rush, is commanded by the 4 cabled contraption of reverberating irritation and moves with a certain 'react and act' naturalness. There seems to be an 'off the cuff' jazzoid expression fighting its way to the fore and whilst this is a good thing for meddlers in experimentation and  dabblers in deviating discordance I am finding things not quite sitting on my shoulder of appreciation.  Like a parrot in peril, with arthritic claws lacking control, my view slips and I am not keen on this latest lump of noise - ooh bugger.

'Learning Things About The World (Part 5)' hammers in, hammers out and leaves us bleeding from the rear - and with 'chip eating cunt' ringing in our ears - ooh the naughty young men.

Onto side B...

'Fuck The Tide' begins, blows in across a windswept playground where drenched devils of darkness can apply their trade and make apposite acoustics.  The tribal ill-temper that is roared forth ejaculates from the downpour and spunks out from each and every orifice a resistant sweat of blazing incandescence.  The end result is a laboured lightning flash amongst gathering clouds - is this enough to win a nod of favour?  You decide ya lazy cunts!  'Knocked Loose' dashes, splatter twats and rattles home a blindingly effective head shatter of self-propelling musical aggression.  Uncooked, bleeding and sick to the back teeth with apathy, this fuck-throb of electric energy moves through several sequences, each one loaded up and always liable to blow your brains out.  From the basics we get accoutrements to enhance with the band blindingly effective throughout.  Another angled shard flashed across your wrists, another painful infliction of utter cruelty - oh you bastards are turning me on.  'A Mouths A Mouth' is harsh, hazardous and clobberin'.  The attack is against the moron, the ones who say and suck.  This isn't as good as the previous cut, it has a lack of deep veined fluidity but is still mixed to perfection and has a good wallop factor.  Not a Fungal fave though, I get fussy at times, perhaps here is such an instance - I must remain fair – onwards.

Into the final 4 and troubled tangents are tossed from mentally ill niches of the mind via a song that says it all 'Sick And Tired'.  The inner thinking pattern is splat fucked and shat upon and the sound that comes is barbed with a turmoil destined to bubble over and become something uncontrollable and viciously violent.  Thankfully we end on a threat and nothing more, I don't think I was ready for the beating then again...!  'Salary Man' is a beauty, it uses a blatantly well-raped formula, condenses it into a sub-minute over-gush and riffs it up like a salivating musical psychopath laden with whizz.  Fast, furious, fuckin' fizzing, this small attack on the decency of one's aural orifices is a minor pip I suggest you don't overlook.  I replay, and replay, and replay - man, that old lady at the end of the street is gonna cop it tonight!

In a penultimate position we have 'Medium Raw', a ticking time-bomb that explodes in expected frenzied style with all fuckers aflame and sending out a blizzard of skin-searing deadliness.  From heads immersed in hardcore an 'Enya'fied' mockery takes us into the silence before the finale - it is a good sing-a-long moment that will have piss-pots enthralled.  'Strife' is the aforementioned 'finale' and gets on with matters in uncomplicated blatancy.  Four shouts of the song title nail a verse, repeat and then chop all elements up and stagger out into the darkness before one last flurry is had.  The paced parts are best for me, when the band crank it up they fuckin' do it mighty well - oooh errr!

Look Rash Decision are good, they have put in the work and are nailing matters at the moment.  There is nothing new here but, as is the case when balls are blazing and belief is high, there doesn't need to be.  As far as hardcore shit goes this stinks as well as anything out there at the moment and I suggested that you dabble and knock yourself out with the sonic stench - phew!

BAMBOO VIPERS - HAUNTED HOUSE EP

Punk rock goosebumps rise when placed in near proximity to this somewhat twisted, tortured but highly capable band.  From the inner areas of South Central England this testing crew knock out a mix of mayhem with much forethought and a great consideration to not rest on their laurels.  Here we have a 3 track tickle of hair-raising proportions, the question is - will it raise the follicles on the noggin or the rear end - or perhaps both.  So unto the ghostly goings on we go - shudder, shudder, shit in the pants!

'Haunted House' opens its discordant doors, lets the toxic draught swirl around your knocking knees and sends a chill up your trouser leg to parts, sometimes neglected, sometimes overly inspected.  The atmosphere is set, we await the phantoms of pandemonium to appear and bid us welcome - prior to that we get a musical upheaval to send the mind...slanted.  The creeping malevolence rises, a shock around every corner is there for the uninitiated and indeed the unwary.  The rise in all terror accents is choice, the passion poured is infecting and the mix of components indicative of a crew who know their aims.  This is a good slap of tomfoolery with a believable edge and done with such conviction so as to avoid becoming one of those 'throwaway' constructions so often encountered in many murky pits. 

2nd up, verbals of the insane kind - 'Payback' kicks in and is built on days and days, weeks and weeks, months and months nay...fuckin' years and years of frustration all spilling out in one mountain of agitated angularity and kicking this way and that like a spasticated octopus on angel dust.  The cruelty of life, the insecurities it creates and the fuckin' mithering head-pecking stress it creates all contribute to a voyage that shows a band wound up but wanking with fervour.  The drums are belted to fuck, the wires bent to kingdom come and the throat called upon to dispel inner demons and create oral fire.  This is a theatre showcase of anarchic arrangements designed to discombobulate and disarm.  There is much to take in but with time many tendrils will sneak forth and strangle out a response - wait for it, wait for it!

'Malcontent' opens on minimalized tones, ups the ante with usual out-of-kilter effect and spirasl this way and that like a 60's twist-o-rama drama filled with head fucking madness.  The effort folds in on itself, the pills of creation have been taken in hefty handfuls and what we get is an awkward upchuck liable to wither willies or appeal to the crazed.  In parts I find myself wondering, in others I find myself putting my head beneath the sheets to escape the turmoil.  The fear examined is a fear passed on, but the fear metamorphs and doesn't sit well.  Imagine being locked in a hexagonal room that tumbles eternally and changes colour with every rotation whilst demons from the past shaft your sensibilities - I don't like that and I don't like this song - boo for Fungal!  To add - the song seems ideal for a video though - think about it!

Chaos still reigns supreme in the Viper Vaults and here we have a taste of their unique venom they like to poison you with.  Two songs work, the last falls short, other views will oppose, some may concur - the fact is, they have less relevance if they aren’t put down as a review - come on ya lazy fuckers, let us keep these noise makers moving and get some scribbling done.  Now go and investigate!

CANSHAKER PI - NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY VIOLENCE

I have never heard of this lot, my mind can't keep up with the music on show in this big wide world - I am going acoustically insane and yet, have no complaints.  The crew under the spotlight are a 4 piece, spring from Holland and put together a hotchpotch of experimental music that vibrates the inner valves and attentive neurones.  I spin the silver circle and consider, a process like this is best repeated, so I repeat 'several times over' and then put fingertip to the plastic lettered squares so often tapped in this techno age.  My ear drums keep pace, eventually a review is created.

'Pressure From Above' repeat spirals on tonality that in some ways is of yore (think early 90's) and yet sometimes is of the modern day (ahem, think now) and so I have much to mull over.  The opening has a techno hint of raw electronica, the move forth tickles the epidermal layers of things less 'niche' whilst all the while fragmentations of other sonic worlds are glimpsed.  The song has a freshness amidst a sobered edge and at times frisks up into a cacophony of higher order.  Overall though we have a certain disjointedness that make this an effort difficult to grasp and I am left wondering if this is a good or bad thing, which in itself is a meritorious point - odd hey!  'Tonsil' clank wanks, staggers like a cripple under stress before finding a stride pattern that is far from steady but which gets from A to B via a few misplaced letters in between.  There is a lovely angularity going on here which stops me from cruising through an assessment.  The cunts at the helm are creating cracks in the cranium and I re-listen over and over again to try and summon up some semblance of accuracy.  From the lucid and hygienic to the crumbling and ambiguous I find a charm in the arrangement that nudges me out of anything resembling a comfort zone.  Fuses blow, rethinks take place, the bass becomes a salvation – now that was close.

'Sooner/Later' is a mish-mash of madness that chants in, scurfs up the substrate, mirror echoes the mutterings before wallowing in a self-made fuck up of nonsensical sub-frustration.  A wank is needed, time to take a break whilst the players get this out of their system,  'Smurf' is an intriguing mix of that which is delicate, that which is slightly rough around the edges and that which is lyrically odd.  There are many gratifying touches within the weave, Nirvana-esque hints and power surges emboldened by things less forthright.  There is a touch of something dada-istic always around the periphery of this mix and, despite the tongue flicking around the cheek I am still raising my thumbs and giving this a positive vote - I must be slipping!

'If Kelly Doesn't, Then Who Will' struggles to find its feet with a slow 'can't be arsed' feeling to the initial strums and almost reticent tympanic dabblings.  From the idling petal blossoms a song of limpid hues and watercolour suggestion gains solidity and eventually (emphasis on that word) gallops along with indie-esque tones that never truly reach a promised potential.  Many may be happy with this finished product, I am not - it is marred by the distracting opening section and lacks true weight - a shame.  'But Why' attains a higher standard with its nervous energy, out of kilter arrangement and general fuck-clutter awkwardness.  It is a quick piece too - my punk spirit says 'yeah'.  'No Sack, No Way' begins with the most accomplished tonality thus far, has a politeness and cleanliness that I would normally find puke-inducing but here find quite titivating.  The sparseness of certain parts, the gossamer lightness of others and the tangents tossed in all make for a song with the important 'layered' factor which keeps one guessing, wondering and guessing some more.  It is an embracing song, put together with experimental adhesiveness in a most careful way - choice.

'Put A Record Out' is a very confused effort that travels along a hotbed of varied states and comes out at the end of matters - dishevelled and perhaps misunderstood.  The opening independent tones are taken, the shuffle into pastures new is not subtle enough and a mild jarring follows.  Further scrapings are had with discombobulating discordance the order of the day.  The band are using continuing catalysts of sound and reacting all the while - it is just a matter of judging whether or not this is a bad thing?  'Legless' is a more sedate and directed number, nudging closer like the strangler in the cinema eyeing up a potential 'after-dark' victim.  The application is minimal, the simplest of shimmers are used and the whole shebang feels as though it will fall apart at any given moment.  A soundtrack, a mere passing moment barely touched by the vocal palette - strange!

'The Indie Academy' is an enlightened number and one that brings reminiscences of many similar ditties.  There is a friendly and approachable vibration coming to the fore and a complete lack of anything offensive.  The opening tones are subdued, the machine gets oiled and the melodic output is more than a little pleasing.  The inner components are well-rinsed through, there is a classiness here and a thoroughly completed job on show - nifty.  'Half Book' has that early 80's misery that soaked through many mood-laden offerings, usually from dour faced 'erberts clad in baggy attire and with a flop mop top.  This doesn't detract from an alternative-ised sound that travels with mid-paced motions like an ocean of reeking fat.  There is a strain here that many will wallow in, at this stage I am almost indifferent.  It is OK (in my opinion) but doesn't leap from the stereo with any authority.  We finish with 'Beautiful World', a shit-crawling song awash with troubled anguish that spreads mucky paws over the upper epidermal layers of the construct and makes for an unwashed experience.  Nervously nudging in, gaining in confidence and ending matters with something akin to a flourish.  There is a heart gaping here, that always helps matters and as the song unfolds I am sure I can sense within myself a feeling of appreciation.  It is a decent closure and perhaps the emotion wins the day.

After throwing myself into the fray I have come out the other end split down the middle and finding this a hit and miss CD dependant on mood and situation.  There are some genuine highpoints and many moments that just don't catch the attention - this, as per, is all down to personal taste.  Objectively though I must say there will be a niche awaiting the noise and within that niche much appreciation of the application will be applauded - just as it should be.

SYSTEM OF HATE - THERE IS NO MADNESS HERE

I gave System of Hate a gig many moons ago, I also reviewed a bit of their product - it was a mighty good feeling.  The band have moved on up a few rungs since then, our paths have not crossed since - tis a shame but hey, these things happen in this musical mire.  I am happy to re-acquaint myself with the Yorkshire based vibrations and get my aural mitts around this latest venture.  The band play matters hard, their volcano of sound spews hot lava baby, if you like things light and fluffy you'd better run for cover...now!  The thematics seem mainly to have a problem with the cross and Christianity which many so-called liberal thinkers will applaud - the story could have been so much different if the slant would have included a few more religions - but hey, that's fashionable thinking for ya - blah, blah, oops.

'There Is No Madness Here' pounds in, spits black blood with heavy spite and rises from ashes of silence like a vulture of vehement intent.  The tones are a mockery of that which is hallowed, the twist and grimace in the delivery is admirable and the hatred in the veins is akin to that which many would deem 'a crime'.  This initial onslaught is a wrap-around chuck out, nothing over-ambitious and nothing groundbreaking but a delivery that is sodden with sound and frazzled to a tee - it sets a standard.  The initial grumblings of 'Black Fire', come to the fore, a radiating riff-rammed number doing nothing more than setting the scene for the following avalanche of sound.  Malevolence streaks the soundscape with torrid scars of bayoneting intensity designed to destroy resistance, create a reaction.  The structure and arrangement is, in its basic form, a simple affair but when the band apply their passion, saturate all areas and go through the exacting production procedure there comes forth a construct of monolithic proportions.  This opening eruptions begin a conflagration, the prophets of doom are wanking hard and spilling seeds of black – become impregnated at thy peril.

'We Who Walk With God' is a statuesque slab of immovable noise, almost belying the fact that things have motion.  The tones are dealt with via a crushing hand, a digitised molester designed to oversee what transpires and what will eventually be turned to shit.  Will is taken, a blind eyed acceptance forced, a procession of preaching pirates will decapitate anyone dare thinking for themselves.  These crippling hordes come from many quarters, don't get sucked into thinking that only one tribe is responsible - be on your guard.  The band pass over the product with aplomb, it is an all-consuming conflagration indeed.  'In The Shadow Of The Cross' riff rises, slaps ones senses into mode 'alert' before an apocalyptic avalanche of seething bleakness floods all areas and drowns one in an irresistible deluge of sable liquid.  The tactics used to convince the onlooker are, as per, condensed and crammed niches of noise, making sure activity remains high, keeping pressure levels steaming and the thermals radiated searing the skin and the soul.  The band have chosen their style, refined it and pissed blood into the whole mix - nasty but nice!

A snatch of 3 rapid reviews:- 'Your God Is Dead' pronounces itself on grandiose tones before travelling forth with the usual venom such anti-religion nuts exude.  The song wraps around in sizeable loops and burns with a blinding incandescence found elsewhere on this CD.  This isn't a stand-out moment but it still burns bright.  'Tears Of Blood' trickles in, flexes muscle and lacrymates a sickening sound of damning proportions.  The atheistic aggression and overflowing cup of power-chordage is bang in line with the filth spewed forth thus far and to some it may be one ass of sound flogged too far or more power to the elbow of hate.  I am au courant with the crippling majestic malevolence of what is being spilled forth but I my need an exorcist to help me cough up a fully appreciative judgement.  'Resurrected' is one big bastard and that openening wrecking ball cum thunder-cracking deluge is something to behold as all attention is demanded and....given.  An episode of resistant violence that grumbles and roars with such anti-beatific magnitude as to be almost evil.  The blasphemous edge punctures the flank of the sacred, spills blood that shouldn't be spilled and hits home with authority - it you are buzzing from the bomb-blasts thus far you will be certainly aroused by this.

'Rising' is a liquid song built on fluent throbs that travel along a neat highway of accepting easiness thus making for a song that may be lengthy but one that gets on with the job and leaves the aural orifices of the eavesdropper well blown through.  The band are on a good run and they rattle through this one with a consistent and thoroughly thermalised affect I am very much appreciative of.  'Ill Are The Cursed' opens with grandiose tickles along the length and breadth of the monochromatic keyboard.  Metallic wings rise and give air to avian acoustics where sky Gods dwell and overlookers inhale all that has been and all that will be.  A regulation takes shape, from billowed clouds a presence rises, a presence blessed with all absorbing sonic power that culminates in an omni-consuming thunderstorm of marvellous majesty.  Resplendent in raiment’s of hard riffery the musical beast advances, commands and controls - in its presence we stand awestruck.  If this is punk then of an operatic persuasion it must be deemed, if this is noise, of disabling talents it is blessed.  The 5 minutes 49 seconds passes with pleasure, the completion comes with finalised tickles of the ebony and ivory - this is an outstanding moment.

'System Of Hate' is the closure, a hard-packed final flurry to bulldoze its way into your memory banks and make sure the beating is rounded off in suitable style.  All hands are to the pumps, the pressure applied to the already hammering pistons is perspired and passionate, the song swings heavy fists and makes sure we are slapped down to our knees in a state of awaiting abeyance.  Only when the last throw of the sonic di is had are we allowed to rise, collect our thoughts and reason out what the fuck has actually happened.  I stagger away, a noise-induced nosebleed is mine, yes indeed, what the fuck has happened?

I was stupid enough to accept this review, I took my chance and am now in need of psychiatric help.  The whole foundation of my very being has been shaken, my chance to seek salvation seemingly under question, my need to indulge in some calming sonic seasoning knocked into terrible touch.  The System that is Hate kicks like a mule and kicks to areas you may find quite inappropriate.  If you like your music muscular, momentous and moving with a full-on sound then this is where you will find much gratification.

HOAX - THE ENEMY WITHOUT

North-west nob-rottery here with a cynical and vicious hardcore assault that is in no mood for fannying about.  4 bastards have a problem, they can only relieve the tension by clattering away and so clatter they do.  Sometimes they clatter weaponry that is pink, purple-tipped and destined to get blistered, now and again they pick up some musical instruments and do the same - such is the case here.  The  whole shebang of 6 tracks is over in less than 10 minutes, that is the way hardcore should be played.  I don my speedo's of sound, push in my over-squeezed globes and escaping pecker and prepare to blitz out a summary of the shizzle - twang, oops there goes me willy again!

'Fake News' opens, is a 5 second mush and states 3 lines you should already be clued up about.  There is an art-form in getting one's point across without fuck-arsing around - here is such an example, it is pseudo-music pissing on construction and just cracking forth its message in one brief 3 way slap - thwack.  'What's Round His Neck' is an irritated tear up that sees a slow wind-up of musical emotion culminate in the release valve being blown off and the vocal administrator given his chance to shuffle papers of rage and file his message of fury into your 'kicked to fuck' cerebral cabinets.  The disgruntlement that comes is straight from the belly and anyone who knows this oral operator will realise the roarings that come are purely heartfelt.  This is a solid outburst and played with a dirty DIY edge that exposes an open-wound acoustica that I personally get off on - cor blimey guv'nor, me genitals.

'The Kids Aren't Alt-Right' is a wonderfully entitled piece, sharp and insightful and throbbing with demanding statements amid a flurry of riff and roll rocking that is unapologetic and like any decent custard pie, slammed into your face with great intent and much flavour.  The call for self-education and a resistance to the barrage of brain-washing bullshit is dealt out via an incessancy of rigid and provoking riffs.  This is perhaps the most straight-backed song of the lot and is built on concrete slabs that are positioned with stated care - perhaps this is the reason it is my least favoured but I have no gripes with the message.  'Built On Lies' is a beauty and questions matters many may not like to investigate further - are your Gods and commanding cohorts really dictating matters - the answer may turn your guts.  This song is a short flashing sabre of dangerous devilry and is swung by wild eyed minstrels hepped up on the fizz of the fuzz and the raping of the tympanics.  The orgy that we get offered a glimpse of is brutal, hurtful and highly stimulating.  The false promises exposed are by a band firing on all cylinders to make this a fuckin' arse sizzling treat.  The quick follow-up punch comes under the title of 'Fit For Work', a fiery uppercut to the jaw of the controllers who deem people in desperation ready and able for the task of labour whilst many, whom duck and weave, go unmithered and are left to glide on by.  The fury and frustration are combined into the muscle behind the punch and when the delivery winds up and let's fly we all get knocked backwards by the honest and heartfelt effort.  Pertinent, punked and saying what needs to be said - the hardcore edge may be of a sub-scene slant but the ethos should embrace all.  Another one I like - good fuckin' work chaps.

We end with a demoniac delivery, a belt-out of proportions best described as 'possessed'.  The song, 'NGNM (No Gods, No Masters)' is a roaring entity of reverberating hatred that screams with deep resonance and lets you have the message right up your shitter.  No nonsense, no nob-rotting - just pile-driving nakedness up and at ya - lovely.

Hoax are here, the first impression matters and here is a foundation laid to consider.  I have just booked Hoax for a gig, another fiasco built on honesty, DIY ethics and without apology - I think they may fit in very well indeed.

APOCALYPSE BABYS - POLITICALLY INCORRECT

The Apocalypse Baby's can't get gigs.  The scene has left them stranded and they are struggling like fuck to make any headway.  Ok so several members are perverts, one has a murder charge hanging over him and 2 of them once held a 'Bring Your Own Rubber Benny Hill' party that went tits up and resulted in 4 people burnt to death and one in need of a penis transplant.  For the scene to hold the players to ransom for these mild offenses is insane and so, like the supporter of the deviant that I am, I gave them a recent gig, had my socks blown off and was sent home tingling (the tingling had nothing to do with the music but further details may get the band in deeper hot water). They are playing another gig for me next year, have given me a CD to molest and maul and, after much fiddling I have come up with the following verdict - 'Kenny Ball had wonderful plums'.  Beside this verdict I have another, it concerns the CD - here we go!

'Fast And Loud' is not a description of Hilda Baker's amphetamine based love life but the title of the first track.  The band bounce straight in, zip along with a mix of that which is slopped with attitude and that which is popped with subtlety.  The band are fired up, this one needs your 'nob twiddling' assistance, especially in the area marked 'volume'.  The breeze given off is tidy although nothing new under the shit-stained sun is had.  I have stripped to the waist and soak up the rays anyway, there is warmth, my carcass goes pinky, perhaps something a little more perky would have been welcome but man, the more I listen the more I convince myself I may be wrong in my initial judgement - what a twat!  'Politically Incorrect' is a title that puts an arse on the line and sticks two fingers up the rear of the PC fuzz and their fuckwit thinking.  I am doing an anti-PC gig soon, I shall be blacking up, bumming an amputee, knocking seven bells out of a midget and holding a 'wank a womble' contest whilst throwing darts at Muslims and farting in the mouths of pregnant Jewesses.  I reckon the gig may get pulled.  I care about free-speech, I care about decency though - here lines get blurred and people turn freedom into shit.  The AB boys are disgusted with the state of play and the holier than thou Gods of morality - they fizz out a tune that begins in 'Carry On' style, sharpens its fangs as the weavings progress and hit home with a good melodic burst  of energy.  It goes without saying the delivery is tighter that a gnats chuff, or should that be tighter than a Jew with budgeting issues - ooh me wrists! 

A quick gallop through the next 3 with 'Drop The Bomb' a spit back against the whole shebang and highlighting how too many are self-absorbed, not giving a fuck and letting their world around them turn to utter shit.  The 'me, me, me' attitude has helped the spiral continue downward and what we see here is a pop song soured with disgust and thrown out with a wonderful double-edged flavour.  This vein continues somewhat into the chasing cutlet known as 'Up Against The Wall'.  Here we see the privileged get targeted and their shallow, easy words examined and exposed for the flimsy tick-box fuckery that they are.  This effort is typical smooth and liquid AB fodder, dealt with melody, slight abrasiveness and simple sing-a-long methodology.  The band get their point across, do so with articulate punky sweetness and this second lollipop of sound is surely worth a lick or too and the bitterness enjoyed - for fuck sake, there ain't nowt wrong with a bit of anger folks!  The last of the flitting 3 is my favourite, namely 'Poverty Line'.  This is a subtle beauty that pings along on a great riff and roll routine and has a bare basic chorus that one can holler out to whilst still pinging and holding on to one's precious beer.  The imbalance in society, this is a nice mix and match of emotion to emphasise that point.  The band romp through this one with energy, the bollocks of the DIY dog well vibrated and, may it be said, aroused?

'We Don't Speak To Them' concerns those smut-ridden workhorses who grafted away and put their arses on the line down catacombs of cloying darkness just so the country could function and we could keep warm in winter.  The day came, due to governmental hands, when divisions arose and 'Scab' and 'Scargill' were forever headline news.  Some went one way, some went the other, friendships were ended forever - hard times for sure.  This is a good ditty with a core of iron sprinkled over with the usual melodic touches the band apply so well.  As honest as the day of long and making a point to ponder for those that witnessed things turn to shit.  The crew know their style, they execute with precision, I am overjoyed.  'I'm Alright Jack' sums up a large part of the modern day thinking 'I've got mine, fuck you'!  The wheels of advancement are clogged with shit as this selfish cycle continues and turns the opposite way as to way things should be moving.  Again the band expose disgruntlement, a slickness and an outstanding accuracy to the musical matter created.  The vocal style is as individualistic as ever and all components add to a mix that embraces the old, the new and...well, not so blue but that is soon attended to via the ensuing track 'I Wish I Was A Lesbian'.  A song to get the doubters down shouting and the PC fuzz getting out their notebooks and scribbling down condemning thoughts - ruddy arseholes.  Talking of ruddy arseholes did I tell you about when I spent a night with Frank Bough - perhaps another time, I have a CD to assess don't ya know?  So, the tit lusting number delivered is straight out of the 70's when crudity and the 'buxom bust' was a pinnacle selling point and Benny Hell was receiving treatment for 'EES (Eternal Erection Syndrome).   This is a tickling song, is sweetly played and has a lick (ooh heck) to appreciate - get over it!  

4 quick flicks of the wanking wrist and 'Stab In The Back' is a personal onslaught filled with spiced forthrightness and never once looking back over its scurrying shoulder.  The song has bass beetling insistence and ready-rubbed guitars with the stick work maintaining good activity levels.   As a counterpunch 'Promised Land' deals with a let down by the state, a turn from hopes to disaster with the song cruising along in more obvious melodic terms and getting its point across in a gentler but still pertinent way.  'Where Have All The Punkette's Gone' asks a question from curious loins and in some ways is a nostalgic look back on times when the erection came without the use of a lolly stick and several elastic bands and hormones were as plentiful as the moths in Alf Roberts' wallet (ooh what a tight arsed shopkeeper he was).  The song is one best left to those with dried up gonads, a loss of pulling power and a wanking arm given ready practice I feel.  A loop is highlighted and even though the effort is a repetitive little git it is easily joined in with and perhaps gets a tingle from down below...or then again...!  The last of this brisk batch is entitled 'Ska Man', a moment of culture, a moment that says to those with duff hearing and preconceived ideas 'look, we have talent, look we can mix and match, look, we play punk because we love it but aren't afraid to dabble' - you know what I am saying!  I like a bit of ska, I have a decent collection of old and new and the upstrokes never fail to encourage a jig.  A careful dabble outside the usual box, a wander down memory lane in an unabashed way and a look back at the soundtrack to life when two-toned elements brought many factions together and blessed them with some darn fine music.  This is what it is, you may get up and dance, get soppy eyed or just enjoy it as part of this decent CD - either way - tis all positive!

The back stretch is upon us, 'Tomorrow Belongs To Us' is a fruity number riddled through with fluency and sanguine loaded spirit that stands up in the face of adversity and oppression and makes one over enthusiastic promise.  The band plough through this one with efficient ease and never let up their own kind of rhythm rogered application - I shall not gripe.  A footy song next 'Spirit Of 66' is unashamedly patriotic, nostalgic and all aroused over kicking around an air-filled globe in the hope of breaking the net and raising a roar from many a footballing enthusiast.  The slant here is towards English Pride something that leaves me on the outside as I am a mere lover of the non-league and not one for flying a flag and supporting the national team.  This is a personal slant I know and one not in favour but I can still recognise a fine song for those in the pack and all worked up when the 3 Lions are blazoned and the propaganda machine commands.  The best part for me is when the song dissolves into a more street-level hollering known as 'Yellows' and gives an exposure cum confession of Mansfield-based mania.  It appeals to my rougher side and has an 'Oi'-esque feel I like too.  Some people will be turned on by this, some will be really turned off - tis no reason to wallop a fine band.  As an aside - Nobby Stiles had very experienced nipples and a wax testicle - oooh!  

'Rawlinson's Boys' is a very articulate and erudite piece of war-based knowledge passed forth with an insight into the heartbreak and horror of a situation that has left many scars.  The band take their time, cultivate a considerate piece with a certain earthy honesty that sets out a scene and shows the emotion that many poor souls went through.  The boys in the song were under orders, had a certain misdirected pride, they got their heads down and indulged in madness - the final twist of a promise to have no more war and then to hear the tache'd madman spout off almost leaves us with no hope - a nice touch to a very decent ditty.  We close with the comical idiocy of 'She Ain't Half A Dog In The Morning' a song that is a carrot-dangle to many PC constables and will no doubt be turning the stomach of many with something akin to morals.  Not my favourite song if I am brutally honest but the lads couldn't resist this impish inclusion and who am I to argue.  It is what it is - straight out of the vaults of postcard comedy, tickled with extra profanity, seasoned over with an eye-twinkling mischievousness and given the usual AB treatment - job done.

I have taken my time here, tis what I do and, at the end of it, I am still wondering why this fine long-serving band are struggling to get gigs.  My small bit is no good on its own, all I can do is create small openings, say my honest bit and 'hope'. The scene is flowing well at the moment if you are lucky, in a niche or in with the right folk - but remember, some are doing it their own way and suffering - this isn't how it should be.  My advice, get this CD, reconsider and book the band - paradoxically I can almost hear the deaf ears turning – oh bugger!