FUNGALPUNK - CD REVIEWS Page 1
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AMBULANZ - III I have dabbled with the art-punk angularity that the Ambulanz offer on one previous occasion. I enjoyed what I heard but recognised the fact that the Leipzig based crew were walking on a precipice and always hanging on to the side of decency by the eternally dabbling digits. I received another request to review and wondered if I was taking a risk and maybe coming up against noise that I could not wholly grasp. I jumped in with the swords of honesty and discretion brandished, one can only try and a rhythmic risk is always good for the soul.
Great magnetic grooves welcome and the aptly named 'Joy' gets me instantly bopping. The heavy rolling wire work and the graceful escort that brings an open spaciousness to the intro all add extra life before the oddment of a verse comes. Futuristic and off-the-wall, this colliding moment drifts with space age experimentation before juddering and shuddering with effective and cranky crackpot nervousness. This song has a veritable skin-deep charm, one that pervades the epidermal layers in a sneaky fashion and has you nodding along without truly knowing why - ooh the crafty bastards.
More fat wire work, an emphatic breathless mania, a rising stress and of course the usual sub-anarchic angularity. 'Flowers' is a seed planted, it germinates, we await the blossoming with trepidation, it is slow going with many influential nutrients used to throw forth the final bloom. There is a lot of entangled growth sending out shoots in many ways here, I take my time and examine several times over. Have we got a multi-coloured hybrid on our mucky mitts - one with a softness, a sharpness, a sting, a soothe and perhaps without a defining structure? I know not, what I do know is this creeper gets entangled in the soil of the cerebral substrate and feeds. Some moments are all consuming, some curiosity inducing - I am in a state of befuddlement but it seems to be pleasurable.
'Number' pootles in, a cuckoo-fucked winkle-wankle before a breakdown and then a good thrusty, lusty strum. The opening verse has a suggestion of e-numbered activity which only increases during the chorus and the marvellous waltzer keyed head spinner where the band let all manner of twitches run wild. There is a distinct hint of another band I have reviewed, namely The Ghoulies. This latter lot are a manic pop punk unit and here we have a great hint at that crackpot realm with perhaps added disarray and ambiguity. I like The Ghoulies, I like this song - it may be a form of madness.
'Repetition' begins with a broken jigsaw style angularity. It is a really comforting disjointed noise that attacks before a snagging repeat beat comes with a chug charge and wired up eccentricity that stutters and shakes whilst manic surges glow with thermal enthusiasm and a much needed relief. If anyone is wanking off to the rhythm of this riot I do have the greatest pity for their private areas - by heck, the scars will be deep. This is a song with many influences that one is unable to actually define or truly pinpoint, this is where the success lies and how the band operate methinks.
The last of the penta-punky produce spills forth under the tab of 'Slime'. And what oozes from the speakers I hear you ask? Strange emanations and scritchy-scratchy annoyances combine before a gentle rise into pastures horrified. Frenzied foaming soon jumps to the fore with inner sputterings and fluent outpourings having a real funfair cum happy-go-fucky swing of capricious leaning. It is a jolly old final fling although the following nonsense just after the 4 minute mark is pointless. Crikey what are they thinking about!
So, despite the final blip this is fine and dandy stuff folks. It is creative gunk best produced in these bite-sized chunks so the listener doesn't get over faced with too much fizzy-busy happenings and can spend time properly digesting what has transpired. If the next release is similar of another 5 part scenario then count me in. Gunk Chunks – bring em’ on!
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ALL SEEING EYES - TRONE DES FLEUR From Kentucky comes a three-piece of a bluesy leaning, with essences from beyond that sub-genre thus making for a multi-coloured, many faceted mix of melody, that grooves and moves with high hip-thrusting relish. I have 10 tracks to digest and assess, I get cracking and after numerous eavesdropping sessions spit forth the following considerations.
'Brick X Brick' hits the spot with its crummy cur tinklings and driving forcefulness that comes from an incessancy of rhythm and a tin-foil reflectiveness that shimmers and shakes whilst keeping all animation levels loaded on up. Old school copulates with things more modernised whilst all the while, never letting go of the garage and blues fundamentals and the necessity of a good old tune. One crucial aspect the band get right here is the scuzzy, roughhouse edge that gives the whole escapade grimy life. As a fellow sonic scratcher I am yapping with glee.
'See My Jumper' bass bumbles in with a nifty tympanic escort that is awash with shadow shimmers and a sub-sinisterism. The guitar wanks soon come, they bend the weapon of tuneful war this way and that and have a certain naturalised reactive rhythm that is straight off the cuff. The verbals unfold, the subject matter is non-too profound (to say the least) and we progress with an intrinsically basic ease that is indicative of the sub-scene. Matters work, there is good relish in the riffage, plenty of sleaze sauce splattered and a nice balance of simplistic cacophonic condiments to make this an appealing dish without being overly fanciful.
A whine, a cool dude drift and 'No Blood Blues' goes back to early rhythm roots and takes a slow sanguine waltz that is just not for me. I like spunk and gumption and things of this ilk with pace, when the accelerator is abandoned and a real slow groove is taken I am left standing. There is a pseudo-sexed up intro with subtle threat and only when the song is left off the leash do I feel any inkling of promise. Alas even then I don't fully grasp this dubious ditty and find it a little to self-absorbed. 'Caravan' has an obvious lick, an immediate snag and a real desert-drawl that works a treat. Suggestions of outback ramblings, things gently countrified and highly nomadic this may not be my daily ditty dabbling but I can appreciate the accents and the punters who will embrace it. There is a liquidity and a good shift in tone throughout this with an uplift of honky-tock goodness suggested - not bad if I am fair, which of course, I always try to be.
A hint at an air raid warning is banished whilst wires warp and procrastinate. Smouldering bluegrass ashes welcome us into 'Jackals' a very reclined piece of work for those lazy contemplative times when the sun is setting and the day is done. This is no great sugar rush, it is no shaker of the shitty, it is a simmering drift done with no effort to burst a blood vessel - somehow it works and generates a fair amount of heat provided one is aurally prepared. Best served with more animated dishes methinks.
I grab a brace, 'Elevation' has a neat swing, a throwback 60's release and something slightly spaced out. A search for a more lofted plane seems to be the theme we are grooving with here as the band cut out a nice hip-swing inducing rhythm. Away from stresses and strains, a place where multicultural colours move and merge as one, this has sub-essences of psychedelic happenings and is all the better for it. The inner release adds to the freedom in a song that does what it sets out to do and doesn't labour the point. 'Faded And Jaded' switches style, glides in with a sleepy-eyed sidle that is still slightly imbued with reminiscences of the Land of Nod. To my lugs, the song is in two sections, the first dreamy and soothe-smooth, of coffee-smoked contemplation whilst the second is a trifle more uplifting, more free and perhaps more natural. I remain unsure about the opening throes but this is only due to personal tastes and in no way due to the lack of musical artistry. There are many out there who will love this one.
'DaytonKY/Train Kept A Rollin' is perhaps the most satisfying, hip-gyration inducing and doggone grooviest track of the lot. The coupling of two creations into one ride of rolling fluidity works mighty well and all the while there is excitement aplenty of a good old jingle-jangle jaunty joy to skip along to. A great switch-off moment with no stresses on the reviewer to plough any depths or reveal anything profound. Tis' rock and roll music, played with a smile, and done with relaxed and impacting affect. If you add juice to the speaker output the whole shebang will just sound better - yes!
Into the last two, I cut a dash to the closing silence. Throwback country-azure crooning comes via 'Blue Cashmere' - a yokelised dawdle drool that drips into the lap with a suspicious grooming style I am not tempted by. I am not a lover of country and western music and this one strays a little too closely into that realm for my liking and leaves me somewhat cold and thankfully, musically unmolested. 'She's Fine, She's Mine' twinges in, tympanically staggers and 'whoa hoas' from cavernous depths. The pace of the song is set to 'treacle tiptoe' and is a drawn out dirty dog of sound that drags its flea-bitten belly over the dusty substrate of your mind and leaves you... scratching. This isn't a song I would rush to if in need of a pleasure fix or a dose of uplifting resonance but - the musical mutt somehow worms its way onto my lap, gives me vibes of something decent and in some way, doesn't leave me fully deflated. Maybe it is a case of one unhygienic dog recognising another or the cool ripples of the acoustic fur that tickle certain parts best left unnamed. I know not and I sign off uncertain.
A CD that has good vibes, changes in texture and is a cut of something different to my usual eavesdropping leanings. The crew know what they are doing and are doing it well, I may not be fully smitten here but I hope I recognise a CD that will please many with a fondness for this kind of shizzle - my fingers are crossed.
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HARABALL - FEAR OF THE PLOW Here we have a Norwegian band, dropping from the multi-fractured sonic skies and catching me unawares. I perused the bumph that came with the digital promo, pondered then cast it to one side so I wouldn't be too swayed prior to the splattering down of my textual tossery. Again the formula used is simple - listen, mull, be honest.
The starting point comes with 'Pink Tiles' slowly appearing from the silent recesses. Strange and somewhat eerie musical manifestations arise before a main charge is taken and the flurry of all components takes precedence. The gobbage is worked up, slightly scurfy and neatly balanced amid the tonal tumult. All areas pour in a good amount of perspired labour and the unity during the progression is notable. The raging holler is effective although just a little more juice in the end mix would have helped and the inner switch down to things contemplative is a bit of a hindrance. This is fair noise though and best played with the volume adjusted to level 'max'.
'Fear The Plow' wastes no time in jumping to the fore and grabbing the jugular with vicious intent. The opening attack continues the theme set in gratifying style and the pace is more than adequate for the task at hand. There is a bleak feeling to this and the preceding track, a pregnant cloud threat that seems ready to give birth at any moment to a Lovecraftian based paranoia that seeks solace in the primeval scream. What lurks beneath the upper epidermal layers of the song is anyone's guess and the nightmare feel continues through the moments pace riddled and more ponderous. This is all OK but the best song of the opening trio comes under the appellation of 'The Squatter'. Pronouncements are made, the theatrical stage is set before a schizoid claim is made. A voice is heard, a mystery guest has taken up residence, a distinct feeling of unease is created via a number that is disturbed, clashing and colliding and with a sound equilibrium between the settled and the upset. The situation set and the general unhealthy feeling within the mind all leave one with a sensation of uncleanliness - I reckon this a good job done - crikey, where's me carbolic?
A couple to embrace, the first is 'Prison Cheese', a song that pulses in on old-school 80's synth pulses before adopting the now usual approach. Mid-flavoured, growing in threat stature and exposing more muscle than first deemed probable. The arrangement is sub-orthodox and low-fi blitzkrieging liable to appeal those who love matters a trifle fiery, semi-hard-edged and with the usual sable shadings. The second track of the quickly snatched duo is the aptly named 'Year Old Bread'. Sub-Pistol glass-light twinklings, raw-assed opening verse, a progression that is slight, a somewhat flatlined commencement that duly reaches a moment to gulp in new air and 'go for it'. More fear-inducing, more swathing slashes at the carcass of your resistance and despite the unappealing start this one comes to life albeit too briefly before settling back down and not really creating the thunderstorm expected. Both the tracks here are decent but just leave me unsatisfied, the crew have more to offer and need to get full wallop out of the production room.
Another brace, the CD moves up a notch that is for sure. 'Clown College' catches light via sharded string work whilst heavy statements underscore via the rest of the musical makers. The weight of the song adds to the impact, the opening verse is controlled but blatantly aching to escape the leash. Tension rises, a quick flicker and the chorus thrust is sodden through, highly electrified and testament to a band hitting a real zenith. From here the magnitude of the song is impressive, I rate this one very highly, those surges are really something else. The follow-up here needs to be tasty and that is indeed the case as 'Floral Prints' is a doom-laden song with a very vicious score and a temperament that always seems on the cusp. Inner palpitations add new angles, the chant sub-chorus is easily snatched and joined in with and as the earworm eats wax and shits out a molten fluid we are duly seared into submission - a very exciting grower for sure.
'Toska' next, the penultimate track. Something different this way comes via the early strokes that sees strange layers peeled back and the entrance into hard cacophony made. A decent change in attack this although it isn't my favoured piece and perhaps comes in at an awkward situation after two fantastic tracks. There is added depth here though that may give it the greatest longevity factor, I am just finding that both main facets fail to fully gel within my own personal noggin. Tis' a tightly played number nonetheless and will have ardent fans jigging. The last piece is known as 'Circling The Drain'. Rumble pulses, touches of delicacy and then more of what has been. The opening throes here are almost stripped naked, when matters are upped the nasty, nasty spittle edge comes but just needs a more hammering effect. As per, this greedy bugger always wants a little extra during the last throes and I don't feel we get it here. The song is for those who prefer things dark-edged and perhaps more gothic in its flow. It moves well, has some layers that I may have overlooked but after a few listens I am just not being convinced.
Hey, there we go, Fungal has investigated another disc and come up with a review that is what it is. There are a couple of standout moments on here, a few songs that are darn tidy and a few that I just don't fall in line with. I think the band have more to offer, each component though needs added volume, space and ‘oomph’ in the mixing room. Of course, these are personal honest thoughts and could be a recipe for disaster although I think not. What comes next is anyone's guess, enjoy this in the meantime folks and watch out for those sizzlers!
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EAMON THE DESTROYER - THE MAKERS QUIT What strange cadences are emanated from the speakers this time? From dingly dells of misshapen discordance comes a collection of crooked cacophonies with charm, rhythm and moments of soothing ease. To help ye have a little more insight we see that the man at the helm is a painting graduate and hails from Edinburgh - perhaps these romances into the world of music are audio artworks played out on your awaiting canvas with deep consideration - we must delve deeper to find out methinks.
'The Maker's Quit' begins with careful and perhaps overly considered orchestrations before developing into a cool wafting balmy somnolence. The utterances that come are just on the wrong side of level 'lucid' but with effort they are decipherable. We are carried with care on a featherbed of thoughtful quietude with the opiate of the outpouring very much of a lid-tugging lilt. A veritable laid-back piece that must find the listener in the same state of cerebral composure to garner any true appreciation.
'Silverback' creeps in on thermally tepid tiptoes. I envision an untrustworthy shapeshifter manifesting itself from beneath a coffee table where brews cool and open magazines parade pictures of thought provoking soporific slumber. It is a dreamy number built from foundations as light and fluffy as Angel's Delight whilst, may I suggest, being of a similar tonal flavour. Another one of those that I politely label a 'mood' piece, I hope you get my drift! 'Three Wheels' follows a similar thread, it is how the cacophonic cake doth crumble. From pastel shades of hesitant caresses and across a canvas already subdued with a mellow wash comes a landscape structure that is not liable to stand up to any critical downpours. The initial throes attempt to make big pronouncements before we are taken down a thoroughfare of controlled emotion and fantasyland creativity. The application is exact but a little too gracile.
Oriental tints and panoramic vistas combine as 'The Ocean' unfolds and seeks to envelop. The reservations I have only come after the creative force outstays its welcome and somewhat diminishes its own impact and identity. From the opening throes to the midway section we get a secure comfort emanated whilst hesitant experimentation unwinds and reveals itself in the usual soothing manner. The application is precise and tenderised, before an inner funfair invasion comes and disjoints the whole fiasco. We move on, fall back into a buoyancy of tranquillity before finalising via a hybridised freak of child cum dove - it is all rather unsettling.
Onto 'Captive' we go, another careful number with childlike magic dictating the general thread. The initial touches are almost done with an 'as you go' quality and so leave one unsure as to the main motif and the general aim. The quietude seems to fight for prominence and does indeed win through but for me, matters outstay their welcome and things become too smoothed down and somewhat wishy-washy. This is water-colour music that has not been given a good vibrancy, something I think would enhance all properties and give the creation extra life - I have gotta be fair ha' knows.
3 to go, I don't mind 'Firefly In The Leg' - it has a nice blend of components that bring a certain contrast factor to the fore. The jazzy elements and the upbeat way that they are delivered help things to progress whilst dragging the luggite along for the journey. I would have preferred a full on episode of this malarkey, preferably with a 2.5 minute running time. This is still a concoction with many fascinations though - I am gently charmed. 'Pleasureland' is a meadowland moment, it takes me to flower-strewn vistas of thoughtful magnitude. It maintains the slow-swaying monopolisation that takes precedence throughout this 8 track journey and if one throws this, or indeed any other number, into a melting pot of hardcorian expulsions, a distinct enhancement of all takes place - well worth considering.
We end on an expected note with more ambiguity, soft pliability and general care in the cacophonic community. 'The Buffalo's Song' stutters in, poses questions and ambles along in the now predictable fashion. The creative forces know what they want to do, at this point I just go with the flow and accept the situation. At this punctuating musical mark I would have liked something really capricious and vulgarly dynamic but, this is not how it is. There is little to criticise here although I am left wanting a little more.
Eamon The Destroyer is a strange kettle of fish, a real challenge for this spiked reviewer who, does indeed tackle all sounds and sensations and always wonders if he has captured what is going on. This is for those in need of chill-out time, who like things unrushed and who are happy to sit back and summon all kinds of cerebral fantasies. It isn't my everyday sonic slurpage but it is done well and challenges - dare any idler ask for more?
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NEON CRABS - DROP IT ON YA Yeah, I am into the next rhythmic rockpool and getting my sonic tootsies pincered. The dry flaky crusts of tonal terra firma are seeing a slowdown in cacophonic creativity and I am happy to wander further out and dabble with dins submerged. Father Time encourages me to stray from the well-trodden pathways and to keep on exploring, these dayglo crustaceans have me intrigued.
Track one, 'Table Talk' opens with a well-compressed groovy fascination that has a cold, stark and mechanical sensation running right to the core of the rhythm. The recognisable verbals soon join the fray, come in a strained and stated pseudo-digital style with questions asked and no answers given. A very post-punk, futurised sidewind of sound with a consistent roll emanated and a quite subtle snag factor that keeps one piqued and involved. The end collapse was always destined to happen but this doesn't detract from an enticing opening account.
'Modern Convenience' shuffles in with back sparks enhancing and the robotic routine a combination of the spasmed, smooth and sweated. This is a look at the stressed demands, the everyday mania and the way we are going in this world of 'everything on a plate and at our beck and call'. Hints of Heads Talking soon manifest themselves in my eavesdropping noggin as well as plugged in automatons going through the motions in Metropolistian fashion whilst devoid of emotion or any questioning ability. Take a look around you, play this, have we really got it sussed in this demanding 21st Century shambles. Not a bad do this one, and into the fluster-bluster confoundedness of 'Pumps On A Puma' we go. This is a cacophonic spurt of annoyance, a song relaying a disgruntlement with a slip into a world of idiocy and hate with no seeming chance of escape. A really wound up number that jangles the joints as well as tingles the tendons, in an almost uncomfortable way - one to reconsider when my blood pressure is down methinks, as for now, it is not a fave.
The slow and deliberate plod of 'Boneshow' is very intriguing and the bass bumble heavyweight addition gives the song a really cauldron-bubble. The guitars are screwed up tinfoil, the tympanics metronomic and purposeful, the gobbage semi-snarling, stated with a spittle-soaked edge and thrown into a mix that is thermally ready to boil over and burn your juiced up genitals. I do like this one, it is awkward but easy to embrace and throws in a new angle to the manifestation made thus far.
'Red Foxx's Car Velvetising' begins in a lunatic tribal kind of way. This one sincerely sounds like a black-magic summoning, borne from heatwave back lands in places deemed out of bounds. A very voodoo VD infected number, curling its own cacophonic cock around the perineum and bumming out a quite disturbing piece of ambiguous mania. There is a nasty relish jacking out a sugar rush/ruddy thrush here and I feel myself in danger of catching something unhygienic - I scarper on into further orifices of dinnage before my cobblers get crippled.
One of the CD highpoints comes next via the 'Information Super Highway'. This is a solid song with a good momentum and some fine rock and roll riffage working along the usual crabby vibes and tonal tangents. A forceful grinder with plenty of flesh on the bone. Take note, the Universal Resource Locator has everything at your fingertips, even your fuckin' soul baby! I take this chunky thriller chiller as a warning via a good creation - dance, do not take a chance, seek too deeply, you may not like what you find...but, now and again, vibes like this are unearthed.
Just before we retire with have two more tracks. 'Tea Time Bitches' runs along with good activity levels and a watertight delivery. A travelling vehicle that rides a rocky path and makes sure the inner engine is given a good old rattling and the pistons are pushed to a fair level of productivity. The head gaskets fail to blow, the exhaust grumbles out good plumes of noxious noise though and the ending is abrupt and leaves a feeling of a journey unfinished - it is all reflective of drivers who go with a hunch, drive with DIY focus and if need be, take a leak when necessary.
The finale, title track it is 'Drop It On Ya'. A jaunty little number plays out with a bountiful under-throb and a well waggled ad-hoc nob. There is a superfluity of flavoursome submission here with many layers to peel away so as to reveal the inner workings. Again, the feeling of restless disgruntlement is never far away, it seems the creators are niggled by many everyday wankerys .They progress though with a distinct directness, do what they do and round off a CD with many questions answered, some left dangling like a dehydrated turd from a duck's arse.
Hey man, this ain't a bad do and as per, it adds a different angle to the everyday play list and brings a contrast factor to many other sounds. Keep stepping out from your safety circles folks, it be mighty interesting out there tha' knows.
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THE BORDELLOS - YOU VAGABOND YOU My 14th venture into the DIY whorehouse of weaving angularity. I have dipped in, been mesmerised, pleased, befuddled and infected with the pox of ambiguity and yet, I still pop back now and again to make sure all is still, off-kilter. I have a growing fondness for this productive force and here I donate more time to try and assess matters in my honest way and get things 'out there'.
2 tracks only, the first falling under the scabbery of 'You Vagabond You' (the 'A' Side I presume). A creamy keyed sequence begins and continues whilst the almost sibilant words fall gently from the speakers into our awaiting lap. Like a slow snake-charming cruise (ooh me asp) this one charms its way to a place of subtle agreement with a tonal slant that is far from being vulgarly intrusive and offending. Again, The Bordellos capture the pure DIY essence and keep up their capital creative outflow in their own pleasing and unpredictable way. A minor episode of hypnotica.
'I Am The New Morrisey' shuffles along and is almost in danger of falling into a state of narcoleptic nothingness as it stands on its uncertain feet. A very hesitant example of serene experimentation that ponders, self-soothes, ponders and then abruptly finishes. An unfinished oddment this one appears to be, stripped almost bare and then re-dressed in the most simplistic of acoustic accoutrement. Despite this, when I reconsider the movement after the event, replay and reassess, I find myself far from insulted. A curious state of affairs but then, what's new?
Have I captured the essence here? Have I done a review worthy of the waves that lap against my lugs? I think, in many ways, it is all irrelevant because The Bordellos will carry on regardless, will keep the fecund loins spilling seeds and will keep me perpetually perplexed, entertained and doofing (now and again) - this is the way things should be - DIY Matters!
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SUBMIT - SELF-TITLED A CD arrived through the post, I was clueless as to who the band where until I recognised a couple of names on the back, put two and two together and came up with 5.85 (darn this moon-powered calculator). I had expectations (such is how the sonic brain operates), I played and had a surprise (who the fuck left that onion on my seat) and indulged in several more silver revolutions. I was considering putting fingertip to keyboard, I felt unsure but hey, one can dawdle too long and come up with a load of old dishonest claptrap) and so the acoustic arse was put in gear and the natural honesty flowed.
Track one, and 'Haunted By The Ghost Of Myself' works in under raindrops of brow-furrowed contemplation before sub-whispered words are proffered. A self-examining escapade with a cool tempo, a certain seriousness and a self-doubting essence that fails to hinder the quality of output and the exactitude of the arrangement. The winning aspects here are the equilibrium of all components, the lucidity of each contribution and the sobering sing-a-long pseudo-dirge that injects a bitter pathos to leave one in a state of flux as regards emotion. Despite the sable-edged leanings to the rhythmic sabre swung this one has enough momentum and accuracy to cut to the core and bleed forth a positive opinion.
'Wankers At The Weekend' pulses, rolls, repeats and calls for our attention with a fine 'hey up'. A tale of the lads, a night out, an indulgence. Each and every town is inundated with these cracked cunts, each group thinking they are 'mad as fuck', outrageous and as original as Hell - ooh the silly cunts. I have avoided this clap-trap existence and formulated 'man's man' approach as best as I can, listening to this reminds me why. A vicious dig in some respects, accurate as buggery and a steady stomper that states a case that sees no progress, more self-serving and a tedious routine that leads to no end result. A quite solid song albeit without any great zeniths of unexpected boom-blasts - it is veritable cement between the bricks. The next song is a delight, a combination of emotive accents with a care-free streak working through. Positivity and negativity are at loggerheads and eternally battling for the upper stranglehold that will direct an existence to who knows where. 'Used By Date' is the best song so far, it envelops many day to day feelings felt by a struggling grappler with life, an eternal outsider, a square peg who is happy to shit in all the round holes. I love the tonal layers, the careful yet natural arrangement and of course, the theme that resonates within this Fungalised soul who is always happy to avoid the idiot comfort zones. Yes, a real subtly sinewy song that has a hefty impact.
A reclined waltz manifests itself during the delivery of 'The Bits I Lost', a consideration of long lost times that are part of one's make-up, that are now blurred but which made a deep moulding impression nonetheless. This one rolls with a very unfussed flow and gets one pondering as to what is the point of a memory that has made no difference, gets jaded and warped with time and is nothing more than a mere illusion/delusion that leaves one... befuddled. This is a real tender piece, posted home with a heartfelt and tear-inducing aplomb - a very satisfying encounter with a darn decent song.
The next couple and the doom-laden threat of a single string thrum is followed with a dark, sombre and very sinister vocal touch that brings self-harm (or worse) to centre stage. 'Let The Razor Slide' is an accomplished work born from a pit of mental ill-health that gnaws away and forces an overspill of confessional creativity. From the damning verse to the delivering chorus, this is a horrorshow not to be taken lightly. The claret-daubing artiste has a pain, a loss, a fear and a voice that pleas for help. A very apposite song in times when many are suffering in this happy-plastic world where smiles are strained, pressures mounting. 'I Can't Swim' comes to the fore on riverbank tones, almost borne in fact, from the loins of 70's sub-hippy kids TV. The exploring of the personal make-up continues with the outside contrasting with the inside and a continuing lack of assuredness running deep through the entire piece. The daily plight is a fight I know too well, the core of the curse is the noggin, a miraculous piece of creation that is nothing less than a bastard. Despite the helplessness, the feeling of no hope and the ongoing battle against unforgivable life this is a beautiful moment of clarity and if taken as a standalone, can explain the whole CD.
'Soil And Blood' slowly electrifies, walks with heavy steps and deals with the aging process that manifests itself as a warning from people deemed ancient before jumping out at you as a reality not to be taken lightly. Growing old is indeed fuckin' crud, an essential humbler of the ego and the arrogant and par for a very trying course. We live, we die, but did we indeed try and put back and be decent (everything else is piffle). The words here are donated by a fellow struggler, a defiant old goat and one still not happy it seems. A muscular mover laden with disgruntlement and exposing an inability (perhaps a refusal) to accept this creeping crippler that wrinkles us beyond hope. Bah fuck!
'Somehow It Feels...' is a tender, frangible and somewhat hesitant piece with a distinct trepidation had in the acoustic delivery. Matters gradually find a tad of extra strength to progress with a less restrained and almost reined in accent, I find myself pulled along rather than skipping alongside fully intrigued. My least favoured track - the reasons, too long, a trifle too sombre and just one of those. I suspect a more uplifting angle would have been well-timed here but who knows? The balanced of all areas is spot on, the theme is in keeping with what has transpired but... Fungal' digestive system isn't satisfied here - belch!
At stage 'penultimate' we land with 'Motherfucker Days' a gently pulsed number with a very approachable and relatable theme that brings back memories of when I was a broken youth with no idea, a belly full of rage and despair and a carcass kicking back against every social nook and cranny you could imagine. This has a friendly feel to it, it comes across as an old fellow struggler who just needs a hug. A debilitated piece that finds inner strength and kicks along against the dreary drain and the grey old days that pile up and add their own little bit of extra pressure. There is no escape, there is no great solution but a sagacious statement says you best make sure you make the most of what is left - I do suspect many will smash and grab and get what they can and fuck everything - hey fuckin' ho, this is still a choice offering.
The last stand, 'The Devils Game'. From bleak and dreary shadowplays comes a whispering, a sub-moan, a pseudo-westernised waltz. Deep within the veins of the fully-flesh shambler we feel a weighted burden, a schizophrenic threat, a worming malevolence that just leaves one oh so slightly on the cusp. Moments of solace seem to be the cursing factor, as open wounds are further exposed and that twisting dissatisfaction comes to the fore and takes all the blame. Shaded work of many greying layers, hang in there folks.
From the problem known as life we have the solution known as death. The problem is all we have, the option is a dread - the questions are many, the answers too few - we are trapped in a playpen of pandemonium, here is a soul bared, can you indeed take it? My thoughts are of a well-scripted and admirably honest work that is heavy going and not for everyday play but which is ideal for provoking thought and creating necessary contrast. Without the dark, can there ever be any light?
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REINE DES LEZARDS - SHOULDN'T WE BE ALL WEARING SILVER NOW An invite to review, an invite that dragged me once more into dungeons of dabbling decadence and testing tonality where multifarious swirls of sonic shades are blended by forces borne from several recognisable names. I had initial trepidations, I should have known better but... the DIY spirit insisted I threw myself into another mischievous mix of experimentation done without shackle. I was prepared to take a stated approach and perhaps use a blend of brevity, analysing tomfoolery and good intent, here is what I came up with. 'Somethin' On U' opens with industrial chuggery and some clutter-fuck-it buggery. The verbal vibes come from icy shadows that are tinted blue and forever shimmering whilst a waywardness of direction always leaves one wondering where the general beat is headed too. Mysticism and melodica combine in a kind of nuthouse way with a dance/trance edge tattoo dictating the main thread of the movement. I find this is one of those shifty shapeshifters that remains elusive - I ponder and play over, it is impish meddling with a quirky charm. 'I'm Sold' is questioning, disgusted and enslaved. Clonk, churn, confound - the machinations of the defeated manoeuvre are all bleak, confused and seemingly in need of a great escape. The bastards at the top have the power, they shuffle the hordes into rank and file, here we see an almost numbed and dumbed down acceptance of a situation most horrid. A gloomy number with a subdued rhythm and no lasting hook - I am not keen at all, I do appreciate the off-kilter approach but find 'Fastnet Rock Automatik' a better jaunt. More focus with a good zipping pulse and with a more forceful intent on getting from A through to B with a decent amount of gumption. The rock and roll injection is blatant here with a certain slag-bag looseness that helps give the song extra juice. Still we retain the jangle-angle accents and oddball outré affect that leaves the song just on the cusp of decency (emphasis on 'just' may I add).
Into the fourth abandonment with 'Lie Glitch' beginning in a very inter-stellar/angular feller way with a tribal underbeat and retro programmed utterance liable to take one out of this realm of sanity. The lyrical content is both nebulous and ambiguous, there is a definite concealment of the actual definition and whilst the lower belly tub thump continues, matters misfire, threaten to implode and duly come to an halt before we fall into the blatant madness of 'Reptile Hitz Paper Clown' - a veritable shuffle-scuttle of nonsensical popple-piffle that leaves me confused, on edge and striving to find reason. This can be a fine state of play if the occasion or mood is just right, more often than not though it leaves one in a state of frustrated fidgety fuckity fuck - I am restless and nowhere near smitten.
'Lizard Boy' swoops in, seems to have a pleasant vibe before vulgarly pounding away with a machine-like clank-o-static incessance that operates with great effective gusto. A real stomping number with a hefty unstoppable metronomic beat that will please many with heads sozzled and in need of a regulated rhythm to keep them upright and moving. I like the fluidity here, the poetical ambiguous lyrics and the weight of the vibe. The follow-on is a disappointment that disgruntles my nerves and has me all a flutter. There is no flow, the sonics are jarring, the lyrical content a puzzling mire of head-twiddling tomfoolery. As ever, these conjurers of crooked cacophonics who masturbate the melodies in a non-orthodox way are always liable to inseminate one’s mind with befuddlement and give birth to the bastard sprog of disbelief - such is the case here. 'Legs 2 Die' comes next, a toy-box drama playing out with a haunting twist that really displaces the internal sense of decency. This one is both disjointed and shambling and yet makes progress in its own crippled and pseudo-cacophonic style. What the fuck is going on here? Who the fuck has animated the pantomime characters and got them moving, creating and cursing. A very frazzling encounter with plastic-face melts and juddering dolls of malevolence.
'Acrylic And Acetate' is one of the better composites with a swirl-whirl interstellar barbing that hooks onto the material of the mind and seems to be unshakable in its tonal tenacity. The space-invader releases are incessant, the general motif wraps-around and around whilst the overall gist is continued. This is ideal music for a 22nd Century back-street freak hive where all the wonderful outsiders come and parade themselves on a neon flickered dancefloor whilst the colour spectrum is ravaged and minds are duly turned to liquid joy. Intriguing for sure. The final brace, 'Lizard Goes Home' is a fuzzbuzz flee from this planet of normality and may I add, restriction. The chargers are fuelled, the panging in the digital dream is blatant, the song comes and goes and we wish the players farewell. A shiny-bright inclusion and I nearly forgot, there is one last track. 'Howl At The Moon' should be a real high-energy closure, fizzed to fuck and moving with outrageous pace - alas we get something a little too mundane and with a repetitious underflow that fails to generate any real jizz of joy. A very jangling jigsaw piece with the end picture lacking any satisfying rhythm. The words are too ambiguous and nebulous, the flow not undulating and contrasting enough - I sign off on a personal duffer. Say what you will, I have had a go and I hope have captured the essence and have been honest and fair. There are moments to inspire, intrigue and of course annoy. There are sincere 'wtf' snippets, episodes that soothe, elements that jangle - it is all par for the course when dealing with experimentalists who care not for the usual. This approach will never be to everyone’s taste, it should never, ever be that way - make of that what you will.
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THE CARS THAT ATE PARIS - BARELY CONCEALED CHAOS WITH From outside yet more parameters of normality and beyond the suffocating restrictions of routine labels comes a band slightly off-kilter and creating music the way they want it to be created. This crew have played a few Fungalised gigs and have added a quite wonderful texture to the proceedings. They come, muck in, waltz along and deliver vibes to keep one thinking and dabbling beyond the usual comfort zones. As the sets have unfolded foots duly tapped, arses waggled and heads nodded along to the warped, sometimes weird but always approachable tones. Here is a Fungalpunkeroono take on the latest toss-off of tonality - make of it what you will but rest assured, I am a fan of the band.
'Fuckin' Jayne' is a song with a simplistic tale about a relationship that seems to hold great prospects and then goes all awry. By heck the lass under the spotlight sounds like a right boozed up dominatrix, she would be a fine partner for some of the lethargic drunks I know. The song itself is a beautifully constructed rust-bucket meander with a blend of many sub-genres and acoustic suggestions with the slip into the chorus from the easy verse being well oiled, unflustered and highly magnetising. The laid-back and intrinsically unflustered approach of the players and the oral offerings are quite attractive and this a short, snagging and utterly enjoyable opening track. 'I Don't Care If You Go' follows suit and has a waltzing lilt that is perspiration free and awash with 'fuck-it' casualness. Added sax appeal gives rippled corrugation, the inner pulse is strong and the overall unassuming blend of all components works mighty well. Free of many punk restrictions, embracing shades and hues outside the obvious spectrum this is a fine follow-up to the opener and even the most ardent lover of crash, bang and clatter those bollocks will undoubtedly be charmed here - I certainly hope so.
A sinister sneaker borne from the lips of a cataleptic next with the gloomy deathbed of sound known as 'Down In The Ground' surely a work of some Poe-tainted noggin. Jizzed and jazzed and holding a creeping style, the mists of eeriness send tendrils of unease down each and every aural avenue of any nearby victim. The drift is unpredictable, I await a rising from the residue, a sudden eruption from the maggot-dance fest, alas what comes is a mere wind-down into oblivion. Despite the lack of any explosive accoutrements of born-again vibes the song has its own signature feel and is unsettling to say the least. I am a convert nay victim!
A real old-skool she-punk jamboree of jauntiness comes next with the agitated, energetically masturbated rag-time rock along mis-routine of 'Girls On Telephones'. A wonderful modern day observation piece of the goggle-eyed robots who just can't take their peepers away from the head-melting device that is destroying every part of their individuality and crippling their chance at cerebral freedom. I love the DIY and honest feel to this one, a real 'get up and have a go' gob off with a charming accent and overall rough and ready effectiveness. It really is right up my rhythmic street.
'Lawnmower Man' is a pop at a destructive bastard who has to have everything manicured and trimmed to a warped sense of perfection. A slow reggae-skank tinged number with an attack carried out on a bloke who sounds like a right wanker. An embracing number especially for those who appreciate and understand the natural world, like a casual dance and have an intolerance for backward shits who can't see beyond their own petty needs. The brass inclusion adds texture to an already sense-laden number that works and works mighty well.
A clutch of two, 'Magic Levitating Finger' is a flower-power contemplation of trickery-laden digits that can do some strange things ma'an. This one takes me back to psychedelic tapestries of yore where headmelt dabblings came, infused the music scene with something soothing, ethereal and gracile. The lead chap does a massaging job with light touches from the lasses both ideal and equally relaxing. A pure submergence into a switched off realm that we all need to wallow in from time to time. I have a fondness for things thrown back and reclined with that 60's essence so sorely overlooked - the creamy bass only adds to this lovely experience - now where's me 'shrooms?
'Sort Your House Out' is a rebellious tinker with a right old crisp and fruity feel that sees the flow become self-perpetuating and kicking back. The masters who make the rules and who attempt to dictate need to self-examine, spend less time point fingers and more time helping folk to get along and be themselves. A saturated mover, with the usual essences the band do so well. Nothing outrageous comes, no big highs invade ones lug space but this is a steady shuffler that again has a liberated dance factor and a certain underground vibe that works ruddy well. I have a preference though for the feisty, anti-idolising fluency of 'Temple' - a fiery infused incessant groover that stands proud in the face of hypocritical and plastic smile fraudulence. This is an all-encompassing saturated sound with many layers all thriving, and richly mellifluous tones that are noticeably unstoppable and highly passionate. I find this a sincere zenith of the CD with many spiked aspects as well as an overall gratifying level of lively animation.
3 left and 'Misery Monger' is a prod at the folk who thrive on doom and gloom and enjoy wallowing in the failings of others. 'Disciples of Schadenfreude', 'Perverts of Discontent' - these folk are on the increase in a world of desperation and turmoil. The band take the subject matter, toss it forth with a great contrasting joy de vivre and a drift assisted by a repetitive nag motif that gets its musical choppers into your ass and just won't let go. Frustration invades, despair with the down and out dwellers whilst the players up the impetus and all work in unison to rise high and thrash forth to the finish. Pacey, piquing and highly perspired - a neat change of approach.
'Too Many Memories' is a tear-soaked dirge that has an almost westernised mocking tone I can't help but snigger at. The Jonah who is juicing out his great swathe of misfortune makes this a crackpot moment of bleak hilarity that has some quite giggle-inducing lines. Not the best song on the CD, not a profound piece aiming to shake your veritable musical foundations but an episode of idiot light relief that does indeed work well and leaves one feeling fuckin' thankful for small mercies ha, ha.
The closure and double entendre takes centre stage as we wonder if we are dealing with a song about a man with radioactive globes or a man who appears at Christmas time and tries to sell his wares for your festive fir. 'The Man With The Illuminous Balls' is a simple piece, easily joined in with and is a good idea for a black and white B-movie. A groovy creeper that is what it is, take it with a pinch of salt, and of course... enjoy.
Yes, I like this lot, they offer options, step back from the pigeon-holed parade and are always welcome on a Fungalised. This CD will serve them well I am sure. Certain in-scene cliques may avoid, those with well-spread lug-radars will pick up on something very rewarding here – by heck, what a reet treet!
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NOMATRIX - SLIBHIN This band, from Athlone in Ireland, tickle along with no concern for kissing arse, indulging in grandeur and wining false favour. They are a tight outfit, doing things just right and without any sub-text and idiot underhand game playing. They put on a good 'live' exposure, nail their songs with zeal and rapidity and 2 of the lads run the fine record label 'Deadlamb Records'. It is DIY in action rather than a lot of hot talk and contemplating the navel - here I do what I do too whilst finding a bit of time to scratch my knackers (phew). 'Slíbhín' is an angry straight-ahead song that deals with the sneaky snakes in the grass that groom with their smooth flow and then bite you on the ass when a better proposition arises. From the opening to the final thrust this is a 1 minute 23 second bog-brush basic passion push of good to honest noise making, executed without idiot baubles and cock-firming thrill, but with a reliability not to be questioned. It is consistent fare from a band who know their stuff and do not look to wallow in experimentation and pomposity. They could do more with this one but it does what it does and who am I to gripe. I do prefer 'Identity' though - the emotive content is greater, there is a good contrast factor enhanced by the unleashed, untamed finale and overall the song feels more complete and more challenging to the players and the listening lugs. The opening throes are pacey and intrinsically laden with Nomatrix essences. The same spicings are felt via the following gob assisted throes with energy aplenty that is easily more appreciated if the 'volume' nob is cranked up. Depth is found and again, that final rabid riot at the end sets the whole song aflame. Ruddy lovely! A tremble of nervousness and outsider oddness. The main drive is soon upon is with a very retro-Nomatrix feel that has me pondering the archives and pondering how long this band has been plying its trade. A gruff, rough and inner-scaffolding with a kick up the arse for those playing a game. 'Victim' wallops home with uncompromising hunger and a no-nonsense style of sound. Very obvious stuff from this lot and it is what it is - frill-free, energetic and to the point. The band have better numbers but there is something so damn deliciously consistent about what transpires here. 'Eulogy' has a seasoned and more emotive quality with a very sober and somewhat disillusioned feel emanated. A hopelessness is found, there seems no escape, the crew face it head on and batter out a very magnetising track that has many nuances and acoustic accoutrements that any knowing fan of the band will appreciate. When the warbler at the fore adopts a greater sense of relaxed persuasion to his oral emanations things seem to be more honest, natural and emotive - I call for more of this during future expulsions. Another reliable track methinks. Four tracks, four examinations and I am still fan. As a fan though I now want the band to take a few risks and change up the style - it will be good for the players, the listeners and the DIY scene - challenge set - Fungal wants another EP with a quartet of real teste-tickling oddments. Phwoar! |