Portuguese pressure-pot post hardcore with a fiery intent and a watertight application making for a very resounding and worthwhile visit to realms heavy, bleak and ultimately... absorbed.  These niches of vicious and intense noise are for connoisseurs, all-round perverts or the tonal toe dippers who like a bit of this, that and 't'other.  I am a small dose hardcore fan and with only 4 tracks before me, and all of an appealing running time, I am more than happy to take a punt and put in some assessing time.  Apparently the songs here were developed from some unfinished material brought to the table by several of the players - waste not, want not I reckon.

We begin with the hefty meat fling of 'No'.  Stutter, scream stutter and sear is the opening modus operandi before a raving, an escalation and some direct mosh pit inducing mania comes.  From here things go crazy with seizures aplenty, hot-shit madness and a smattering of technical stops and starts all evolving/dissolving and ultimately revolving to utter fuckery.  This is purist hardcore thrashing and one that will perk up the pimples of many a headbanging pervert.  So it should, it is played with gusto, to a high standard and is fuckin' bamboozling in a quite fascinating way - ouch.

'Slow Death' has certainty, borne from doubts, but which now is ready to rampage with great assuredness.  A frenzied and greatly brutalised piece of H/C molestation comes, releasing many pent-up demons and inner struggles.  The guitars are aligned, the drums allowed to smash and splay whilst the larynx is shredded via a cathartic molten fountain of enthusiasm.  In many areas we have a tonal arrangement that is generically traditional, with all players absorbed and ticking a few in-scene boxes - it is dense and articulate musicianship many will get off to.

'Today' has suspicions, soon throws off any doubts and pounds away in typical fashion with the cogs turning, the coils pulled taut, the chains whipping.  A chaotic sounding piece that one has to adjust to to totally understand the accuracy of the artists and the frenzied intent.  A very molten dish that bubbles and foams with thermal angst of ill-proportions.  The odd twists and a suggestion of respite, glasslight tinklings and moments to prepare before the final charge of the fright brigade.  Matters wind down, I am left unsure with this one.

'Martyr' tumble-bumbles in, psycho splatters with radioactive rampaging fury, takes a short recovery period and then twat trounces to the closing silence.  This is the briefest piece, I like hardcore played like this way, it gives a 'wtf' impact and leaves one wanting just a tad more.  This is a sub-1 minute mauling with great focus and zeal, it comes, goes and leaves you with time to check the bruising - spot on.

4 songs and the band do what they do.  This is enough for me, in I go, wham, bang, bollocks and outta here.  The crew are on it, if hardcore is your thing then you should be on it too - I am now seeking respite in more melodic and throwaway sounds.

You know, I am so fuckin' glad that this band continues. They are long-term servants of the DIY punk scene, dig deep and just keep bouncing back from blow after blow. Dave Moran (aka Asterix) is the driving force and frontman, a good soul bewildered by the scene, the world and the lack of bummable midgets in his local area.  Rather than masturbate his frustrations away and risk getting 'sex rickets' he keeps recruiting pluckers and tub-thumping fuckers and allowing things to run on. This album is rammed to the rhythmic rafters and I took my time with matters as per. I hope I have summed things up and I get invited to the next 'Nugget Nobbing' Party in Mansfield.

The legs of the Virgin Melody open, splashed forth is the first sonic runt known as 'Red, White And Blue' - a patriotic song for those who love their country and their flag.  Personally I would be happy to wipe my arse on all flags and I do think this country is a farce in loads of regrettable ways. This in no way puts me off enjoying a fuckin' good booze and glory song that has a fantastic gumption, a street-based snag and a very good stomping effervescence. From the open shout out regarding shoving oriental crackers up yer jacksie and enjoying the rectal explosions to the final hoorah, great relish is shown, a pride to smile with and an all round ruddy good song is donated.  I still ain't using arse paper though.

'It's Sykes' is a rip up about a dubious character who is no hero of mine. A violent goon from Yorkshire whom you wouldn't want to waste good time on. This is homage to the thug, to the straight-talking fella, to the guy who had some winning facets but marred them all by being a silly twat. A rich piece this with old-school flavours and a certain gutterised caveman idiocy. Look, the AB crew do what they do, agree, disagree but tis good wholesome music of the rawest and most real punk order and every time I deal with em' I come away pleased. Not a fave of mine as regards content but by heck it is played well and the closure is an emotive insightful twist.  I am glad though they didn't do a song about Eric Sykes - now that would have been crud.  Ooh Corky!

'Cos That's What Mates Are For' is a gem, a real nostalgic and honest piece that deals with a certain purity of comradeship that seems a trifle lost in these media sozzled times. Heartfelt and considered with Dave at the fore warbling in fine recognisable style. The words are well scripted, the arrangement of the song choice and heartwarming and this is bang-on AB fodder that the band have produced over many a year and which has served them well.  Why the fuck have they struggled for gigs in some areas then? By crikey there are some tone deaf cunts out there!

The next batch of 3, 'Gasoline' burns bright and has a good zeal and bite with the song rolling along with fumes of pleasing noxiousness blown right into yer mush. A swift slutty verse, a segue into the bog brush basic chorus, a quick bonus flourish and back into the set slipstream. Orthodox music with typical manoeuvres, this is a no-nonsense rock and roll journey built on safe and secure sonic stabilisers - no fuss, no frills, a minor thrill that does what it does. 'Can't Get Served' is an age old tale of gagging for a beer and not making progress at the overcrowded bar. A superb AB soiling that slips from the creative jacksie, lands in your lap and pleases due to its rhythmic emanations and wholesome goodness.  The racket flows with delicious ease, has many hallmarks of a band I know and love so well and the fluidity, the token flavours and the extra nobs all add to an easy-as-you-go number that deals with an everyday occurrence rather than get embroiled in some political piffle that really does get too much at times.  A fine dance inducing ditty - and into 'Letterbomb' we go - hey ya gotta keep it on the edge. This is a very Ramonesy number with a chilled hook, a sublime simplicity and a cute angle that is delivered in a crafty style.  Pop punk, honest and effective, this is the kind of cacophony the band throw out with ease and no matter how many line-ups come and go, this is the pure Baby's booming that makes one a lifelong fan.  Tis' fuckin' smashing stuff without over-poncing matters and adding bullshit baubles of codology.

The opening sequence of 'We Are...Bastards' makes me smile, it is a ludicrous state of affairs and in truth, not one I can relate to. I might be a cunt, an awkward twat and one who can easily cut out the crapheads but I don't treat folk like rubbish, especially the women in my life.  This is one of the goons driven by gonads perhaps, those who like fanny over faithfulness, cripes a million miles from how I operate. Having said this, it is a great song, totally irresponsible and idiotic but it works. My advice - watch yer bippies lasses, there be many a purple headed ferret looking to find a burrow - ooh thank goodness I shave my arsehole.

'Fake News' is pertinent, so many experts who now best and all calling upon their own well-founded resources they claim to be pure and true. Cobblers indeed and all we get is a divided, unthinking mush of bewildered haters looking to increase their own standing whilst putting someone else down. They are transparent twats with inner failings - don't be fooled and work things out for yourself. A walloping number this that thunders on with disgruntlement and disillusionment and throws us into the no-nonsense 'Gun-Dog'. Pay up or be pummelled, the poacher is out, so are the mutts - watch yer arse folks, there be  gnashing of canine teeth.  Usual fare here played with an almost sweat-free ease that keeps the CD rolling, my foot tapping and the variety fair. Look, sometimes there is little to add and we reviewers are allowed to crack on - I rate this a nifty midway mover.

Tight bassism, a snarl and then a thrust looking at the life and death of a lunatic dictator who had blood on his mucky hands and who certainly earned his fate. 'Last Gasp Of The Great Dictator' poses a question, has a controversial edge and may have some thinking 'what the fuck'. The song is sharp with a tidy break, drums cascade alongside some cutting guitar work - for me it is regular AB goodness that they throw forth with aplomb. Sometimes I think this lot are shitting these numbers for fun. 'Rooting For Australia' is comedic idiocy with the chance to play it crude not shied away from. The band are well-versed in this goonish tomfoolery. We are totally focused on the sexual prowess of a cunt from darn under who really does need his surfboard rammed up his jacskie and to piss off back home. The verses and chorus flow like the amber nectar down a kangaroos open pouch where the pissed up young party.  Take this for what it is, they do it well and I am sure Benny Hill, if he were still with us, would be lapping this up and pinching it for his show - I can see Jackie Wright with a big dong and a hat full of swinging corks for sure.

'Life Hurts' slightly slows matters, croons and looks at folks who are beyond hope. We all know people who can't leave the pop, who need to get sozzled to cope but who can't function and duly drag others down whilst killing themselves.  An awful situation that many in the punk arena help us to get to, beer is good but it ain't clever.  This is a well-blended and sweetly delivered song with a bittersweet thread for sure. The mix is ideal, the gentleness nicely swirled with decent power - and on we go with all intact and Fungal still mightily impressed.

Soppy squiffle serenading about the 'happy place' next! 'Pink Bubble Gum' is a love soaked lilt that semi-squelches along and relates a tale of a ticker smitten. If you find true love you are blessed, if you are believing getting your leg over is something akin to love then you are cursed or a fool. Be you, go forth and hope that you find someone special - and never take it for granted. The beautiful inner pangs and emotions are played out and remind me of the fortune I have and how something so pure should be kept that way and nurtured.  Look after your loved ones folks and keep it real and simplistic. A honeyed stroke of something in opposition to the crude, but quite pertinent nonetheless. 'Masturbation Superhighway' next and we deal with the easy access to porn online and the place where genitals are rubbed to fuck, blisters are in abundance and many a bloke is akin to a bottle of Saxa salt and only capable of spraying granules rather than splashing liquid.  A wonderful relish is found here via a cracking tune that is borne from folks whom I am sure have cracked  a few off in their time.  The whole wanking process is rather ludicrous in the cold light of day but I am certain those that are indulging are saving society from warped sprogs, crimes of ill intent and perhaps, some rather soggy highways.  A cracking piece this to pull your pork to or indeed, bounce the bean to. Stay stress free folks and do what ya gotta do - tis far better than using and abusing tha' knows.  The question is - will the AB crew be releasing vibrating buttplugs anytime soon - I have my Wankety Wank cheque book and pen ready.

A Lemmy song (I don't like Motorhead - shock horror) but this is a punky jump around effort that serves the CD and my lugs well. 'Black Leather Jacket' is a rock and roll throwback with many accoutrements from many eras and with a good gumption shown. This is better than the original, the vocals are more suited to the swinging style methinks. Perhaps my least favourite song of the lot, the band are too good to cover this stuff.

'No Reply' is a huge, snarling dig at the promoters and peddlars who have snubbed the band or indeed given them a wide berth. The fact is, if ya face don't fit then it is tough shit and if the social circles don't want ya or you are a little too much for the nostalgia heads then you are fucked.  The band cracks on regardless hence the reason I am on their side, plus the great music of course.  This is a nipping song, played with a compact and melodic edge and a good rapidity. An easy one to join in with and maybe hammering another nail in the bands hopes of playing one of those same old, same old fests. Who cares – you gotta just do what ya do!

One for the doggers and the al fresco meddlers that heighten their sexual needs by risking their reputation, catching a dose of crabs or choking on the effluence spilling from Slack Sandra's well used rear passage.  'Caught With Ya Pants Down' considers a strange breed of folk whom, if just nobbing each other and tidying up after themselves, are only doing harm to their own levels of decency and ethics.  A bizarre act, meat banging meat like the lowest animal, is that all we are? I titter at this, ponder the prodders and receivers who are wriggling around in a spunk-splashed car park whilst a nearby owl hoots, looks down and no doubt thinks, 'what the fuck is this human race about?' A neat number but my kecks are staying hitched up.

Dealing with the DIY scene, putting gigs on here and there and visiting an array public houses, it goes without saying you are going to encounter some real sub-standard WC's.  I have images of sewer smelling shit holes with no doors on the bogs, filth on the walls and a yellow-water way in which to wade.  Puke splatters, shitty adornments and by heck I shudder to the core. This is a spot on snip that is played well, has a sound blend of all areas and has a crisp and upbeat feel despite the content.  I move onto the last both anally retentive and with a cotton-bud down the oriental eye. ‘Worst Bog In The World’ – we have all been there… surely!

The closure is a masterstroke of controversial creativity.  'Fred The Builder' deals with a certain Mr West, the crimes carried out and the overall madness of a man unhinged.  The band play it in comedy fashion and make a quite brilliant song that has quality riddled throughout and many snagging and sing-a-long moments that really does round of a top notch CD. The final throes are brilliant and totally of a throwback humour we really are losing - such is our loss as the PC pricks take up their holier than thou stance and tell us what we can say and what we can't.  Hey ho. All together now – ‘Fred west, he just cuts, em’ up, Fred West….!

Nah then, I have watched the AB chaps roll along for many a year, I have reviewed 10 of their CD's to date, given them a few gigs and always love the approach. Many a line up has been and gone, Dave (Asterix) still keeps matters rolling and the band still plough away in the doldrums. We know the scene is warped, has a superfluity of social niches and is guilty of letting many a band come, go and be duly neglected along the way. I am a fan, I do my bit and by heck, I may rate this as the best offering to date. Go forth, buy, watch and book - this is DIY - it is not a fuckin' game.

Who are Specky Cult?  Where are they from?  What do they sound like?  Well, I have limited time to surf the wanking web waves to find out so, when a review request came I had a listen and did my thing.  A One Song Single - ooh I always like a flip side but there ya go, 21st Century it is, a fast-paced mush that leaves me standing.  The band are also booked to play a Fungal Show - therein are my initial thoughts, and I reckon they will bring another shade of sonic colour to the ongoing Fungalised Fiascos.  Anyway, here are my musings on the song under the spotlight! 

'Dad Dance' begins with soft and gentle tones that have me worrying that I may be dealing with some polished pissery from a realm where selling out and over processing your produce is all the rage. Thankfully matters unfold and I get something that is akin to many quirky punk spillages that I come across in my sonic travels.  I am reminded by creations from The Ghoulies and Aborted Tortoise for some reason although this is cleaner cut and of a more prolonged state of play.  I like this kind of eccentric creativity and the space age popsicle that is cute, free and easy and with a fluency that magnetises.  The subject matter is simple, there is no deep subtext and this is fun, uncomplicated and very chilled.  As a small critique I reckon the band would get more reward by keeping tracks around the 2 minute mark, adding a bit more zip here and there and really keeping the fruity juices flowing at all times.  I like this though, and by heck I am keen to see the 'live' sploshings - tis DIY all the way.

A toe dipped, a new tonal route to investigate - my mind may be addled but I am still as enthusiastic as ever.  Bring on the Cult of Speckiness - there may be new converts sometime soon.

Folks, there are always new vibes to consider, new ticklings to toss around your aural palette and here I have another instance.  The blurb that came with the review requested that I ' lie back, soak and luxuriate in the weird wild world of 2 Lost Souls for a few minutes and let us reset your hypothalamus!'  I like the sound of this but what if the music grates - by heck, then I will be in trouble I suspect.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained and rest assured ye olde Fungalpunk will have a go.

3 tracks, the first I dabble with is 'Ironic' - a smooth customer that initially grooms with gentle oceanic flows of paradise-essences.  The poetical wordage invades, in a cold and direct manner with a very opiniated viewpoint had.  It is a personal take on a situation that saw violence breed violence and hate the outright winner.  We are a flawed species with no hope, we can't get on, many are striving to be a major player - is death the only answer?  We travel along with dysfunctional detachments between the music and the message, but it is how matters are and is a Marmite moment that I can take, leave, agree or disagree with.  'The Right To Die By A Gun' is a gentler touching with the initial vibes almost borne from a relaxation CD you can pick up in a Garden Centre.  The oral spillages come in a manner as previously experienced - almost from aloft, with an authoritarian manner and with an edge that is almost cold and void of emotion. A strange blend, almost monologue music for those of a literary bent and who want something to think about.  Control and restrictions are coming, the rebels try and resist in a manner of ways but all the while the squeeze gets tighter - is anyone listening?  In the midst people fester and with guns available, crimes are going to be committed.  This is a very thoughtful piece about a country, nay a world, turning sour.  Fuck the second amendment by the way!

The third track, and the closure is entitled 'Who Is Being Protected' and a shuffle, a hint of early 80's poppery and a question posed.  We are left wondering what is what via a mush of lies and cloak and dagger bullshittery in a wayward world of trickery.  The thoughts of one man are proffered against the grain of the many perhaps, the musical escort is almost an added extra and again a real counterbalancing hue.  This is all experimental and creative juice dripping done in a style that is DIY - make of that what you will.

Sounds beyond the norm are never a bad thing, even if you hate them they all contribute to the full sonic picture and help provoke thought.  This is sub-music/orating that is, to my mind at least, best to play as intermittent inclusions amid other generic jerk-offs.  Nothing outrageous, nothing new, nothing to jump around to but... something to thrown in your annual mix methinks.

Tri-Subversion are a thinking band, politically charged and disgruntled to utter fuck.  They have graced a Fungal stage, have crossed my aural pathways with two previous releases and now have this 3rd meaty product for me to assess.  I am expectant, but will I receive? Get yer reading glasses out and your online order form ready, this could be good stuff.

'Eat Shit And Die' begins with a very gratifying and, may it be said, unsettling modus operandi with the feeling that the whole crew are trying very hard to keep the emotive rage in check.  This is a real hefty number delivered in a cool and authoritative style that packs a subtle punch.  As the knuckles of the song sink into the listening flesh the initial impact is minimal but when repeat hits are had the bruising builds and the aftershock is more than a little impressive.  The fact that the band open with something avoiding the tick-box punk with all the usual rhythmic raiment’s matters - a fine start, we can make a difference folks.

'Popcorn' lets loose and goes at it with a bit more wallop.  A very spiked and drilling number with the content dealing with the trafficking of children for sexual gratification.  The powers want to possess and play God whilst pleasing their perversions - there are more at it than we can imagine I suspect.  This is a sawing and gnawing delight with an incessant desire for uncovering things disgraceful.  We enter darker realms where the Horned and Horny dictate, a sordid world in which we live and this nasty release of great angst works fuckin' well.  The rattling corrugated underbuzz is a real nerve jangler! 

Onto 'Motherland' we go, into yet more murky quarters where we kick back against those fuckers altering the arrangements and making for a sludge bucket laden with the controlled and moronically gaping.  This insert is a gripping piece of noise with some very old school anarcho guitar work.  The forthright drive is demanding and of course, irritated.  The call to arms for the individual to rise up and avoid joining the grey and defeated mush may be wasted on ears long clogged but it is a pertinent message delivered in a steady brew of simmering intensity.  The grinding noise bores deep, the vicious incandescence burns away and the job, I reckon, is more than adequate.

'Die To Win' is common sense, don't sell out, do not dilute and do what you do with good productive intent.  Many bastards out there want you to sell out and surrender - come on ya rebellious bastards, it ain't a game.  Roaring suggestions come, commanding hammerjack machinations of sub-melody clock up on the counter with a metronomic incessance - there is an urgency in the message, one can almost feel the losing of hope in the warblings, the desire to get folk on their feet as soon as possible.  In 2026 this is a more than apposite piece of racketology.  'Four Days' is a simple statement about how close we are to the brink.  Of course no one seems to care as they are digitally wired up and distracted - all it needs is one pull of the Godly plug and... kaboom.  The question is 'would it be a bad thing'?  I love the crushing accents here, the splash, crash and regulation copulation and of course the snarl factor that is laden with venom and may it be said, disgust at a situation which is so precarious.  From comfort to chaos in one a small jump, you need to play this bastard mighty loud, kick yourself up the arse and think.  A muscular mover, a gorilla of gutsy grinding with its eye on you.

'Dopamine' states the obvious but are the addicts listening?  The mush is plugged in, needy and overfeeding on misinformation, bullshit and brain-fucking bilge water.  Social media eats individuality and time, this is a wonderful snippet that whispers in and sets a warning to all those with ears open.  We rise on careful guitar, chug with purpose and fall in line with a very gratifying horror slap that is straight out of the post-punk vaults of terror.  Textured, atmospheric and bleak - a 21st century cunt-kick of consideration that will duly fail to stop the hooked getting their nauseating and numbing fix.  Drop in to this, drop out of the pissery.  Onto '2030' and a look at a future that may just be a little more shackled.  Thout shall be happy whilst they take more away, thout shall contribute to the rot and not know it.  A slow treacly trickle that tunes in, saunters with direct purpose and tub-rumbles with a languid threat not to take lightly.  A semi-submerged feel comes from a song that is not an instantaneous winner and certainly not a stand-out prize porker but one, with time, is worthy of attention for all its delicate nuances and contrasting essences.  The tribal and primeval come together, an industrial metropilis-ised machination unfolds, the setting is as gloomy and stark and the core of the cacophony is unsettling - I think it is all rather niggling, in a quite positive way.  'Did Nothing' is not a song I can relate to because my DIY ethos is all about doing with passion and love.  I see many though happy to put heads in sand and state that the problem is 'not theirs' whilst the future for their kids turns rotten and a more draining shade of grey. As an individual tune I am not overly taken with this but the content and the focus is bang on the mark - idleness kills (self and others) and the arse in gear is an arse with no fear.  A slow plodder and although not a Fungal Fave, the song is an important inclusion.  And yes, believe in yourself and make for a better selfless future.

We plough forth, 'Terrorised By Law' smacks away with a  good bass drive, fine scuzz wires and a metronomic drum beat that keeps all in check.  The vocal viciousness is disgruntled by the requests on your privacy, namely the latest digital ID thinking.  The cunts will creep matters in, the many will accept and still believe they are liberated and living the dream - the downswing will continue as long as people are distracted.  A punching piece in strict Tri-Subversive style with the band playing out their watertight produce without worry.

A rapido set of three next, just to keep the flow of the review rolling.  'The Great Reset' busily shuffles in, an agenda is exposed, the world is changing, are you resisting?  A busy shuffle teetering on the brink before hollering out a rally call and an attempt at gathering the troops of thought?  A hard driven song, held in a tight check with only brief moments of shackle-free serenading.  The blend of the controlled and slightly 'off the leash' works, the consistent rhythm and push to the final strum and splash is done in good time - no gripes.  'Free Chopper Rides' tumbles in, picks up on a nice lick and delivers a tremble-tone of screwdriving spite with the powers that be and those that want to use brutality to maintain control, slammed under the spotlight.  The 4 wired wank weapon is the true force here, with the drums adding a solid motif and the guitars left to come, go and season at will.  The gob is heavily gritted and adds the final layer in a very spunky and unswerving song.  'Bully Boy' is ideally placed and follows in a same resolute and unflinching style with fists clenched and sonically thrown for oneself and those who need it.  There are many looking to take advantage, at times we gotta stand mighty firm, show great resolve and now and again, kick back like a bastard.  A very heavy-duty song and one that pummels away and increases in its intensity the more one listens - yeah man, I am still in the groove here and loving what is transpiring and then...

...oh and then... we reach the pinnacle of the CD, 'NGO War' - a mighty fine slab of seething disgruntlement dealing with a war laden with hypocrisy, pseudo-victims, misdirected political ranting and great swathes of divisive rhetoric that is blurring the lines between reality and fantasy whilst people suffer and die.  The great strength of this song is palpable, the white heat intensity aurally blinding and the whole shit-shift of sonic power mighty impressive.  It is one of the handpicked gems now on my Bandcamp Fungalised page - enough said I reckon.

4 left and we rattle away with 'Under The Radar' - a 4 count, a chuggery and then a snarl verse that encourages one to live one’s life how they want.  There is a danger here for misinterpretation and the selfish mush can take this as a go ahead to take, take, take and not give a fuck about their impact or anyone else.  The key is to think, have respect and be caring. Too many are serving self - this is not the aim I am sure.  The message is delivered with a nagging noise accent, a pride in not following rules for rules sake and a good old snagginess that is good enough for me.  'Common Purpose' is neatly crafted, a routine affair for this lot with slight switches, good effort and the expected compactness of sound, anti-anti message and a fuck off to the suited and booted.  Society divided, them and a further divided us - therein the problem is found.  Play loud, do, be productive and unite against the shite.  This song is outdone by the more relaxed 'Real Eyes' - a fluid spurt of cultured noise making that just wants folk to open the peepers, consider all options and then make up one's mind.  In this day and age we are swamped with info and many claiming to be right - you gotta treat life as one big crossword and solve the puzzles yourself using many sources, education, gut instinct and cerebral anarchy free from shit swing or bias.  Yes, a good encouraging number that rolls well, makes sense and comes across as another fully-rounded piece of work.

Closure time folks, 'For Our Children' speaks for itself - as family life dissolves, the masses fuck the future and the natural realms gets smashed to buggery what the fuck are we going to leave for those we claim to love.  Get off your damned, self-absorbed rear, make an effort and be a good neighbour, a protector of the wild and do it with DIY love and passion.  The dogma via digital dead-dreams is a con, killing souls, making holes - listen to this quite magnificent number, play it fuckin' loud and make sure you make a difference for others and the future - I rate this a cracking punctuation mark on a quite concrete CD.

Tri-Subversion are on their toes, create whilst thinking and, in my humble Fungalised opinion, have their best release to date.  Nuff said, have that, defy, defy!

A very articulate and tidy band here who have a very unassuming and melodic approach that may not please the more ensnared caveman-esque cacophoneer but which will undoubtedly appeal to those with varied tastes and of a patient bent.  The first release was pleasing, a 'live' Fungal gig was an utter joy and appealed both to my lugs and those of my missus who is not immersed in the punk/new wave scene.  After this performance I was given a CD, no question of a review so, a review must be done.  Ask and I may well do, don't ask and there is every chance I will do.  The Bandcamp pages say this lot 'Formed in 2021 and are a punk/ska punk/punky reggae power trio' - well, this is what I think anyway.

'Lifeline' is a well-considered joy, has a flow that has more intricacies and cute U-turns than first deemed.  The immediate impression is of a wonderfully mixed composite with all areas given room in which to flex their own musical muscles and to make a fair and square contribution to the final product.  Nothing is overly intrusive or commanding, the acoustic equilibrium is choice and the verbal fluency is neatly delivered.  I like the hopeful accents and intent, the positive inflections ingrained deep within the thoughtful weavings.  We start with a song that sets a fair standard and one that is a creation with an obvious rewarding 'longevity factor'.  I find this a very accomplished piece.

'Take It As A Win' is a sober song draped in a cloak of reality.  It accepts the failures of the scene, the ones who tread upon the others and as a result make for one real shithole of users and abusers all playing a game.  In the midst we have rays of sunshine, some good gigs, decent people and DIY doofers just having a go for the love of it.  Within the texturisation of this tonal treat we have lucid vocals, strong string work and a very stabilising drum rhythm that is dealt with in an adept and reactive manner.  There is chameleonised cacophonic manoeuvring that may be a trifle too much of the 'unga-bunga' cavemen racket lovers but for those who like tunes with thought and depth what's not to like? A lovely snippet.  The title track comes next, another reality soaked number for those who are feeling ground down and ass-whipped.  This overwhelming storm known as life sometimes soaks us through and we can barely move and here we deal with matters in a quite gratifying way.  A good strength, a gritty defiance and an unyielding determination are apparent via the first verse that leads into a well-breezed and very magnetic chorus cut, thus reflective of a band laden with sanguinity and sonic insight.  From the stubborn and dark-edged to the liberated and tonally fresh this one is another grower that needs your good attention folks.  The band are erudite and not following the usual formulas - it fuckin' matters, it is a success.

Offering the fourth which could also be known as 'Pissing On Ones Chips'.  The band have been more delicate with tagging the acoustic gift as 'Shooting Myself In The Foot'.  A permanently shifting song that is a self-examination based on honesty and once more, a doggedness to not just wallow in regrets and give in.  This is the toughest track to digest thus far and although played with great adroitness and crafty musicianship I find it a little tough nut to fully grapple, grasp and get to grips with.  The more I listen certain winning essences come to the fore, the complexity of the arrangement is cultured and although a winning number it isn't an instantaneous tickler - I rate this a Fungal mood piece - I gotta be just in the right frame of mind to appreciate.

Next two and 'Drown In The Sound' is a perky number with a good swish in the swing.  The intro prepares, a steady cool breeze is wafted with the vocal style opposing the emotive content that is of a body almost beaten and on its knees.  A segue into an equally contrasting chorus with an almost carefree lilt and somehow a ray of hope is had.  Music soothes the inner beast and here is the reason why.  The number moves with a freedom and a tasteful sanguinity and culminates in a very polished punctuation flourish.  'Seconds Out' is of a similar ilk as far as the content goes.  The musical arrangement takes a little more adjusting to as it bobs and weaves with an unorthodox prowess.  Jabs are careful, punches in bunches are few but the overall attack is consistent and without an overspill of anger.  The early chug magnetises, the initial verse is punchy and holds its own with the pursuing chorus cut quite easy in its lilt and with an unassuming infection level that eventually works its way into your attentive glands and gets them throbbing.  This is one of those numbers that sits in the shadows and then pounces - do not underestimate the goodness involved and the acoustic articulation.

From here we drop back in time with a nostalgic look at an age that we deemed better.  'I'm A Tiswas Kid (In A Swapshop World)' kinda sums up the slab of grey that is suffocating the colourful, the routine that is damning the unorthodox.  Over time the dumbing down has been cultivated and those stepping out of line are forever cursed.  In scene and out scene, this state of play is rife and even I wish for a rebalance that will see us see things through a child's eyes when the murk and falsity are overlooked.  The Phantom Flan Flingers are rife, these days they throw hateful insults, know-it-all jibes and put-down pastries filled with jacked-off jam straight from their foul souls.  Hey ho, the song works well here primarily because of the slant it takes and the content.  The music is exact, non-routine and very much of the bands style - it is a 'live' fave too.  'Lit Up' is a better song though, a real educated piece of feelgood momentum and with cute switches and turns that slot into place and keep one involved.  The opening thrust is sweet as sugar, the juicy goodness of verse one is laden with pride and a ruddy solid emotion.  The words that come are from a ticker taken and hurt but, the determination to rise up, do and take the good from the bad are impressive and my titfer is tipped with respect.  Music offers a way of expression, sometimes with true salvation added.  The more I listen the more I applaud - quality work here for more reasons than many may think!

2 left and 'Wired To The Sky' slowly sidles in, gently splashes and pauses.  A song to contemplate over many spins (aren't they all) with the head focused and the sonic sensors set to level 'high alert'.  This is a 6 minute plus song and it is too much for this busy, low-patience twat who cannot get over his love for all things terse, tuned laden and having it.  I put in my good time though and find the drift relaxing and soothing. I take this inclusion for what it is and wallow in the sub-doleful, semi-dopamine opening vibes.  The impetus is upped, strength is sought, the movement has many fine moments of gracious and gratifying intelligence and hey, for a song of this length ye olde Fungal Twat hangs in and may it be said, enjoys the ride.  To be fair I won't be playing this one over and over but I hope I have enough nouse to dabble now and again and recognise the application.  We meet the last stop and hail 'Welcome To Whatever's Left' - a song that starts with an old school slow-time drift, these guys will not be rushed.  Like an all-consuming blanket of comfort snow the notes fall and cover we humble listener's with a very satisfying cloak of thermally therapeutic solidity that keeps one hanging on in there and having a go (I hope).  A song from the heart of a long-term doofer who has been through the mill, the grinder, the mincer and managed to come out the other side and is still trying.  The lunatic lottery of life is enough to test anyone's mettle - remember this as you play this slow waltzing anthem.  We are in it together - drop the grudges and the hate, move on swinging in a better frame of mind.

Hey, you know what, this stuff here will not be the tick-box punkers favourite fodder.  The music may be a little too 'individualistic' for the scene-soaked sozzled, the drift may be too polished for those who like things more roughed up and routinely obnoxious.  For me it is a choice cutlet of noise delivered by players in the know and not afraid to do their own thing.  In the flesh the vibes work well, the crew will hopefully find their own niche and get due credit and I shall be booking them again real soon (depending if they will play for a low down DIY dog).  There are many hues and textures to the tonal table - come join me and have a treat.

A wee warbling imp and her crew from Scotland are under the spotlight here, in fact this is my 5th treatment of the Radicalised Rhythms and it has been a while since I last dabbled that is for sure.  I am busy, the lass is busy, that is the DIY way and occasionally paths cross and different outcomes arise.  I have 7 tracks to tackle and go in gung-ho, with good time set aside to ponder and with the usual anti-creep mode honesty that serves me well.

And to the beginning and the first thing that hits me is the more relaxed, anarchic and naturalistic outpouring that has all the hallmarks of things untamed and utterly impressionistic.  With tumbling leaf falls of rapped verbals and the cool controlled bassism,  as well as the whispery cymbal play and reactive skins, this is an interesting mix indeed.  'Actual Dance Beats' is delivered by fuckers in the zone, not your zone, not my zone but a zone of their very own.  This is no shitty situation to be in, the only rule that music need have is that it is created by players who love it.  The underbeat is heavy, the whole arrangement colliding and trancey and I reckon it could be time for a bit of acid. A fair start tha’ knows.

'Fed Up' is a pertinent piece in the piss-wank period of time awash with hate, idleness and self-gain jockeys.  This is a surreptitious shit-snake that weaves in beneath your attentive doorframe, slithers across the carpet of consciousness and then up the trouser leg to send a shiver in a place best left unmentioned.  A pure DIY escapade with absorbing weaving and a waffling banshee doing her bit in a most focused and intense style.  There are throwback elements here, something generously anarchic and very real - this is not processed and conveyor belt crud but natural reactive radioactivity emanated from folks aglow with desire.  I fuckin' like it.  'Survive' is the most magnetic track thus far with a rippling texturisation that really appeals to the soul.  The lead lass weaves her words, it is important to stress at this point that a lyric sheet is an unquestionable priority and should be issued with all releases.  The localised accent, the overspill of verbal action need further examination but the gist is there to grasp and overall this is an hypnotic seducer with a restless core that will not be tamed anytime soon.  Plenty of care is present, some good hearty effort and an earthiness that must be respected.  There is progression here.

'Blindfolded Rebels' kicks up a shitstorm with a vicious attack of open-hearted honesty and raving sub-rap rampancy.  The ethos is sound, the words sage and the pulse beat very groovy ma' an.  The vocal styles switch from the worked up to the sedate, the seductive and the almost unhinged.  The song threatens to collapse at a few certain points, the crew just hold onto matters.  They ride the cusp of overdoing things and must take care not to outstay the lug-lending time.  I don't mind this but it just needs something a little extra and something a little less.  A curtailing of the running period and a dancey break perhaps - who knows?

'Predictable' is an everyday state of play today, in and out of many scenes who should know better.  Tick the boxes, dress up and look the part and be a clone in with the crew - fuckin' pathetic isn't it!  All over the fuckers are strangling originality and jumping through the same old hoops.  The vibes grab me here, there is an edge, an edge to be  injured by - I fuckin' hope so.  There is a good creamy underflow, plenty of angst and a wicked shit-kick at those falling into the trappings of another scene going through the same old motions.  A fair inclusion and one against the grain methinks.

'Dancefloor Talker' gets on my tits if the truth be told (quite apt if you think about it).  It is too fidgety, lacks a central core of arrangement and drifts off into an almost jizz-jazz self-absorption that really sinks my boat.  The tonal torpedoes hit home and penetrate but the invading phallus-shaped devices fail to detonate my sensors of appreciation and duly send me up in a plume of disappointed and head-wanked confusion.  The crew do well to stick to matters, they are in the groove that is for sure and again, no real rules are followed - this ain't no bad thing but this is the runt of the litter in Fungal's opinion.

We piss off with 'Get Cuntz Telt' - a catchphrase from the lass at the helm, it says a lot about the young riot girl.  A big fat twat bass, a stick tickle and an avalanche of verbosity that rattles away and makes one use all their neurones to try and keep up to speed.  The song title is snottily yelled, the cunts are spat at and in the mix is a stand-alone stubbornness to help one  stay strong, proud and not bow down to the slagging and slating wankbags.  All matters are going well and this is a good bout of zealous raving although the end collapse is a bit diluting.  I like the attitude though and if it keeps the idlers and moaners on the cusp, the job is even better.

Aye lad, we have an awkward mix of melodies and raw-assed rhythms here with the players not giving a fuck for in-scene ticks.  Away from the many musical flavours that bombard my head this is stuff I can take or leave although it is relevant, kicking against the prickery and has good foundation which I am always one to applaud.  The end verdict is of a 'not a bad do lad' - a Northern cunts summing up with honesty and passion the only ethics used. 

My 6th venture into the cacophonic concoctions of The Conspiracy and I have to say it has been a pleasurable, intriguing and quite varied trek.  There is talent aplenty on show, a thinking resonance that is the major backbone of each and every creation and I am always left with something to ponder and something a little 'out of the expected range'.  

'Dungeness' opens, a milky cream-drift of solitude and bare-bone minimalism.  The shingle of sound is tiptoed over, there are plans afoot and a small paradise is honoured.  This slow-moving piece has wonderful magnetic prowess and a certain exactitude of delicacy that helps us relate to an artiste’s creation amid the sorrowful landscape that in some ways is stark and frightening, in others it is a haven for many species and creative forces.  Like the massaging of the inner core this song follows suit and is an erotic/exotic perversion that does things just right.  A quite warm and comforting number backing up the suggestion that in the most unlikeliest of places colourful life can be borne.

'Little Finger' twilight kisses, drips inward and is a mystery in many ways.  I am unsure as to what the content is actually about but all the while I feel a warning, a threat, a religious slant that is ultimately damning.  The drift is reclined, there is no rush and a repetitive motif dictates the whole affair.  It is a neatly executed number with a fine end mix.  This is not my favourite track by this lot, it is one of those moments I can take or leave but there is nothing tonally offensive and the artistry of the composite must be admired.  There is a slick fluency and a composure that makes matters work.

On we go and 'In The Trees' is a delight - a real floating escapist bout of light and well-intentioned music that is beautifully orchestrated and with a certain freshness blowing all the way through.  A simplicity is admired, a style so unaffected and straightforward, - I think we would be all better off back in the trees with lives stripped back and all this plugged in pissery left behind.  The liquidity of the song hits home, the disillusionment with the digital depressants and the sober look at life all help make this operate with depth and for me, it is a great song to play along when in the midst of deep musings.  Marvellous.

'God's Zone' is a puzzling track, a stuttering and somewhat disjointed piece that I struggle to get in line with.  The scene is set via a careful and somewhat atmospheric opening sequence.  The human race is waiting, the human race seems to be idling and blowing a chance of salvation.  This song appears to be done from up on high with a shake of the head at the mess we are making.  Are we listening?  We fuckin' well should be!  This is a sedate track but one with a gentle underflow of melody and a message to consider.  Again the balance of all areas is precise and highly pleasing and I have this one rated as similar to many offerings by this lot, an adept and timeless grower.

The closure of this latest EP comes via 'England'.  This one strikes me as a song lightly tattooed with bitterness, mockery and a disbelief.  This septic isle has now gone gangrenous, the rot is set firmly in and the devouring of morality, decency and the actual flesh of the landscape is almost unstoppable - the question - who or what do we amputate.  A nifty mover from the off this, lucid and mid-paced, very clean cut and with a nice bite.  There is something progressive about the way the band play and of course, it is definitely thinking man’s noise - neat indeed.

Yeah The Conspiracy do what they do mighty well and give my lugs at least, a nice alternative sound to mull over.  I listen to a wide range of vibes but this lot have their own sound and a very satisfying end gloss.  These 5 track snippets are the best way forward, just enough and time to truly invest the noggin.  Here's to more of the same.

More meaty produce from the records that are found approximately Five Feet Under.  A Danish band come, dish out 5 tracks and here is my take on matters.  No reason is had to fuck around or prolong the pondering, here we go folks, another five go under the Fungal scope.

With a playing time of 8 minutes and an intensity akin to a nuclear hand grenade shoved up your rear orifice this is a real tester for a Fungal Fucker with limited patience and a penchant for swift bomb blasts and things of varied flavour.  'Plasma Pool' is a shatterpunk hardcore invasion that could be made up of several songs but instead is a shape-shifting headfuck of great density and vandalising quality.  The screams and thrashings are a treat, the switch off unnecessary and tedious and as said, the overall length a trying factor.  The crew do aim high and hit many a cacophonic zenith but as an overall construction it feels too self-absorbed and self-diluting.  Alas this is only one honest man’s opinion and I can still say this is a solid piece but just not for me.  It be an experiment gone haywire.

From foul muck comes 'Mirror Planet' - a real vile horrorshow of noise snarled forth with violent effect.  Without lyrics I am left to rely just on what the sonic sensors tell me and as they vibrate to the pillaging molestation I try and eavesdrop from the kicked-up dustbowl that interacts with the smoggy feel.  I fall short and find myself losing interest just after the midway point due to having my head battered with too much of this stuff and the lack of variation.  It is mighty incandescent stuff, splashed forth with accuracy and real hard-perspired passion but, how will it stand out from the raging crowd?

'Orgone Inhaler' rapid fires inwards, goes straight for the delicate areas and bangs away with fists of diamond-cut severity.  A brutal fuck this with a big fat bass, whipped guitar work and slap-twatty skin labour to help support the throat-ravaging ravings of the lunatic at the fore.  Again, cut the song short, make it one unholy sharp fuck-splay and piss off out of it - therein greater success would be had.  I have no gripes with the artistry, the application and the arrangement at all, I won't be playing this over and over though, I like many flavours and these robust punctuations marks are best left as occasional bursts of contrast.

The last two, 'Anecdotal Hell' is the best, a real hot-roast tonal turkey that gobbles up the resistances and spits feathers of fury back at ya.  The advancement of the blister-rage is a fiery coloured bird of incessant pecking malevolence with any eggs laid duly smashed to fuck and reeking of ill temper.  A burst of bleak bomb-blasting comes, a further push of the tantrumised tonsils and the run to the terminal point of pain is as steady as you like with a final flourish of tortured dinnage - feel those blisters man.  We piss off with 'Endless Knife' - a prolonged attack of two main flavours - the hot and spicy, the cool and creamy, all spread rather thinly over a running time in excess of 9 mins.  I struggle to stick with this, man, this ain't my favoured style at all.  In the midst of the machinations is some industrial meddling and some moments of great atmosphere but, as per, 4 songs instead of one would have been preferred.  There are some real stalwarts of this sonic shizzle out there and those are the ones best left to judge methinks.  My thumbs are turned down again, but the exactitude of the musicianship must be applauded.

Nah, in and out I go and am happy to move on and leave this to the connoisseurs.  I like hardcore in short, fast explosions, that is it, this kind of stuff leaves me mentally roaming and clutching at straws.  Now where can I get some good old rock and roll to get the mind back on track?

Look, Rites of Hadda are fuckin' good.  Stout people, plenty of passion, outside many conformist circles and making a wonderful racket.  Their 'live' shows are exacting and ornamented by a great frontman who is reliably backed by some wonderful noisemakers.  They have played several Fungalised fuck-ups, they are coming back for more, here is my take on an 8 track effluence spill that has me hungrily salivating.  Having given due praise, rest assured the CD will be dealt with as a neutered neutral - no favours, no arse-licking, no bullshit - I am too old to change and join the rim-running hordes.

A riotous tumble thunder pounds our senses as 'Is Ross Woodward A Faggot' comes at us in unashamedly forthright fashion. There is no time to adjust the underduds, tuck in the stray testes or indeed rearrange the position of a peeling foreskin.  This song demands immediate attention and focus and I give it just that.  The sonic seabed is whipped up and the sprats that are straight, skewed or of any swimming style, are all tossed about, tossed off and left to enjoy the maelstrom.  The challenge is set, the resistance pure, the overall splashing sound is rambunctious and highly rhythmic and, do ya know what - I fuckin' love it.  There ain't no diluting the queer tha' knows - and why the fuck should there be?  Answers on a postcard to... ah, what is the point?

'Racist bassist' grumbles, grinds, seduces and sways.  The languid cobra-dance seems harmless but there is venom ready to be injected.  This is a grime and grinding sound with a  sub-sex insidiousness lurking in the lower strata’s of the arrangement.  A seduction fucker, a waltzing snippet of grooming wickedness that deals with a shadow of untrustworthy beliefs who is exposed and duly shunted to the bottom of the heap.  We live in times of tension, instead of being racist why not have a wank - and I speak for all colours and creeds, toss away your prejudices you daft cunts.  Anyway this tune hits the g-spot and a few nerve endings no doubt, job done.

Next up and 'Middle England Mate' bounces in on sanguine tones and fruity vibes.  A collapse scatter, more brassage and a film-noir setting is had. Slinky sleaze baby.   The molten spew falls from the volcanic maw and sears the arses of the wank-brigade who take and give nothing, who control and kill the counterculture who just wanna dance and be good.  I like the bassism here, the twisting turns of the strings and the overall untrustworthy accents that give the band a unique identifiable edge.  This isn't tick-box tossery, it is thinking 'erberts noise and delivered with a supreme unaffected naturalness and with a poetical intrigue that absorbs.  'Killer Profits (Tokitae)' is a powermonger and rumble grumbles in on a very brash and belligerent bass.  The crammed brass mellows the rhythmic density before we get a repeatoid rant, a rattling poetical thundersplat that races along without any thought of easing up, looking back or throwing in some nonsensical baubles to hang on yer nob.  When the band whip up a storm such as this they are carried along and always end on the good side of this Fungal assessor.  I take it as a grooming process, ooh the sneaky bastards.  I like this, I reckon it be a good set inclusion to keep the cobwebs blown away.  To add – do not abuse and use animals – and stop damaging things beautiful and innocent – kaboom.

'Daemon Oh Hate' is a fiery number that deals with an identity crisis and the pricks in society who make those struggling feel even more and more vulnerable.  This is a rampant stallion of sound that is a tireless exercise in getting a point off your chest and letting the listeners have it full fuckin' tilt.  The music is glutted with life, kick-back punkery and verbally artistic strength.  The thrashing and threshing fidget fuck level of activity needs to be played to a masterly level and so it ruddy well is.  The end overspill of lunatic frustration and angst is fully justified and caps off a beautifully hectic and happening bout.  

'Fuck Them ' next - a stagger march, asped sidewinds, a creeping threat that looms large.  No rush, steady as she goes, there is a real shackled venom waiting to be spat forth, a toxic wank splat that sees me bearing my chest flesh.  This is a potent prowler that hangs around and manipulates the senses.  We deal with those who oppress, deny, critically cripple and ultimately control. The reason for the last state of affairs is you - please fuckin' think, defy and be your pure self at all times, not the made up kind that is a veritable pantomime character.  A fine avalanche of the title comes, take heed, don't just sing along, fuckin' use it as fuel to keep ya sturdy.  I like this one, it reminds me of why I am an awkward cunt.  

I fuckin' love 'Laments'. It is an exacting expression of grief poured from a passionate heart disgusted by the condition we are creating.  An environmental explosion enraged by the fuckin' vandalism and the negligible behaviour by this grab, take, self-serve brigade known as humanity.  We are in a polluted ocean of fuckwits breeding fuckwits whom, eternally feed on every other living thing and that which is inanimate too.  Take heed folks, the words spilled are fact, it is all well and good dancing, out-punking each other or ticking boxes but without action it is utter fuckin' piffle.  The action, the uncontrolled emotion, the empathy for things real and the musical manoeuvres all keep me enthralled.  Tight, focused and hitting the main vein – gigantic man.

We fuck off with the rave and raving rhythms of '.'.  Mystery ensues, we have warblings from a previous release, questions repeated and I suspect no fuckin' answers coming from the mush.  This is my least favoured track on the CD but it is still a good mover and groover.  I just need stimulants to help me keep up and swing the backside. The techno-edge is always a little too processed for my grubby noggin though but, having said this, you gotta keep things varied and the people guessing and this is a neat arrangement that does just that.

Well, there ya go and what fuckin good CD this is (again) by a band I am quite smitten by.  No pretensions, no faking it, no playing the game - just heads down and making fine music with a message. Yes, a concrete release with more nobs on – phwoar!