Having watched these guys slowly ascend the ladder of listenability on many a twats turntable I can almost predict what will be coming here. The band overdose on hooks, cram their produce with crowd appealing sing-a-long threads and avoid offering anything angular and off kilter. It is highly formulated stuff stretched to the max and how many times over the years have we seen this modus operandi pay dividends for oodles of commercialised bands on a one-way mission to 'Pleaseville'? Personally, as I write, I still believe that the bands opening account was via some stunning material, which contributed to a delectable debut album to gush over...and gush I surely did. Since then I have felt myself become slightly unconvinced by the processing production belt but then even this Fungalised git has to hold up his hands and applaud some decent tuneage (albeit not in the same bracket as that wondrous opener). Here we see the band follow a tradition (I hate that), follow a procedure (I hate that) and cough up a ditty for a festive season I am sure none of them really believe in (I hate that too). What can I do, I am just a humble reviewer, as honest as the length of a reindeers nob and so say how things are without fear of being squeezed outside the throbbing boil of popularity. Many will give glowing reports, many have to, I don't but...if it's good you will know about it.

Side A, the title track, 'I Don't Want Anything For Christmas' is straight into the highly cheesed mould and harmonises the chorus in such a disturbingly sickening manner that I almost reach for the replay button with an utterance of 'surely not' upon my taut lips. The verse comes and is vulgarly clean, corns it up with essences of loneliness and that sad eyed bluesed up shit many spill at this most foul time of year with 'oh pity me' the most fraudulent aspect on show. The song repeats the routine several times over and I get quite rankled listening to the tidy sing-a-long vileness many so-called punk pisspot will ping about to - talk about losing the will to live. We get a middle guitar spurt that is as you can guess, the closing trail for home is fodder for the fucks and even though this is average acoustica the mistletoed morons will lap up I think it is a real flatulent piece of nonsense that wastes my time. The sleigh bells at the end is almost a piss take and yet despite my ravings I know this is gonna be a winner, and I don't hold no grudges at all but please, take time and genuinely consider yourself tuned out of anything resembling punk you bastards.

Side B, a super quick filler that reeks of 'Oh just fuckin' bang this on, the fuckers will buy it anyway'. I trust the bands honesty though and overlook this pseudo-accusation and look at this primitive number as one of those that has a piss taking, in the club finger point and is one for the genuine fans. 'Punk By Numbers' isn't even that, it is a short therapeutic blow out that is over shadowed by thousands of songs I have reviewed this year and so leaves me no option but to jump ship and label as 'nowt new under anyone's sun'.

Production wise the band are marvellous, progression wise this is pointless, popularity wise they will lose no brownie points with their following here. Me, I think its a load of bollocks and duly say so which, will lose me friends, lose me kudos and keep me as one of the few fuckers willing to put things how they are and get no respect for it - it's a shit scene tha' knows. DBD are a fair band though, a bit predictable and a bit too hygienic for me but, hey, I ain't in the minority for nothing. If the many say it's good then it must be - REALLY?


Sundials hail from Richmond, Virginia and heave priority onto melodic, well saturated, may it be said, erudite compositions that stay firmly footed on the side of squeaky clean and inoffensive. On FaceSuck they put down their genre as 'Nerd Rock' which in a self-effacing kind of way hits the nail on the head but shouldn't be used by the dismissive as a tool to detract from the artistry on show. I notice the label of punk has been cast their way but that runt of a genre has been so far stretched in many ways it has got itself to a stage where it has no believable foundations. The best advice I can offer is to, as per, fuck all labels and read the review, dip in and make your own decisions. Here is my verdict, flown in without affect, without bias and without bullshit restrictions the music scene so frequently builds.

'Dealin' is a wonderful commencement with a sparkle in the soul that makes for decently drenched din that has many optimistic vibes running throughout. The lucid vocal style and the overall appetite of the acoustica make for an instantly appealing song with a well-whisked scaffolding contained within and a somewhat carefree edge adding that slight touch of danger. The band blend experienced solidity with youthful frailty and thus create a construct that hits several aural erogenous areas without being vulgarly invasive. I particularly like the somewhat compact soundscape that still offers a lightness rather than overly suffuses and makes for a murked mess - a quite nifty start. 'Splinter' is a more contemplative number and that more attentive approach, for me at least, somewhat hinders the arrangement and makes for a less impacting end result. Things are still kept honest and semi-melodic but the band opt for a dreary route and take some of the polish off the final presentation. Once more the saturation levels are decent, the productive qualities of a fair standard but that more introspective and self-examining route is restraining and so a less convincing opinion is formed, an opinion that is balanced and indecisive.

In third position of this six-strung pack is a ditty labelled as 'Gained A Grip', a combo creation of the first two efforts with a thoughtful track taken but with a real enticing melody that intrigues and relies on cultured tones rather than predictable riffs. The glassy guitar has an underlying brittleness but remains reliable, the bass is kept compartmentalised and keeps the foundations firm and the skin work upheaves the general flow and induces a fair bounce in the sonic system. The gist of what we get is penetrating, the approachable gobwork somewhat homely and natural and again the end mix is precise and very much at one with the bands desires - a real concrete slab this one. 'Stun Spore' is more radiating charm with a sound upbeat sensation and lucid lyricology intertwined with some powerful guitar thrusts and well slapped tympanics. The productive mix is wholesome and fully rewarding with a rose-tinted buoyancy created throughout. The band keep the instruments utterly hygienic, all areas scrubbed up and spruce and you will do well to find anything untoward in the mix. Perhaps not the most obvious tonal tipple for a DIY scummer but hey, this is neat stuff and I need not be bound by idiot generic boundaries.

The title track, 'Kick', begins with a grumbling bass before sticks knock up a traditional beat and the mouth offers up clean-living utterances. The track derails somewhat after this promising start and becomes something of a sub-abstract montage of many moods that I find don't truly interlock and thus leave the end jingling jigsaw slightly incomplete and out of sync. Maybe a case of personal preference and just one of those toons that doesn't meet some nebulous in-built criteria I try my best to defy. The fact is though I ain't keen on this one despite its solid mix and the injection of well-weighted chordage - hey ho - such is the palate. We fuck off with 'Eugene', a closure that has a lethargic start and only gently raises the work ethic with its drifty and dreamy approach that grasps onto a austere construct and refuses to alternate its direction. Totally middle of the road meandering but done with good effect and award winning merit that will surely serve the band well in the more commercialised waters. I am 50/50 here but with its complete mix, complimenting production values and resonating tightness of sound I gotta give the band a fair nod of the head and say 'keep it up'.

The Sundials are in their own zone and offering up output of a high standard. They threaten to drift into other generic pools but manage to stay within their own although those extra toe dips do invigorate the listener and provoke deeper interest. In truth the band play music that isn't necessarily my chosen cha but I like to melodically wander and have spun this CD many times without any searing gripes - it must be good then (he says with all sarcasm attacking any semblance of arrogance). Have a peer in to the Sundials yourself and see what you think - you may just uncover a new vibe to tickle your tonal tastebuds.


Having reviewed a single release by these guys I have been struck by the dangerous contagion offered and swallowed up the chance to review this album, along with the appropriate meds. These sharp-suited Danes capture vibes of yore and spill them afresh with newfound vitality and animated relish. The repertoire coughed up on this album is, once more, expected to thrill with melody, to kill with startling accuracy and to spill with liquid lusciousness. The Youth have it all on their side, they offered me a taster, now I want a belly full of musical morsels.

The first swill is taken of a piece known as 'Come On', an immediate effervescing brew composed on eager beaver desire and brittle cinder vibes that make quite an intoxicating entrance. The strings are kept glassy, almost sharply fragile whilst the bass is kept bubbled and energetic so as to coincide with the upbeat friskiness of the tympanics and the grooved relish of the throat at the fore. The end result is of an 'happening' thrust of garaged thirst that will not be satiated anytime soon. Those who adore the cacophonic capers of this overlooked sub-scene will get drunk on this spillage and, like me, look forward to the chasing upchucks. 'Looking At You' gets bluesed upwards with a steam train forcefulness and early trashed out tonality that becomes further enhanced as the gobbage blooms from the steamed sonic setting. Industrious and scuttled with a dreamy overlay pushed from vaulted vaginas of yesteryear where a necessary smattering of scuzz was essential so as to pepper the whole dish with a certain reality. I am liking this and make special note of the decent activity levels going on within the weave - nifty.

'You're Leaving' punctuates, froghops on beaned up zest that reinforces the entire framework of the song and gives an encouraging aspect that will keep the idle eared involved. Again we have strains of 'in scene' infection that will only be truly absorbed by the clued in connoisseurs but these titbits should in no way be tossed aside just because they aren't your thang ma'an. Invest some time, roll the flavours around the neglected palate and ponder further - get in to the slipstream, savour the spartanised approach, feel these masters manipulate their melodies and strut their stuff. This one, perhaps is not as effective as the opening two accounts, but it has much to its merit and makes for a thriving opening hat-trick.

Next and the ramshackle rumble and skipped, whipped flurry of 'Girls Like You', a stark and rinsed out prickled product with hive-ish activity and tin can acoustics that reverberate around the inner lugs with generic precision. The song however leaves me a trifle flat as it never fully grasps its potential and seems to lack a conviction between verse and chorus with neither really jack-hammering the listener with direct and decisive tones. It may be a personal issue but it is one I feel worth noting - on I go with honesty in tact (as per). 'Bubblegum' bounces on the palate, improves with each masticated eavesdrop and flourishes the oral organ (ooy sexy buggers) with gnawing acuteness. The bopping rhythm, the cymbalised shadows that surround the skin work and the weaving bass routine that fills in any gaps all allow the guitar to strut its six-strung ass in almost jammed style and so, what we get, is a liberated lesson in easy go tuneage that fuckin' well works.

'Vicious' burrows beneath the skin with a sub-Cavernised sensation that has much self-confidence and decisive 60's pop culturism built in to the overall flow. The deliberate bending of the wires and that shimmered backdrop of neatly shaken not stirred sonica is swallowed in one easy draft with all glass rim additives complimentary to the main flow - easy. 'Count' whips a steel horse across tin foiled plains before easing up and taking time to recharge the batteries with cool dude electro impulses delivered from many immersed souls who know no better and play it for pure kicks. One for the aficionados of the sub-scene or those obsessed with dipping their mitts in the retro clutter bucket with full focus on a joining in the gallop and free-trotting along with a pocketful of vibes - you get the gist I hope. 'Suede' comes on buoyant tones each one bubbled with precise application and feelgood presence. The plucky nature belies the fact that the song is more sobered and deals with a warning. The vocal approach is smoothed and glides over the pimpled surface of sound with ease. The inner snippet soaked in hollered and hollowed tribality is opposing and upholds interest - the standard is maintained. Next up and forceful string strikes come in highly tinned up fashion and grab the attention in no uncertain terms. Tympanics pulse, the gobbage fights through the forthright chops and we end up with a condensed and well saturated sound that goes by the label of 'That's Your Problem'. The band somehow contrive to make a minimalism of noise into a maximisation of racketology and with the occasional surge and hepped up bass line this one is a real driller killer that bores its way into your foot tapping consciousness.

A rattle to the finish line with 4 to go and an appropriate shake ass shimmer to get you in the groove. 'Save My Love' has spunk, loads itself up with backstreet vim and shuffles away with yet more bluesy fragrances neatly dabbed on to what is a well splattered canvas. I find this one though a little too repetitive and not meeting the standard the band have set thus far, it's their own fault. It is in keeping with the route taken but I just feel a little uninvolved and a little less aroused than I do by other tracks. 'The Norwegian Feeling' has more funkiness, more gusto and swings its booty with easier relish thus magnetising the listeners attention and making for a real fruited up experience. The guitars are well wanked, the drums skipped with bluster, the gob as liberal and sub-scorched as per and when combining these elements with the overall jerkiness, the stop and showcase segment as well as the clustered effect, you have another gratifying ditty on yer mitts. 'About To Run' attacks, rolls around, gets set and goes at it with a staggered verse contrasting with the ironed out chorus - all done with the jerk factor high and the lo-fi affect, ahem, low. Metallic, glinting with inner agitation and as brittle-stemmed as you like - pure baby, pure. We walk away into the silence with 'Baby I Am Back', a drawling sneak along with a careful hand sliding up the sonically stockinged leg and offering something of a promise, something of a comfort.  The underlying sub-text is blurred but the musical drift and intent is not and this is a fascinating finish that has me wondering if the band are best at alternating the slow and serpentine around the speedy and straight ahead - I reckon so. Either way this is a sound finish.

An album that has much to dwell on, one of those that no matter how many times you spin you always come away feeling as though something has been missed or a certain part of you is left unsatisfied. It has many highpoints to savour however and brings to the table some much needed options for a dude drenched in dinnage. The Youth are a very effective band and yet I still feel there is much more to come - bodes well doesn't it?


Here we go, read the label, you get the gist, it's all about unity and re-emphasising the injustice in the world via a punishment built on nonsense and ego - here is a review.

Classics Of Love open the sonic banquet with a frosted number known as 'Walking In Shadows'. A seemingly painful clatter of tumbledown tuneage that contains sparse application via the versage that ascends to a troublesome roll around during the chorus. The vocal style is natural and somewhat injured with a heart on sleeve lowbred quality that emanates a real believability and approachable coarseness - it is a good start. Two Gallants chase the tail with 'Las Crucas Jail', a well scorched texturisation that rises from lightly glowed embers into a conflagration of disgruntlement that sets the sensors alight and keeps em' blazing throughout. The breeze that blows through is warmed by thermal passion and what we end up with is a convincing zephyr of tonality with hungry guts exposed and ready to cough up flames of desire. Despite the alteration of pace that occurs throughout the inflammable spirit is never dumbed down and this second spillage is a neat follow up to the first and rubber stamps the CD and its concrete commencement.

Joe Tilston next and the somewhat well prepared production known as 'Liza And Henry', a very sobered bout of orchestrated acoustica with a classical edge that pervades via many a strung serenade and back whispered caress. The movement is languid, the delivery morose and greyed with the man at the helm immersed in the dreary application that is ideally executed and suitable for the set theme. Don't expect a real hair raiser here, it is a mere ponderous moment loaded with emotion and is just as effective as anything more up front and glaringly opposing. Speed Dinosaurs follow with a sub-flamenco shuffle trimmed with new-school activity and youthful bounce. 'A Working Hypothesis' is a well crafted bout of stripped down noise that moves with fair feistiness and controlled rhythm. The lyrical content is well crafted, woven within the weft of sound with clever hands and given extra weight due to the careful arrangement and thoughtful edge. The band here reflect a sound level of artistry and I'd be interested to hear how they diversify their delivery and keep the populace intrigued. The Stupids piss about, before getting to the cacophonic crux of the matter with a fast paced bout of energised poppishness that sugar rushes with adrenalin and looned focus and so creating a cloudburst of hectic hyperventilated activity one needs to play over and over so as to get the gist of. A soaked through thrust of self-therapy relieving the band of untold stress no doubt and giving the listener a real flashpoint conundrum to unfold - not bad at all and counterpunched by the chasing 'Kick The Crab Bucket' by the gyppo folkiness cum skanked modernisation of Hallouminati. A hive of multi-faceted industry with all engrossed hands at the helm and each pumping like fuckery to keep the undulating ship of racket floating with pride. Canons fire with brass balls hitting the listener full in face, the organising skins just keep on the right side of sanity, the strings are wire wanked with zeal and the barbecued front throat is happy to lead the onslaught. A real hotch-potch that paradoxically gets some semblance of order within the mix - fascinating and one for those who like things difficult.  Onto more routine fare next with the Barb Wire Dolls spouting off some orthodox punkage in old school style via the bomb blast known as 'Revolution'. A song that has all restrictions in place, a ditty well doused in predictability but given 'ooomph' by the cavernous density of the riffage and the front lasses lung explosions that come with intermittent sub-orgasm groans and sheer let-loose releases liable to burn all in their way. The song is a thumping affair filled with sloganised attacks and bog-brush aggression that many a spiky top will fail to turn away from. The band have doubters and shouters, this explosion should keep it that way.

Fait Accompli lighten the shadings with a panoramic slice of sonica that is sugary, fluffed and in truth quite simply constructed. Saying this, 'This Is The End Of the World' is a sweet listening experience and when the chug factor is increased and momentum builds we have on our hands a real confident pulse that has an upbeat feel despite the opposing lyrics. A smart mover with an inner radiance that has capabilities of capturing the attention of many sub-generic dwellers. The Hickey Underworld shimmer fractured glass, cut through the veins of reason and spray the walls with passionate lifeblood with their determined forthright effort labelled 'Mystery Bruise'. Straight from the ticker on to your turntable this desirable episode of alternative rocking has many clattering corpuscles of influence within the general erupting plasma and makes for a real gory mush of musical intent. The band do well to avoid a collapse into a full on tear up but keep things almost professionally restrained and wonderfully effective. I crack on with pleasure my soul mate. 

Contradiktion cough up 'No Composure', a palpitating skanky swift episode that finds escape through the chorus and so gives a contrasting journey with bumpy backroads taken and smooth freeways roared along. The two modes of travelling serve as a chance to give the band a greater chance to showcase their talents which, are highly praiseworthy indeed. A drawling and trawling croon next with Lucero crawling along with the sun-kissed porchway ponder that is 'Better Than This'. A semi-bluesed number with whiskey soaked vocal delivery and barely touched guitar that just does enough to scrape by, albeit without any originality up its ass. Still a decent effort though as is 'One Arm In' by Bonehouse, a veritable oddment with moments of switched off driftings that are mellowed and thoughtful set in a montage of highly blistered outbursts that seem utterly spontaneous and without care and so add a dangerous element to what is a well prepared mix. The band strike me has having itchy feet and I suspect produce many a tune that is technically convoluted and equally unsettled which will undoubtedly cause division, just like it has done with me - I am thoroughly undecided. Bring To Ruin force the verdict with a thunderbolt of raging hardcore right up the arsehole of the listener. 'Career Suicide' is power violence unleashed, with a foaming front gob laden with disease and vein-popping passion. The backdrop is an avalanche of immersed idiocy thrown at us with maniacal glee - this band have chosen their route, picked up the weapons and are making sweet merry riotous war - stand in their way at your peril.

Faulty Conscience donate 'Storming Beacon Hill' to the cause, a testing skanked piece that eventually crustifies its own offering arsehole and speeds along on ragged shirt tails and well worn sneakers with an abandon in the frenzy that is more than appealing. A song that is in need of a good wash but is all the better off for being slightly crummy. There is an inner tightness and when the band rise higher so do the levels of triumph - not a bad dirty old runt. Rat Cunt Disco defy preconceived ideas with a communised strum out known as 'Everything That We Need'. This is a subtle gem, a political smart ass delivered in thoughtful and sobered tones with an heart for the basics and a refusal for the crime of greed. The blend is comforting, the wordage thought provoking and thoroughly agreeable and I make special note of this one and its position on a fine CD thus far. Next and Leftover Crack with a torturing piece of monochromed filth that is highly roasted and blood spat into your mug with grimaced and perspired temper. 'Burn Them Prisons' is quite predicable politico puke but is done with the screwed up disgruntlement we so often favour that we get...involved. The script is poisonous, rebellious and fiery with an unease against the state of play within the world today - and why shouldn't it be?

Another change of style with DJ Niesche offering a scratch and sample episode of drift and dabble experimentation that is loaded with mood swinging sensations liable to fracture many a noised in noggin. 'Je Suis Manger' eats its way into your psyche and leaves an aftertaste of pleasant but somehow suspicious eeriness. Uniforms spill their own brand of spunkage with 'Heads Down, Thumbs Up', a well furrowed number that is one you need to take your time with due to its minimal rhythm and straight ahead hammer out approach. It is a deluge of undiminishing discordance that must be taken as a mood piece and may not be tolerated if in need of some easy listening fodder. One of those which leaves me undecided as does the chasing pollution of 'N. F. S.' by !SSA although the latter songs impetus and dirty bass manipulation do have me salivating a little harder. The opening spiel is frenzied, totally at war, in protest with the propaganda machine that forces everyone to keep within their comfort zones. The chasing bilge water stinks mighty fine and as I write I can feel myself getting pulled more toward the side of favour - yeah, nasty shit is needed, why the fuck not - the only gripe is the extended running time - darn it!

The final three, Padded Cell jerk around with 'Happiness Police' a twisted piss-take with pertinent points that some may miss, some will pick up on and some will duly ignore - cunts. It is far from a classic and not really a song but a heavily sarcastic episode that deserves its place on here - you have to mix and match, you have to rupture the sonic snatch or be cursed with a multitude of normal babies destined to bore you rigid - think on. Nu, Pogoi follow with a superb blanket bath of white hot heat known as 'Lost Mind, Lost Heart, The Ultimate Slave', an absolute sizzlefest of 'fuck off' powermongering done with raped larynx labour and full blown bastard blitzing that burns off every layer of skin and sears your aural receptors with blazing spite - love it, nicely timed and positioned exactly - what a gem! Matthew Bourne closes all with a pure opposition to the last piece with a classical key dirge known as 'Lament', a sometimes hesitant, occasionally certain crawl across the horizontalised ladder of ebony and ivory where many strings of the heart are waiting to be pulled taut, relaxed and yanked yet again. This dreary closure is ponderous, perhaps labours the point a little too much but no matter what, still has the listener uncertain as to what will come next...and that is mission accomplished to say the least.

22 tracks, numerous angles, oodles of noise, a real diverse conglomeration of acoustic elements and all done for a worthy cause, come on now what the hell do you want?


Antagonizers ATL deliver retro rock and roll noise scarred with streetpunk and are made up of 4 noise makers with a long history within the manky scene. They have played with many fine bands and proven themselves over and over with a gritty sound that retains varied essences but...and a very twatty but at that...what does this well worn reviewer think? Let us see what these Atlanta-based buggers offer up here.

The first fireball to be shot from the cauldron of cacophony is entitled 'Pressure', a song that belts along from first to last with spellbinding hunger. The opening musical fluidity thrashes out its own guts with highly riffed and charged up desire to get your lugs well and truly fuckin' tuned in. The 2 skip introduces, the instruments are brandished and after a brief guitar burst the avid and active verse foams upwards and into our open gobs with steel-capped impact. This is a release from the belly, a veritable primeval scream to relieve tension, to soothe the tested soul. From the verse we hit the repeat strains of a concussive chorus that feels the strain and tries its hardest to break away. Wham, wham, wham - 1 minute 45 seconds of juddering tuneage to get bruised by. Impressive.

'The Crew' crisply introduces itself before tumble punching on a sub-tribalised minimalism. Do not fear, the full throttle is soon hit with a bovver boy street quality kicking at your doors of resistance with predictable earthiness and gang pride so often encountered within this sub-pit. The band give a good account of themselves due to the reliance on routine rhythms and exacting production levels that compliments the bands sonic needs and gets the best out of each component. The song is to the point and bruises the rockin' ribcage without caving in the whole framework - a tidy dust up.

DDC started life in 2011 and never had plans to be a full time band but found themselves playing regular gigs in their hometown of Atlanta with many well known names. Again we have some streetpunk on offer, again I go in unbiased - what more can I add, oh yes the review.

The foreskin of silence is ripped backwards, a good rubbing of the sonic shaft is had, the first rockin' expulsion achieved is splashed under the signature of 'Victory' a melodic chug stomp that begins with bass bubbles eventually merging into a cock-steady, sure footed cruise that has all the trimmings of typical earthy Oi leakages. The essence is of a swollen chest pride, a resolute belief that will not have sand kicked in its face and of a tune with a target in mind. The band play their shit well and the general 'ooomph' and harmonised rear hollers all commingle to create a very rewarding offering that is archetypal acoustica from a scene that has no real pretensions. Working mans escapism with confidence building clout - join in or jerk off or, if you are real keen, do em' both whilst rockin' yer knackers off. 

'Hated' for me is the better of the 2 DDC songs as it stokes the flames of noise with more focused fury and has much more deliberate punching power. The balls of the listener are gripped with a greater level of spitefulness and the resultant watery eyes are borne from nothing more than a sincere appreciation. The ascension from the rattled drums to the flashing urgent guitar work through to the searing temperament of the front gob and of course the simply scorched chorus this passionate blood vessel bursting episode of self belief and foul-mouthed kick back is a delight and the fact that anger is indeed an energy is accentuated here with a very upfront explosion. One can almost feel the perspiration fly, the muscles become taut and the throat bleed like fuckery - surely everyone likes a dose of this stuff now and again.

A small showcase of what it seems is two more than capable bands. These tasters are a joy to review and when you get two units really doing themselves proud you can’t help but shout out the praises from the rooftops. Listen up, two more bands are here to get your hungry lugs wrapped around - keep moving, fuck the static, swill this sonic shit down and let the passion poison ya.


Rash Decision speedburst inwards from a corner of this septic island where pasties dictate and tin mines are used by black-eyed pixies - well so the drugs tell me. These Cornish cunts of clatter nail it hard and offer up a dark density of sound that has only one purpose - to turn your brain to diarrhoea. This could end up a very messy listen so I block up my nasal passages and await the cerebral shite to drip from my lugs - anything less than an aural raping and I shall sue for lack of damages - no pressure like!  I apologise in advance for the wayward sexual leanings – ooh me arse!

I await the first penetrative thrust, it comes my way via 'M. R. C. C.' a knuckleduster piece that at first follows almost a procedure drenched with orthodox normality with regular rocked up H/C riffage the order of the day. The tonsil work comes and is inflamed and adequately barbecued, a certain nettling of the enthusiasm is had, a brief respite and the songs finds its true impetus - ferocity borne from ill will and utter disgust. Rash Decision are in their element here and this sudden increase in bestial rage is, more than likely set to continue. I, for one, fuckin' well hope so. A solid scene setter with the larynx sweetly warmed up. Welcome to the flames of fury. 'Boredom' segues in, soon stamps itself down as a raw rectal ripper from Hades that shreds the sonic sphincter with blinding bomb blasts of brutal incessancy. The stick work is possessed, the guitars utterly unified and focussed to grim fuckery whilst the lead tongue lashing come from a blackened orifice seared by external annoyances. 1 minute 24 seconds is the running time, which, as I often repeat, is ideal for the unapologetic sonic warmongering - the impact is choice, Rash Decision are more than masters at their art form and 2 tracks in and I am thoroughly absorbed - massive.

'The Cost Of My Pride' toothaches, spitefully toys with the nerve endings before grabbing the real cause of the problem and yanking it free with demonic vindictiveness and all powerful intention. The head is shocked into attention, left rattled and in a state beyond repair. 'Sea Biscuit' gallops up next, is lashed with razored whips and given a metallic beating second to none. Lyrically basic and unhinged, schizophrenic in all other areas and with cock stamping brutality that is of lightning bolt swiftness that leaves one writhing and uttering 'what the fuck happened there then'. 'Dislocate' is hard worked artistry with the RD ramrodders alternating pace, opting from an initially head mushing flurry into a mauling molestation that is undoubtedly perverse in its approach. When at full tilt the band glow with passion, when opting for a crawling tempo the crew radiate menace - both aspects contradict and compliment in the same black plumed breath - astounding. 'Learning Things About The World Part 3' is a nineteen seconds shit spray of undigested angst and ill smelling restlessness. The arsehole is held open, the inner gases propel the main lumps of shitty noise outward and the resultant pebbledash is totally conclusive - this is unapologetic brutality created for the fuckin' love of it and without thought for those who get in the way. That is 4 double quick time tunes and reviewed in the same manner - I can't see anything changing anytime soon.

Pause. Re-adjustment. Reflection. 4 more fast blasts – literally!

'Ratican' is haemorrhoid bursting mega noise with a scorching wildness rattled out with tight-assed pain. The punctuating gob offs accentuate the whole untamed piece before we plunge headlong into the superb incandescent hatred of 'Losing The Fight'. Yet more mad fuck speed rushed hardcore with all areas battered to buggery and left in a state of disrepair. Be warned, these guys are rapists, they have no morality when it comes to melody and will pin you down, place their toned todgers in your lugs and fuck you senseless. As though these two blasts are not enough they are trumped by the absolutely absorbing 'Bottom Feeder' a fuckin' mammoth moment that impales you on tuned in tusks and nails you to the walls of disbelief. As tight as a gnats chuff the wrecking bollock avalanche of noise is mesmerising and Rash Decision uphold all levels of excitement throughout. 'Cathcart, Robert A' power fists, grabs the tail end of your bowels and yanks out a good 20 foot of intestine with which to whip you with. The shit, the blood, the rank flesh all sting the flesh with discordant venom. From the opening flagellation through to a rib-kicking riot to a riff and rough up shout out cum cruise experience - this is hefty stuff!

Deep breathes. A stretch of the taut and somewhat bruised muscles. The last 4. Can I make it?

'Protection' rhymes with erection and that is just what this song is - a big shaft of cacophony that bursts into your sonic jacksie with abandoned delight. Each arse pounding is a painful pleasure be ye gay or straight or even celibate. I won't say anymore than that - just spread yer cheeks and let the depravity happen, I reckon you'll be smiling all the way through ye perverse gits. 'Gears' grinds, eventually blinds, with usual forthright focus before a fascinating tumble away with all cables crippled with riffage really do the business. The throat is still in inferno mode and if your sonic digestive system is still retaining the fodder consumed then you may just swallow this with glee. 'Rotted Out' segues in, begins with unhinged utterances from a man with visions of self-gratifying doom and is followed by implosive vandalism of the senses before the usual decadence comes. This one is a routine quick shit with the basin left unwashed afterwards, nothing special at all and saved by the brief running time. 'Kobayashi Maru' is the finale, a nasty streak that smears the final punctuation all over that which has gone before and somehow leaves a final 'fuck you' imprint with various angles thrown at us without thought for the injuries liable to be caused. Of course the delivery is tight as hell, for sure the virulence is high, it goes without saying the intoxication levels are through the roof - it seems Rash Decision will not be changing their direction anytime soon, and why should they? I give this finale a tentative nod of agreement although something super violent would have been more apt - a real end blast done in a pure evil way - hey ho.

Despite the latter two songs not truly rattling my neurones this is an impressive session of hardcore malevolence and thoughtful angst. Rash Decision are not only on the ball but are kicking it to fuck that it will no doubt make it explode anytime soon. The band are well versed in their art with the only predictable problem being that how long can they survive on this style of spillage? A fair while I reckon, but to add longevity I suggest the next tear up has some real orthodox riffage and various unexpected angles to keep the listener knocked off their feet. Other than that, headbanging nuts - go get it!


A trio of young gents who blend 60's garage, rhythm and blues before salting with a mod-esque flavour and vinegaring with a spite of psychedelia and surfiness. The band have trawled through past sonic sensations, swirled them around and come up with an output of their own with much room to manoeuvre and venture outwards. The release came to me via Dirty Water Records and yes - I have every right to expect much, the label have many classy releases to their name.

Scrambling in, undergrowth pushed aside and the first sonic shroom to puff its spores my way is named as 'Mr Devil', a very happening, 60's montage of feelgood vibrancy that bounces along on pure musical desire and gyrating dynamics borne from guts awash in this influential scene. The accuracy with which the acoustic walls are left piss stained, the semi-rickety rhythm, the gentle abrasion of sleazed snottiness and the Cuban heel beat all ingratiate this listener and I am fully enthralled. A real deep grooved opener that is well versed in its chosen sonic artistry and delivered quite ideally by these shaded ambassadors - yeah baby! Ghost ride carousel keys next with a jaunt in the jiggery and a monochrome B-movie backwash that all make for a character-clustered absorption known as 'We're Arrogant'. The song is an angularised assortment of tones that don't just sit right but somehow escape in unison with something resembling a song. It is a watershed of almost mismatched aural fabrics but with a little insight, some crafty noised up needlework the band scrape through. Not bad and in keeping with the style but, I expect better.

'Drunk Blues' chops, blows, snots up and peppers the listener with a clued in bout of multifaceted music that has many inspirations primarily borne from the musty vaults of yesteryear. The accentuation of the incessant keys, the veritable let loose and hang low liberation of the vibe and the somewhat slaggish cum loutish sluttery of the trap at the fore all magnetise those primitive instincts to penetrate deeper into the cunt of clattering cacophony. There are many reasons not to like this, there are an equal many facets that win your favour and I believe, that in the main, the latter aspect will win the day - pure absorbed generic shizzle to drown in. 'It's An Experience' lowers the heat, shuffles with a funkoid thermality that shakes off a constipated strain and pebbledashes with much effort. A sub-sinister rivulet of rhythm trickles down the main walls of tonality whilst all crashes and clashes blend in a garish shit splat of involving obsession. We are on a purist jaunt, with apologies absent and utter immersion the order of the day - the question is, can you take it? Individually the song works but how would it fare as part of a long, drawn out album - maybe a little too much I reckon but for now the thumbs get raised, albeit a little tentatively.

The CD here is an acquired taste and will be flying over and under the general rhythmic radars of the many. No doubt though, the ones in this specific tunnel of toneage will absolutely love this generic output and be seen dancing away beneath the psychedelic lights and getting their noise fix over and over again. I don't mind an injection of this melodic drug now and again and when in the genuine mood can really flow with the vibe man - why not, when in the zone then anything should go!


Writing reviews is never easy and the intro's are a bit of a bugger sometimes so, when the chance is had to let someone else do it, then why not? The following text came from the band, I thought it wise to copy and paste - 'Ottokraft is an Electro Rock project from the Parisian Indie and Underground scene, formed by William Dark. This three piece band has for members Jeremy T on drums, Stef T on bass and William Dark on keyboards/machines and vocals. Their music is a combination of Traditional Rock and Modern Alternative sounds'. I think that about sums things up, now here go the Fungal Fingers, tapping out the thoughts from the over abused sonic noggin - well who else will do it? You bastards!

From eternal sable silence a pronouncement is made 'The Kraft' makes way for your attention, opens the gateway to a cold and calculated bout of electro articulation where wired intestines sprawl across polished floors and pulse with a regulated activity to arouse your receptors. The message that radiates is of chances lost, opportunities wasted - man is the ultimate culprit, eternally damned within his own idiot confines - the final apocalyptic whitewash is relevant and, may it be brutally said, fuckin' utterly deserved – a choice opener. 'Do It Baby' is automaton lust, programmed sensuality with chrome plated erogenous zones sheened with crystal clear perspiration and mechanoid hormonal essences. The careful positioning of each note, the sincere plea of the vocal victim and oh so slight attention has sensually takes over is exact. From a somewhat tentative start we move into rhythmic realms which flow like sexualised lotions that smooth the groove, aid the slip and slide sensation and push this absorbing song onto more exciting, pleasure drenched plateaus than at first deemed possible. What is most impressive about this second burst is the high clarity levels and the solid precision that has been had in the production room - each key push, every oral expulsion, the entire gathering of musical adornments is bang on the mark and this is undoubtedly a very refined and rewarding moment of electro execution.

'Undergods' is a superb song with a blasting backhand swipe at the eternal abusers and users of Mother Earth with no thought of anything else except...self. The opening unsettlement blossoms into a chopping bout of deliberate energy that plumes upwards with demanding perception and overpowering ardour. The tympanic work connects all corrosive blasts and bounces around with efficient eagerness whilst the fuzzed, buzzed and scuzzed laser lights and acoustic acidity splash the walls of lethargy with sizzling spirit. The multitudinous attack of sparked sonic components hits us with force and makes a quite shuddering impression that keeps this CD in the upper echelons of our attention. Very futuristic and very accomplished - excellent work. 'Greedyfied' rasps with deep resonance before crawling over raped terrain on bloodied, almost defeated hands and knees. Rivers of puke flow against the sonic grain and join up with the general ocean of shit that the human race has passed forth from its overfed, all-consuming gut - the noise presses forward nonetheless and hopes are for some glimpses of salvation. It duly comes, but only after a smart verse that will not be resisted with its kind of granulating insistence and efficient operational style. The finale hits with force, stunner.

'I Am A Mutant' tinkles with innocence before bomb-blasting with culpable menace. All components throb and chug as one whilst the whispering serpent at the helm of all machinations remains almost dictatorial without straining. A confession of mutanoid status comes, a recognition of a complete alienation. Outsiders, external sliders - this is for you, an outside the circle sensation, trying to combat circuited emotions processed by moronic switch flickers. Again a purist composite with much weight and appreciable high definition impact - Ottokraft are zoned in, my applause is a matter of course. 'Fuck You' highlights the discombobulated and disgruntled humanoid circuitry that is responsible for the tuneage and brings to the aural screens visions of a band with a gripe in the gut. The opening buzzomania here blooms with sparking intensity and bone-numbing power that grows along with the impetus and so creates a dragging digitised discordance that you cannot escape. The desire that works with the rhythm is energetic and totally hypnotic with an inner soul alight with passionate need. I like the defiance in the strain of the delivery and the almost poisonous edge that drips from the tongue of resistance - tidy work.

2 left and 'Dirty Looks' trembles with deep vibrology and sleazed leanings before ploughing forth with criss-cross wires fusing the joints and underpinning the more commercialised mouthwork. Sexualised for sure, enslaving and dominating with high heeled efficiency grinding the conviction factor into the dirt. The song moves with liquid erotica over sweat soaked sonic flesh whilst fuck pumping to a deliberate rhythm and now and again reaching zeniths of pleasuredome excellence. Ottokraft are producing the goods here and this is another fine track to admire. Proceedings are full stopped with a doom laden episode that emphasises the fact that the human race has lost its path and become attached to a leash that is borne of greed, ego and idiot need. A call for the basic qualities that can only result in happiness is had and although there is a sampling of hope the apocalyptic finale is surely a suggestion of how everything will end up - in a blinding ascending mushroom of toxic noise - an appropriate closure.

Ottokraft are built on futuristic tones and come with reality and unbiased thinking at the fore. The style of delivery is a clashing mix of that which is heartfelt flesh and that which is cold unemotional steel - when combined with the crew’s artistry it makes for a thrilling experience that is forever on the cusp.


Formed originally in 1978 and hailing from the Isle of Sheppey this lot play traditional punkage that is built on nothing more than energy, anger and determination. Many vibes that seep in have all been heard before but, as should be the most crucial aspect of making this sub-generic racket, the attitude that spills over is what should be of utmost importance. The whole scene is awash with wanked off bands who have shot their bolt and are going round and round in circles playing to the senseless herds who have nothing to say and nothing that they want to particularly hear - only the same old shit. I don't hold back if I find spirit lacking, I will be fair as the music goes and will come up with an end verdict as honest as the day is long - you have been warned, the certificate as per is X and if your stomach is weak you may want to fuck right off…now!.

The whelp of silence is jerked, the first globule of yellowing sonic spunkage to splat on the lap of the listener is the gruff and heavily molested 'Mental', a song of robust upfront stature with a primitive punked streak raging through and grabbing your attentive knackers. The song has an indispensable raw, angry and 'fuck you' edge with the band creating something without originality but with much inherent honesty that saturated spikers will not be able to resist. This is one of those moments when something externally tells you that you should know better but that inner spirit insists you just fuckin' have it and enjoy. Again I feel it important to re-emphasise that if this produce was pissed forth back in the so-called day it would have been absolutely lapped up by the raw hungry dogs on the street and yet today gets sniffed at by those oh so self appointed progressive punks and those new school techno twats who think they have more credibility because they are more clued in with their instruments. Look, it is all noise and if it has a good rhythm, a good spirit and some real passion then what more do you want - up yours, this is a decent bog brush start and certainly cleans out my clogged sonic shitter. 'Lazy Hacks' goes at it with crust down, peepers looking ahead and those musical limbs speeding away on volcanic bassism and shit streaked guitar whilst slap ass drums redden the output and enhance the flash light desire. The gob at the fore is gravelled and highly diseased and despite this being an undistinguished tune it is still tolerable due to its diseased temper. Not great but 'Last Night Out' is more like it and is a more substantial affair with sinews pulled taut, muscles flexed to fuck and eyes bulging with brain blistering desire. One can feel the animated frenzy within the weave and the ungarnished recipe is highly rewarding to anyone with a thriving palate. The chunks of nutritious noise offered are laden with hard endeavour and what we get here is a good wholesome gutful of dinnage to digest many times over. Next, and a 4 count, a good old clatter and a kickback against the sable monster that invades the mind and blocks out the sun of positivity. The bass here snakes around with a searching eagerness, the skins and cymbals are knocked about with delectable ardour and the six strung asp spits out the rhythm with necessity whilst that front cunt rips it up and screams out with 'Depression' the last emotion on our minds. That tendency to fuck it all is cultivated through a darn decent upchuck and my advice with this one is to leap in headfirst and forget every stress and strain that comes your way – why the fuck not?

'Brezhnevs To You' is a well-bolted piece with all components tight and sturdy. No change in the style, more boisterous bother bollocks that inflate with the abundant sonic spunk found within the general sac of disgruntlement. A short hammer blow to the head, no frills, few skills - just a thump in the goolies and into the follow up. 'Wake Up! Get Up! Play Up!' is a rousing grenade that detonates your manic side and insists that you let your anger fly free and make yourself known. The initial twist gets beneath the skin, the pursuing throb creates direction, the lyrical forcefulness kicks out all lethargy - are you ready to fly in the face of your oppressors? Well you fuckin' well should be? This ebullient overspill of cock solidity has a good rampaging ethos and hopefully results in unsettling consequences - noise isn't a fuckin' game tha' knows. Crackin' moment and one built, yet again, on the most fundamental tones and red raw lust - sometimes that is all that is needed.

'Got It All Wrong' is to the point, churns up its own guts, tirades with sordid shades, spouts off from a rickety platform built on spit, shit and bollocks and all finalised with a Crassite statement twisted into a finger poke at the apathy out there within these septic shores. Bog standard stuff but listenable and followed by the more effective 'Hate (Police State)', a charged up song that seems destined to lose control via the livid opening puke ups. Disgruntlement rules the roost here with a hefty whack of temper thrown into our faces. The restraint is too much to bear,  the toned strait jacket is shredded via a maniacal tear up that sees the band almost lost their minds. The song crashes into oblivion which paves the way for the exciting bass intro of 'Lets Build A Factory', a vicious paced up chug out with the sword of fury brandished with the usual irritation and cutting intent. The Committed have many bugbears on their chest and froth up the sonic scene with tempestuous savagery borne from natural rage. The songs are flying by, numerous points are made, much therapy is had, an abundance of provocation spilled. Again this is quick and without fuss, just like the chasing 'Whose War', a questioning gruff grumble with all areas boorish and nicely grouchy - nowt wrong with a blaze in ya belly. There is no change of style here, and to be vulgarly honest, there doesn't need to be, this is nothing more than an unsettled collection of big booted blast-outs with hairy arses bared, wrinkled old knackers dangling and tickers rattling with all out rhythm. Harsh, robust, rockin' and raw - I know some who will fuckin' hate this, I know some who will fuckin' love it - such is the scene.

6 left, would it be fruitless to labour the point? I reckon so!  So get off my back and let me tear ahead, I gotta try and keep up with these insuppressible buggers.

'Losers' is flustered chaos whipped back into a semblance of order within a very austere running time. The slapdash edginess finds the crew taking a fair risk with all output liable to collapse at any given moment. The cloud burst, the rumble of thunder and the gale blown storm all come, saturate and leave a taste of things marvellously overcooked and ornately shabby. I like the crummier side of sound and love this acute eruption. 'Big Pharma' is a steadier offering with a regularity within the construct and a complete lack of tuned trespassing that stays with set bounds and sees the band coasting. What rescues the song is the gruff weight and easily picked up and played style that has a tempo even the fussiest can't complain over. Very commonplace cacophony holding no threat but with a decent message against the pharmaceutical bandits who create and make ‘ad infinatum’ at our expense.

'Free Speech' gets stuck in a loop, chugs up its innards before hightailing its own arse with double quick gusto that sees things get heavily nailed with admirable accuracy. A juggernaut effect is reached for and the band make a good effort to fully capture that melodic methodology with this head bashing blunt instrument of sound. The swift running times work and keep ennui at bay. 'Social Spies' is over in similar time, this time with the foot off the gas and a more moderated mode taken. A crispness combines with the abrasive gobbage and that 'get outta my face' rage is a winning element that will have the lovers of 77 punk salivating - it is what it is - don't except no ground breaking dinnage here. The last 2 slam out with 'Fuck Conscription' being another fast fucker with prolonged tails to each versed statement and a chorus clutter to admire and with 'Fast Lane' a full on punctuating gem that makes me wanna drink big, pogo in a crowd and put my addled head through a door - it seems most apt. A good one two combo that leaves me little else to say and if I added any more and tried to explain what this CD is all about (which you should fuckin' well get by now) then I could be accused of producing to much verbal padding (and we don't want that now do we).

Typical punk (in robust brackets) with all sub-generic criteria met and no outside the box gambles taken - is that enough for ya, well you tell me! Personally I like it all ways (oh baby) and no matter how much diversity of din comes my way I still have a lot of time for spiked shizzle such as this. I know I should perhaps be a trifle more critical in my report but this noisy style of shittery is in my blood and from day one, to the day I die, I will I guess always be infected – hey ho, it ain’t a bad way to be!


The opening spillage from new dudes on the block known as Red Lucy. Hailing from New York the band offer this DIY recording which was done in a bedroom/live session in a 3 storey house with emphasis laid on a honest and 'this is what we are approach'. The band chuck in varied flavours such as punk, surf, garage, grunge and other such underground vibes. The attitude is to make earthy noise filled with a 90's punk attitude and with a laid back bong loading mentality it seems - now this sounds intriguing. The spliff of sound is lit, now it is time to take a few critical draws - oh man.

The first flavour to be inhaled is scrawled as 'Crucify Me', a song with a rusted tin can approach and a blasted smokiness that invades each chug, pollutes each oral utterance and makes this a quite fouled up crawl along built on strained guts and equally stretched unease that pervades all aspects and makes for a quite uneven and coruscated wall of sound. The essence is unwashed, the flavour harsh, the ones intrigued will be connoisseurs, the DIY sniffers and the encouragers of natural flow and hungry chompers like yours truly. Not the most free flowing track but a mere scene setter. 'Hit Me With Everything' clogs the aural lungs with a toxic intake of creeping filth loaded with homemade dustiness and unaffected hands-on attention. The song threatens to collapse at any time and after a semi-crippled stretch we finally crumble in a heap only to rise from the lifeless ashes and be taken on a surging track that shadow echoes, finds more focus and counterpunches the opening segment. The plod is re-adopted, clotting and infection comes and what we are left with is a discombobulating discordance found on deaths door and awaiting a final kick in the non-too rhythmic ribs - bear with me, judgement is withheld as I examine the track further and as part of this whole dismembered offering. 

'Wearing An Apron' is initially more sonically scant in its approach before moving into a semi-terraced gob off that alternates proceedings quite nicely. The loose and skimpy guitar cutlets, the choppy undulations and the overall cruddy style may, in some instances, nauseate the eavesdropper, in others (those who like things puked up without expectation and arrogance) will appreciate the stench. The negligence of piss arse sonic posturing and the desire to keep all things warted is noted and Fungal, despite the many who say they know better, gives this one a firm nod - so fuck ya. 'Never Coming Back' is disillusioned and almost detached with an opening sequence ready to give in and let it all fall apart. A tightness of the tonality comes and we have a scarring terror interrupting the disconnected style - a subtle mix. A time to fight back is pondered, emotive wirework is contemplative and we take a brief pause to summon up some inner fire. Oral flames reach high, lick the rear of lethargy, feed themselves with a petrol of passion which smoulders away and destroys all that has gone before. A final roar finishes the job and what we are left with is a good residue of alternating rhythm that radiates decent thermals.

'Wristwatch Switchblade' haunts, shimmers, lurks - what damned bastard of malevolent music awaits? A crushing step comes forth, a bleak shadowed foot smashes all in its path, rocks the rafters with a deliberate slo-mo push. Our rickety resistances fights back, refuse to be overwhelmed by the sable presence that desires our very soul - it may be a lost cause. Glimpses of light are ahead when moments of consideration are had but destruction of the senses is never far away as an irrefusable thrust of treacled tonality is slopped onto aural sensors. This is flagitious, nefarious noise laden with velvet voids in which to get crushed. Absence of melody, presence of sludgery - this is hard work but has a weight that we need to take into consideration. Compare with its predecessor and with the chaser and many meritous aspects can be had, as a stand alone however it is a darn difficult listening experience. All I can be is honest!

The blatant accuracy of 'Nothing In The World Is Free' comes as an opposing pleasure and makes scuttling advancement on multi-corroded areas before chopping up the slipstream and then burrowing away into the senses with a meat flung horror style that operates from grimy vaults where purist DIY-ism is cultivated. The perceptible realism, the feculent murk, the ragged warrior delivery all make for a concoction that is far from attractive but one that needs replaying several times over to truly appreciate - not bad shit at all. My most preferred track of the lot is enslaved with the moniker of 'What A Mug' a real counterpunching construct basically built on twanging melodica and driving force riffage that finds a sonic equilibrium and nails it with all outpouring ethics and flavours kept in tact. The blasted heath guitar sequences, the bi-flick of the wires, the terraced chant gob offs and the whole patchwork uniformity make this a solid song that pushes the band into new areas. It may in fact be the most orthodox piece but sometimes that is the only way no matter how you view it. A good episode this and followed by the closing plod of 'Subhuman', a degenerate sound with a similarity had with a bubbling quagmire that may seem harmless but which can, once a hold is taken, suck in your veritable entirety. Commune-ised, unhurried, almost a dirge - this almost malevolent kickback is a sobering punctuation mark at the end of a quite stirring CD that has many facets to contemplate.

The review is done, the result, for me at least, is of a band saturated with a DIY ethic and tentatively reaching out and probing varied acoustic angles. There is more to come from this lot, who knows what form it will take, but it will be strictly within the bands beliefs and as real as you like. This initial produce that has invaded the underdog lugs of Fungal has been well received and I ponder the future with high anticipation.
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