OCCULT CHARACTER - PROPAGANDA

More weird and warped angularity from the lo-fi electric folk forayer who isn't afraid to wander into territory forbidden.  We have 3 tickles here, once again on the Metal Postcard Records label, a label that likes to give people a journey into the unknown and hopefully stretch their sonic imaginations beyond the norm.  

'Propaganda' has a soft and tender dreamy soundscape whilst the sub-spoken/sub-sung verbals come, flow with Iggy-esque lilts and an ambiguous poetical drift I have yet to fully grasp.  Again, the OC creator does what is needed in a quite non-conformist and dis-musical way that has the ability to create a certain fascination.  We have a brief glimpse of a productive force that needs to declutter the cranium, banish a few niggling needs and just do - it is all very odd and disarming, it is for the awkward sod who likes things befuddling and charming.

50 seconds of decadence next with a sweet tune overlain with musings from a man with a beer, a seeming wannabe hard-on and a pressing need to expose one's inner passions.  Quick, off-the point, laden with with a deep-rooted frustration methinks and not the finished article.  Akin to half a wank, we want more, we want a final buzz, we get a tease that is a tickling torture.

'Health Risk' perhaps continues the theme set, it is a culmination of a triptych of angular artistry that may be best left unfolded.  Of course there are perverts who feel the need to examine and read into matters things that are just not there.  I listen several times over, I am only getting the usual sensations, there is talent, it is left untapped, is this a deliberate ploy? I am frazzled.

I may not be taken here, not fully swung over to the experimental, demon-banishing meddlings but I am in no way against this kind of shizzle.  We must have things outside the norm, on the cusp and leaving one think 'what the absolute fuck' - I am now wandering into opposing realms.

COVID 21 - ANTI

A band with a name that could have a sell-by-date but a band with a name with great pertinence.  It would be oh so easy to overlook the fiasco of the virus when people were easily backed into a corner, gently nudged towards indulging in some despicable and laughable behaviour whilst all the while many services were left to go to pot and the system was rearranged and the public left floundering.  The Facebook page tells me the band are 'a result of a lockdown experiment in 2021 - covering animal rights, property developers, politics...' - I like the sound of this and so have the band booked for a gig already.  Here is a 5 track tickler and here, of course, are my thoughts.

'NHS Mess' opens with an annoyance we are all too familiar with before a quick 4-tap and the opening verse is upon us.  A she-snarl comes with great frustration spilling over.  The fuckers have had their plans, they have had us all over, the masses take the easy flow and we are left with a disaster.  The privatisation plan is taking hold and bearing bent fruit - have it or die. The initial spilling here is acute and very effective, the composition moves with fluent and acidic spite, the overall end tune makes a good impact and has me slightly salivating for another acoustic ‘hit’.

'Puppy Killers' bounces along before gobbage comes.  The opening account states a case, a situation where cash creates killing whilst animals are once again the brunt of many useless needs.  The word needs to be spread, the band do so with a great retro ALF-style that has many winning assets, most notably the DIY accents, the raw basics used so well and the anarcho lilt of matters that really works a treat.  There is something honest and passionate here, many will be aloof and not give a toss (such is life) but some will use this a fuel to keep the fires of resistance stoked - and so they should.

The shortest song of the fivesome looks at the damning destruction and the overall dilution that sees a country turn to monochrome shit and grey slabs of depression.  The coin dictates with the few taking away a pocketful of cash so as to buy the same old shallow shit and try and make themselves look good in the eyes of the vacuous - ooh the silly cunts.  I like the impetus here, the terse running time which makes the point more impacting and of course, more appealing to my attention span.  A very worthwhile jaunt and rather than stay 'Under The Jackhammer' I suggest you fuckin' kick back big time.

The final tonal twins - the first sonic sprog to drop into my aural lap is the elongated imp known as 'Trigger Happy PC'.  This one deals with the corrupt coppers who are stained with idiocy, racist leanings and a certain unhinged quality that makes them unfit for service.  I am sure the ACAB brigade will love this one but it must be stated, many bad eggs doesn't make for an addled whole - we must be fair but... those fuckers taking advantage of their position need outing and those contributing to racial tensions (on all sides) need fuckin' halting in their tracks.  This is a pertinent, cultured and quite powerful piece, with reggae-skank tones, good street-wise vibes and some sound acidic sniping.  One to absorb over many sittings with the smoother more controlled moments neatly intercut with temperamental surges and spittle soaked savage attacks - ruddy smashing.

The finale comes, it has an eager start, comes under the tag of 'Murder Burger' and has a real retro scuzz vibe with stated verbals that rattle out facts some may be shocked by.  This is more vegan vitriol against the cruel animal for food industry that is run for profit and nothing more.  Education is the key, and of course making a little effort. This is a real vicious episode of sub-music and full-on resistance that some may be utterly turned off by. Of course the subject matter is divisive, it shouldn't be but one knows the responses that will come in some areas. This kind of output is always valid, agree, disagree - I respect it.

And so we have a very acidic, passionate and slam-dunking quintet of quarrelsome noise that some people will adore, some will find hit and miss and a few (as there always is) will be offended by.  I suspect those jabbed up, chomping on a burger and following the flow will be mighty miffed, I am just glad I have these booked in for a gig as I am sure it will be a joy to witness and will keep folks on their toes - yes!  End result for me - a darn decent opening din.

CHILD - SHITEGEIST

Released on Suicide Records what we get here is a savage and unapologetic white-hot meteor shower of Swedish-borne hardcore that refuses to compromise the output.  This is bleak, somewhat nihilistic noise-fest that many on the peripheries may get sucked in by whilst those already in the midst of the mayhem will be duly sucked off by.  I ping from sonic situation to sonic situation, I have dealt with many similar shit-splats and here I go in again, bare-handed and with honesty as my only protection.

The summing up of the despair and hopeless desolation may be at its starkest during the opening number known as 'Shitefeist' - a number built on an initial drum thunder, raw warnings and then a meteor storm of searing malevolence.  This opening salvo captures the attention, leads us into a fiery chorus that has a slightly more aerated effect before a brief respite is taken and then the serious chorus-based beating is issued.  There is a blue-light warning within the weave, great snarling disgust and, at times, a skittering sensation to the string work that adds a crucial extra life.  This song doesn't hang about, at 2 minutes and 33 seconds it is perfectly timed - anything shorter would be insulting to the listener, anything longer would dilute the impact - a fuckin' fine opener.

'Mass Crowning' jabs, twists, jabs again and makes mincemeat of the listener's aural passage.  This is gangrenous brutality that aims to cause great distress with its tight and accurate incessancy.  More time is needed to capture the full gist of this terse tornado of tonal hate - when you do actually get to grips with matters make sure you wear thick gloves and ear defenders - wow baby, these fuckers are in no mood to play it easy.

Track 3, 'Tin Foil Party People' pronounces with great stature before a fearsome buzz-screw penetrates deep and sets the stage for a wonderfully horrific hate-fest that has a dazzling magma glow to take heed of.  The intensity of the piece and the dark and shatterproof presence are the key factors here as well, of course, as the watertight musicianship that is played with tamed ferocity that makes for something quite stunning.  As per, this is not everyone's chosen cha but by heck, it tastes good and burns without apology.  'Time Island' is more traditional walloping and has me making comparison to many similar belt-outs I have come across over many years of head wanking violence.  In part matters are more shackled, in others they are left to run wild, the mix is potent and will meet the burning needs of many who reside in this uproarious pit - ooh the decadent bastards.

'I Will Refuse' features David Sandstrom (a man with sticks to sear the senses) and begins with a sound bass grumble and persistent beat. The escapade here is replete with fiery defiance and what is, a non-compliance.  The build-up prepares, we know what to expect.  The unleashing of the ill-temper and upchuck of virulence is a fine escort if one needs a musical kick up the jacksie.  The balance of all components is exact, the band know their style and are certainly adept at getting the best from their product. The follow-up to this effective outburst is 'Golden Chasms' - a nightmare of abuse that fuck-tumbles with stagger-inducing violence and a breathless tautness that really does knock the senses for six.  Eventually we have a somewhat off-the-cuff volcanic reaction that kicks, spurts, runs wild and orgasms.  The fury is magnetic, the holistic completeness of the soundscape awash of intertwining hammering that makes for another air-free strangler - smashing.

With a more subdued commencement and may I say, something more orthodox 'Creative Weapons Of Killing' seems to be heading for the most 'commercially clean' offering of the lot.  I am duped and although this song has more melody and restraint it is still a noxious mix many delicate poppists and tune chasers will be choked by - this is not a flaw.  I think this is a fine offering with a good underlay of attractive tonality that contrasts well with the tonsil-tearing tirade that is par for the course.  As I consider further, maybe we have the best song of the lot.  'Shame, Smite, Subside' is a real gristle-tearing number that is not one of my faves.  Evil machinations play out a nightmare and cultivate horror visions of mechanical mayhem gone awry.  The turn of the crushing cogs, the interplays of snarled up debris and the attempt at contrast all bring about a beefy end product that, for me at least, just lacks that snag factor.  I think this is one for the dedicated hardcore nutjobs who are immersed in the intricacies of the aural offal - nasty swines they be.

3 to go, 'Glowing Kids' clubs away with a great repeat-fuck passion before matters unfold and a stinking sonic spew flows.  The band are zoned in, encased in a crypt of all-consuming creative pandemonium.  The heat rises, when the unit surges we have a zenith attained, in the midst of the ball-stamping bombardment we have moments of a paradoxical cruel-respite and some severely excellent musicianship that shows a band always looking to drive home the crux of matters with the utmost precision.  This is a real mammoth that just grows in stature.  The last but one track and 'Welfare Collapse' unforgivingly pounds and pummels with help from the frontman of Skitsystem, that unapologetic Swedish hardcore band.  This is a quick fist fuck that blinds the listener with the intensity of a cranial orgasm and leaves one in a panting heap.  Again, all areas are exact, efficient and played by hands of molesting malevolence.  The terse timing is adequate and perfectly enhances the fist slam that really does bruise the flesh.  

The closure comes via 'Swiper', a vile incantation borne from hardcorian chasms where only the most enslaved reside. This is a blood-letting feast for the vampires of slow, sonic violence with a crawling desire to drag things out and prolong the perversion.  As an occasional visitor (over many year) to this darker side, I know my preferences are for this kind of music to be played fast and hard over a short running time, I can still acknowledge the need for contrast though and how well this final song is executed.

You see, even those on the outside of certain niches can still show a good appreciation of solid music and still venture into the realms of positivity without claiming to be an ardent fan.  I like what this lot do and know for sure they will win many plaudits and fans.  The generic pool in which they dwell doesn't suffer fools or slack-wristed strummers not fully immersed in the artform. Child have more than enough to swim with the best of them and duly deserve a Fungal thumbs up here - I am not willing though to take a headlong plunge into this head wanking world yet - this punk likes it varied.

THE FLEAS - HEARTBREAKER EP

Grow Your Own Records occasionally pop up in my e-mail inbox and gently hint at requesting a review. I am an acoustically idiotic man who does too much as it is but I like what transpires here and am happy to scribble the odd assessment. Under the spotlight here is a band I am not familiar with, they sound like they may give one the 'tonal itch' and have 5 tracks here to start off a rhythmic rash that I may regret.  Info is scarce online, they appear to be a 3-piece and have a good angular output, an output that instantly snagged the attention of this old cacophonic cunt that is for sure.

'Heart Breaker' opens with a superb rust on the crust with the vocals alive, happening and hungry.  This quick acidic she-shout is a great energetic piece of face-slapping and done with a gusto I am easily drawn toward. After a life of listening to many flavours of noise I am still stricken when the offering is terse, tonally active and laden with zest - here we have such a piece and at 1 minute 22 seconds I find the timing utterly exact.  There is a great snotty retro-vibe going on with some revitalising youthfulness that we must encourage – it is all fuckin’ joyous despite the acidic verbals.  'Selling Out' could be about many of the bands I have seen dilute their output and chase the coin whilst many new breed outsiders get a duff deal. Being close to the ground reveals all kinds of insincere shittery taking place but I am happy to throw the frauds to one side and move on with the fresh faced fuckers whose beliefs are not blemished.  This punchy number opens with great bounce and pertinent questions whilst having a manic feel throughout.  The vocals are honest and lucid, the squirming fakes who have sold their arse to the Devil can almost be seen, and the incessant rumble-grumble is all the more effective due to the lucid lead lass being so fresh and fruity in her approach.  A cracking snippet borne form yore, given a kick to the fore.

'Riot' is typical spiky fodder that I have heard a million times before. This doesn't detract from the fact that the boisterous brick thrown our way has sound aim, many nasty edges and a great degree of life affirming wallop.  There is a fine holler surfing on the scuzz whilst the sticks make sure all areas keep foamed and frothed and the destination unsure. A midway change in tack sees matters ascend to the effervescent situation that leads to the final wipe-out silence.  The speedburst is a rewarding moment and takes into the regular sounding 'What's Your Problem' - a ditty built of orthodox verse and chorus trademarks with the usual verbals questioning the cunts in control.  I love it, the sing-a-long snatch consumes my resistance, the street-edged reality and the earthiness are what make this bastards wheels turn.  DIY can be, and usually is, a marvellous thing - here I feel, we have a prime example. I need not pontificate or over-elaborate anymore - the proof is in the pudding - brilliant, and with added saxiness.

'Nothing You Can Do' closes this fine penta-punk package with a deep mean growl, an open and fresh spouting with a real fine trash and smash quality brought to life by each and every component that are individually brash, unprocessed and noisily natural.  There is much snot snorted forth, a fuckin’ robust defiance and, as said, a real purity of sound that has not been screwed through via the processing department.  Smashing stuff and one with a final crawl that will hopefully open the next EP and bring some delicious continuation and more of the same please.

Well, I find this a well-aerated, soul-lifting and healthy clobbering burst of proper streetpunk that is played for the lad/lass in the thoroughfare who needs a kick up the arse and a spring in their step.  I am impressed and just hope the band keep it as raw and as energetic as this and keep away for the lure of making music for others instead of themselves. Cracking.

LEGLESS TRIALS - GET YER WAH WAH'S OUT

Andy Goz is a creative force who will not bend or buckle under the idiot demands of conformist music making and all that processed and prick-kissing nonsense that goes with it.  He creates, shrugs and does what he does.  I have reviewed many examples of his acoustic overspills, I am keen to always help the DIY doofers and here goes another punt at... maybe something, maybe nothing, the art is in the doing don't ya know.

'Ghost Of First Responders' begins matters with a lively momentum and some resounding clashes of many animated elements.  The vocal addition is slaggy and cool, the underflow of bubbling bass larva gives the whole operation an extra authority and what we have here is the old mixed with the new, the cacophonic shot through with the crude whilst all the while the creators know what they are doing and are making for a rewarding bout of maladjusted musical mayhem that is just kept within the rubber room of decency.  'Been Asleep And Can't Wake Up' is a sludgy splodge of moving music that doesn't have an immediate impact but is a number that slowly invades the epidermal layer and wins a certain level of conviction.  The whole mush of masturbated pseudo-melodic molestation slowly seeps through the outer flesh, pervades with a shifty know-how and, surprise, surprise, has the misfit inside tapping its digits to the buggered beat of ill-intent.  A strange piece for sure but that is how the limbless ones operate - I remain unsurprised.

'I Got Shoes' is a devious little bastard with decadent designs. An early groove is tattooed deep with fuzz-radio gobbage and the atypical LT languid lilts.  A sloppy sneer and a threat to disgrace the holy substrates of the afterlife and the true underhand sinisterism of the song is exposed.  As matters progress a greater gratification in the promised misdeed is blatantly brandished - I shudder and smile with secret passions.  I have reviewed 'Huffin' on my site already - it is an exciting tune that the old glue-sniffers will be able to relate to as the 'Wah, Wah Monster' arises from the depths of the mind and the aromas of the chemical head-fuck invade the nasal passages.  I like it!  I also like the upbeat rhythm of 'Somebody's Getting Paid' - a real fractured wire wank travels in a rickety rock and roll way whilst the tympanic passenger maintains balance and the snotted hollerer states an obvious case where bass controls in front of and behind the scenes at all times.  When shit hits the fan, all goes seemingly well - dosh is exchanging hands and some fucker is on the make - bah.  A good mover and groover this with plenty of upheaval in the mix.

Further into the realms of the rabid restlessness and 'The Girls' is a real mean fucker with a fully-focused zoning in that is rudely interrupted by some head-jarring mania and a few spoken disbeliefs from lasses bewildered.  The opening segment is a marvellous moment and one the band should grab by the gonads and manipulate into a new darker construct with full emphasis lain on this riffing accent - tis nasty stuff ma'an.  'Don’t Fall Down And Hurt Yourself' travels with a strait-jacketed focus on tracks lain out in a perfect straight line with no transgressions into nearby cacophonic realms allowed.  The bass is the main driver and stands on the footplate of the acoustic train and keeps all fires stoked and the steam rising.  The plumes that are left behind pollute ones senses and has them appreciating a good old blow-out done with a certain degree of control. 

Further into the disjointed carcass of sound we probe with the spasm-retch of 'A Sincere Apology' dished out with energetic wide-eyed infatuation for all things flurried and whipped up.  This is a maelstrom of delirium borne from a monomaniac with one sole intention - to avoid the routine.  The breathless and almost anxious mania culminates in an overflow of almost catastrophic disjointed discordance - somehow matters are just kept on the right site of decent.  'Big Ones' is a real dirty groomer that strolls with an almost arrogant insouciance that gives the song a real cock-sure swagger.  The compression of the multifaceted music and the eventual nag-effect all make for a song that comes forth like an enveloping melodic mist one is unapologetically enshrouded by.  Short, strangulating, supremely saturated - if you play this one loud you need to be very careful - your inner giblets will turn to juice and your rectum may prolapse - please, do not blame me.

'The Destroyer' seems to hybridise the dark gothic tones and moody temperament of Joy Division with the oral tones of Lou Reed.  Throw into the mix the creators own DIY accents and what we get is an interesting sprawl-drawl that drags one back to times of then before giving one a prod up the jacksie to get them back to the here and now.  Again, we have a tuneful biscuit to dip carefully in your assessing tea which I suggest you suck on its very slowly so as to appreciate all flavours and avoid a fleeting flop. 'Sunny' has great energy and solar-glinting accents that gradually becoming less dazzling whilst the vocal virus grows in its potency.  The underscore of the song relies on a grubby and highly magnetic bassline as well as some skittering sticks that help with the overall nervous energy of the piece.  The passion overflows, the ending comes out of the blue - I am intrigued.

The finale is a crass drawl sprawl that I am not keen on at all.  'If I Knew Her Name' is shag and tell deviancy dragged out over too long of a course with no real highs and no real lows.  The content is not my thing and the lack of overall expression and nob-tingling zeniths is a faux pas for a final track.  It is a real shame to end on a duff dabble - sometimes that is just the way the boisterous biscuits crumbles.  

The tangents, the barbs, the misdirections, the acoustic erections have all been negotiated yet again and I end up as puzzled, piqued and pleasantly tickled by another unpredictable cum predictable paradox that is what it is.  If you are in the loop, or read my musical meanderings, you will know what has just transpired, if not, jump on it!

THE INKLINGS - RETURN OF THE PUPPETS

My 6th venture into the silver-circle donations proffered by this 3 piece from Teesside.  I am not one to rush matters and commit a cacophonic crime by throwing down a brief assessment whilst giving a CD minimal time - I may have a backlog and I may have many matters on the go but I believe it is always better to give noise good time, especially with bands like The Inklings who don't stick within distinct generic boundaries.  Here is another slab of Fungalised opinions, on a dozen deliveries of varied flavour.

'Puppet' begins with gentle textures, the opening verse deals with an entrapment, a slave who can't say 'no'.  The authority of the vocal is commanding and the slip into the whispered chorus is ideal. This damning cutlet is ensued by a keyed moment that keeps the listener intrigued and guessing.  The arrangement grows in stature, the band are an knoeledgeable outfit with obvious influences not borne from any specific scene.  The impetus and melody increases and when I rack up the volume, so does my interest and appreciation levels.

'Four Seasons In One Day' is poetical majesty and played out with care, precision and a blatant design that will not be rushed.  An emotive roller-coaster is shackled and kept under tepid tonal blankets whilst the words are delivered over a tender soundscape that is perfect for the job at hand. It could be said the The Inklings spend too much time within the peripheral greys of the spectrum and fail to jump into the multicoloured zones many partake of.  I could agree with this but hey, let us applaud what the band do and how well they do it. This is not everyday music but it has its place and is decent output indeed. 'Welcome TO The Light' promises to dash from the sombre into the sparkling, it begins with a a bold pronouncement and has a good beat to the verse. A few inner poundings, a slick move and an interception of alter rhythm before a repeat and then the sanguine chorus comes and goes with good impact had.  Once again we have a very recognisable track with an overspill of meritorious points to ponder further.  Comfortable indeed.

'Occam’s Razor' has tranquil tones, tiptoes inward, plays it utterly cool, invades like a malevolent mist before man-handling with slightly more authority.  The chorus is too plain methinks and doesn't make for a full-on clash factor and although the evolution of the song is strong and the verbal detail thought provoking, I find that this is an imbalanced affair with the mid-section outcompeting the surrounding sonica.  'Hideaway' is a progressive song that seems as though it was borne several years after the initial punk explosion and was something we would consider as 'light post punkery'. For me it is a delicately played song with no need of any generic slotting, it is a mere lightweight drifter that has to be listened to when the mood is just right, especially if you prefer tones more brutal and muscular.  When I compare to similar offerings from bands given more credit I see this more than holding its own.  Yeah, it may not be my bag but the quality is there to be admired and, now and again, promoted.

'Candlelight' begins with compressed tones, a deliberate beat before plodding forth with exactitude smattered with skin scatters. We open up with an almost pseudo-chorus and then we carry on as per. Matters eventually rise and dramatically alter tack, the result is players tested but not bested with another cultured tune dealt with in decent fashion.  'Promised Out' has a despair, a real pang in the general vibe and yet, at times, oceanic movements give one a strange feeling of hope, a hope it seems that comes against all the odds. This is a motivating track if used as fuel for the defiant fire.  Many will fold, even worse they will take the easy route and try and pinch a life, that is a fuckin' piss-take and I suggest you play this loud, accept the shittery and fucking fight back.  I like this one a lot, the louder the better, please do not overlook it.

'Take It From Me' is a fruity devil that mixes the groovy, the semi-funky and the serious. The tonal elements gracefully move from the semi-clad into the fully garbed with the fluency of the drift consistent and effective.  For long-term fans of the band all the trinkets of recognisability are still there, deeply tattooed into the flesh of the sounds exported from disc to eardrum. A cool track in part, a trifle more heated in others - it does the business.

'Who They Gonna Make You Blame Today' is a precise and studious beauty with some very pleasing sonic touches as well as an educated orchestration borne from minds who have a great wealth of musical nouse.  The opening bars are minimal, the words slightly scary, the world exposed as a very frightening place. The key to the content is 'respect', the complete circuitry of the song is well designed and of an unbreakable loop - nice.

The last 3, I refuse to dawdle.  'It's In The City' has a deep bass rumble, a strict rigidity of tone and observes the static scenario of life draining crappery that goes on in the big inner shitty. The band have all their tones well balanced and progress at their own pace, this one leaves me a little flat however, maybe it is the austere regimentation of the arrangement or the content matter.  'Just The Beginning' appears to be an underhand little sidler with the opening throes laden with suspicious accents and spectral tremor-inducers. A groove is eventually found, albeit with the bass commanding matters and the advancement both slow and tepid.  We have a twilight consideration here, an overly controlled opioid that in some way soothes but can, if the mood is out of sync, aggravate.  It is a professional piece but a little too laboured for me.

The finale comes under the tag of ‘The Day Everybody Dies’. A pulsation of comforting essence, vocals that suggest a subtle eagerness, and a solid Inklings effort showcasing all the bands usual trimmings and sophisticated weavings.  Again, the 4-cabled weapon plays a major part whilst the main guitar neatly spruces matters up and the skins are beaten with care and good momentum inducing safety.  A good closure reeking of what the band do well and exposing a concrete and quite clever closing flourish.

Again I have taken my time with a CD that deserves good attention. The Inklings are sticking to their tried and tested tonal route here and why the Hell not?  I would like to see them really stretch themselves on the next outing and make for some real sonic splashes though this is steady noise to consider over a good lengthy period and is another fair donation to the collection.

THE MISSING PERSONS LIST - MUST TRY HARDER

Via the Punk 4 The Homeless music machine came this 6 track blast of enraged sounding discordance that immediately met the needs of my cacophonic caveman desires.  I have a real penchant for immersing my lugs in the acoustic overflow as heard here, many would say I need to 'get over it' and listen to material more polished, I say 'go fuck yerself you affected and tone deaf halfwits'- one has to be honest tha' knows.  Anyway, 6 tracks by a band I know fuck all about and, if you want to lean more, go and do some research ya lazy gits.

'Tory Cuts' is a seething beauty, spitting hot molten gunk with infecting rage that is riddled with DIY spikiness I for one fuckin' adore.  The unscrubbed upper scum, the sub-epidermal filth and the cruddy core all comes together to create a living zombie of enraged passion that can't wait to strangle out a positive pogoing response.  The chugging crud shamble is delicious, the gravelly vocals that are snarled with rabid rage all add to the steaming effect that has me drawn in like an arse-fly to a shit-laden duffel bag.  Fuck the politicians, go throw a brick, get this rammed down yer throats and kick back. 'Shit@CPR' is a nail-gun slam dunk of mid-paced nastiness that has a sub-comedic slant one can't help but be amused by.  The reckless wannabe life-saver eternally cocks it up and the frustration is more than a little tangible.  The riffing deliberateness is once again streaked with toxicity, the outcome is a very polluted piece of sonic sewerage that I am more than happy to bathe in.  The boils and puss-filled sores that come from wallowing in such beautiful acoustic effluence like this are veritable bodily medals to bear with pride.  A solid piece of DIY decadence methinks.

'Stationery Thief' is a delicious moment of idiot humour that relates a tale of a straight-edge kleptomaniac who works in an office and who has an inkling to pilfer paper, pens, A4 wallets and other such working day ephemera.  The chop and charm of the concoction works well and the upbeat score of sound that operates in unison with the roughhouse gobbage only helps matters thrive.  The verses are matter of fact, the mania of the chorus gives insight into a deviant who likes to abuse even the most petty situations.  There are many at this game, the thrill is in the theft, the need to feed an habit inescapable - ooh heck, where’s me highlighter pen.

'What Kinda Police' is a vicious assault on the corrupt so-called protectors of the populace who are nothing more than deviant scum using a front to hide their inner perversions.  This is an impacting assault that repeatedly asks a question - it is a necessary outburst!  The frustration and despair at this invasion of bad apples overspills into a concrete and compact number that has great appeal due to the emotion and the raw-assed delivery that is straight out of the street.  The quick follow-up is 'The Dirt' - a cracking sonic stint that comes from the put down and is spat at those who think they are better.  A chunky celebration of the filth that matters.  The he-she chorus cuts are utterly splendid, the nasty joy taken in being the scabbed, the unwashed, the cheap and nasty fucker who gets on ones tits is delivered with a jangling joy de vivre that is pleasure to behold.  I play over and over - yeah, I am a crummy fucker not lying down and following your hygienic idiocy.  

'Meds' is a quality closure with a mind on the cusp and with a need to decline into degenerate behaviour and of course, to bare one's bollocks.  The doc is given a seeing to, the social arena is invaded by a head gone AWOL, this is a treat for all those pilled up and with a bonce that just won't settle.  With a cranium cluttered, a day to day mither that gnaws at the soul and a persistent pillaging by societal demands, tis’ no wonder the rails are abandoned when the medication runs dry.  This is the best track of the lot, a real catchy rust bucket I can relate to.  The flow from verse to chorus is perfect, the blend of the foul and the clear, the brain zaps and just the general jangle juices that run from the speakers make for a stunner - lovely.

Well, what an unexpected treat.  6 songs, all devoured, and all fuckin' enjoyed.  This is why I am at DIY level, this is why I don't need to use nostalgia and the 'same old, same old' as a crutch to lean on.  On we stride, under our own fresh steam, fuck the static, fuck the stagnant - ain't we the lucky ones.

THE ALOPECIA TRIO - UNKLE YUMMY AND OTHER LULLABIES

Hectic times see this Fungal fool on the back foot and patchworking matters as best as possible whilst trying to keep the gigs flowing, the CD review backlog kept to a minimum and many other areas attended to.  This 12 tracker came out of the discordant blue and I duly played here and there and cobbled together some brief thoughts.  After more time the noises were assessed and the following textual ticklings were made.

So, first up from the Kidderminster based cacophonic criminals comes a song that goes under the name of 'Hippo', a melodic track with a brutal edge that cuts to the quick and leaves great mental scars on anyone who is overweight and of a delicate nature. After a quick grunt the song rattles in with a simple intro and the a neatly breeze-blown opening verse that reveals a perversion to be frowned at.  A penchant for a sweating fatso is exposed, the music clatters away with great haste as the warped juices flow and the pluckers get all worked up. The song is intrinsically basic and crude - it is played well though and as a sub-pop-punk likeability.  'Who's He' is similar in many ways but has a fine old zip and a dubious content laden with a mistrust and shady goings-on.  The impetus is the winning factor with the strings warped with whipping gusto and the skins scatter-slapped with breathless attention.  The gob work delivers verbals that are easily joined in with - there is never anything wrong with that.  My fave track of the opening three is the mid-paced and meaner sounding 'Bright Blue Skies' - a ditty with conker-clobbering firmness and a fist in the face of the idlers, takers and general shits that really get on my tits.  Self-absorbed fuckwits are the majority shareholders of a world turning to shit whilst their eyes only see things that they want to see so as to keep their limited intelligence upbeat.  My only gripe with the song is that it drifts out too quickly and lacks an extra verse and some real inner wallop - I still love it though.

'I Love My Baby (She Loves Me Too)' has a right whole groove, borne it seems from 60's zested zoophile with a need to pester the wild world whilst strumming his way to sexual zeniths.  There is nothing intricate and profound going on here, it is a quick jerk jaunt that comes, goes and fills an orifice - I am not offended or aroused, I may need more pills but, the song is a merry jingle I do enjoy now and again. 'Pidgeon Hole' is par for the course tuneage and does what it does whilst bringing nowt new to the crooked table.  It has a charm though, a persuasive force borne from the fact that this is one for the oddball, the outsider, the awkward bastard who won't fall into line.  I can relate to this, by heck, even the fuckin' punks have a problem with me!  The fluidity of the song is also appealing and the clarity of all components works - it leads the way into the neat swinger known as 'Sick And Tired', a real 'fuck it' frolic that has a careless carefree approach due to being beaten down into an inescapable position of 'fucked off'.  This is a minor crackerjack with a great lick that gets right into the crack of my swinging arse and insists I jig some more.  As a bloke who is fed up but will not give in to the shitshow flow I am partly in-line here and some days, surely everyone feels like this.  The key though is to play this loud, enjoy the moment and then go forth and refuse to let the bastards beat ya.  Do your fuckin' bit folks.

'Furry Cup' combines elements of all that has been and with a few elements no doubt of that which is to 'cum'.  A crass song if the truth be told but with a good chopping effect and some nice back hollers that keep matters moving.  I have heard too much similar genital-based stuff over the years and have been desensitised and also noisily neutered I think.  Despite this though the ditty has a certain brutality of tone and of course that crude aspect many aging perverts will love - ooh heck, where's me butt-plug? 'Jesus Shaves' keeps the impetus growing, it is an attempt at a shocker, I would prefer it if the band went full tilt and nailed a few vicious digs at Allah, Buddah and that supreme God-Like entity, Jim Bowen of Bullseye.  I think the masturbation modulations are fine and dandy, the band know how to mix their elements and I am more than happy to crack one off the wrist to another easy-swinging tune but... if ya gonna go for an electric shocker that make sure all and sundry are frazzled - fuck em' all I say - the long, the short, the tall and the cross-eyed midgets too.

'Travellin' has a certain insouciance that is quite apt for a tune 'on the road'.  Let the miles be eaten up as this tune unwinds.  Let the limbs loosen, the head clear and the simplistic vibes invade.  Again, we are not working with ground-breaking cock rock poser piss-arsery here, we are dealing with 'off the cuff' tunes that are what they are.  They slightly fall into the 'pop punk' category in some minor way, they wallow in the cruder realms in a more obvious manner and all the while they have a decent wallop that is easily embraced - and on I go!  'Billy No Mates' is a kick in the conkers of those poor souls who wank their lives away because they just don't fit in.  A care-free society sees these misfits left to stew in a growing ocean of spunk whilst those who play the game and slot into place smile, mock and head to nowhere happy - ah tis' a cruel scenario.  The band show no sympathy here and knock out a fair ditty with spiteful relish.  The tongue is in the cheek (I hope) and the job, is, a good un'.  Now where's my deodorant.

'Unkle Yummy' is unsettling filth of the most sordid order.  Many will gripe and many will screw up their faces, many will have horrors rekindled - in a scene where I dwell there are no holds barred and sometimes confronting this underhand scuzzery is the best way to get it sorted.  The finale assists in the terror factor when that white-haired wanker we all know and despise comes in and does his usual cliched bit - complete no doubt with a hard-on and tingling scrotum.  Despite my reservations on the content this is a nifty tune that ejaculates on areas out of bounds - it may be a tasteless triumph.

The final song of this CD is 'All My Friends Are Wankers' - a real sing-a-long piece that has many strains of truth in it.  I know some good folk, I have also known some shits who claim to be friends and would do the dirty on you the first chance they get.  We walk amongst untrustable wolves on the make - you would be wise to tread carefully and lock your doors.  This is a great tune though, a real Velcro-vibe you will easily be ensnared by.

To add - 2 tracks had been banned by various social media sites (Spotify you wankers) and are slapped down under the banners of 'Psycho' and 'Parasite' - both are on the physical CD and so you need not fear.  The first is a richly embroidered shindig that has a barn-dance suggestion as well as a real old school rock and roll feel wrapped around an exotic euro swing.  The second song is a troubled nightmare with an 'Alien-ised' opening.  One can feel the invasive presence of a being feeding on the life-force - I am not sure why the delicate media half-wits would want this banned as it doesn't seem to upset me in any way - apparently Universal Studios banned 'Psycho' and The Disney Corporation banned 'Parasite' - what a fuckin' world!

So, I have entered the world of the 'Bald Patch Three' - I have been used and abused and I come away enthused - I bet these lot are pretty decent 'in the flesh'. I suggest you check em' out and if you are of a perverse bent then pick up this CD and have yer genitals rub and roger ready.

DAVID DELINQUENT AND THE I. O. U's - UNREMARKABLE TO DOZENS

As pilfered from Bandcamp I offer ye the following textual summing up of what we have on offer here - 'Punk Rock 'N' Roll from Dundee, Scotland. Featuring members of Dundee bands Delinquents, Volcano X and Th13ves' - well that just about does the job for me.  To add, what we get here is a free-throwaway serving of 10-live tracks that are sonically stained, trashy and as warted and wanked as you good wish for.  I have no gripes with the unaffected approach, what I see in the mirror every morning gives me no choice.

And to the opening salvo of sound and 'Nobody Else' has a fine slaggy feel with a great rocked up relish carrying the riff and roll grind out that ticks all the boxes of the chosen style. The groove in the verse is both alive and vibrant and the slip into the sing-a-long chorus is as smooth as butter and keeps this initial song flowing.  The second verse starts in a naked fashion before we carry on as per - it may be cliched stuff in many ways and have many well-used tricks but this mid-paced outpouring is an easy song to take favour with.  The follow-up track continues matters in the same vein with 'Too Far Gone' another slick dick inserted into your awaiting orifices where it does its thing with vibro-matic goodness before leaving one with the end silence and being impregnated with an ear-worm of a chorus.  The construct may be simple but the slap happy drums and the string strengths all give extra sinewy muscularity to matters and have one convinced.  This is not my chosen style of music but I don't mind the odd snifter - perhaps it is a little to Americanised and too mid-school for some, hey ho, I can't find nowt to kick here.

3rd track in, '2 Much 2 Say' adds to the consistency on show and for another 'live' track the end result is a fuckin' decent do.  All components can be heard, I think the balance is nicely precise and the frontman’s gravel gob gifts work just fine.  The words are lucid, are not overly forced and the oral endeavours are ideal for the spillage proffered. Not a bad do and nice and short too although the use of '2' instead of 'Too' and 'To' is 2 darn corned - oh heck. Next and 'Time Of My Life' - a very honest and celebratory feeling is emanated from a track with yet more R 'n' R gusto and US tinted (or tainted) tones that will tick the boxes of those who like things a little less abrasive and more melodic.  To be fair, even though I am a dabbler in the dirt and a lover of things scabby, this is another sanguine treat that rises above the sometimes restrictive 'live' recorded routine - my handclaps are sincere.

I speed on, 'The Last Laugh' is not a fave of mine, a suggestion of cock-rock gone awry comes to mind with a subtle countrified feel that seems best suited for a bitter dungaree wearing goon who is contemplating revenge.  I say this though, but the song is played well, delivered with good effect and has touches that will tickle the aural tits of many a listener.  I will never claim to like everything, here I am turned off and my personal eavesdropping paps are duly made flaccid.  'Alleycats In Love' shakes its arse with good weight before a groove is adopted and the song unfolds with a convincing vibe.  The orchestration of the piece is well worked, the move from verse to chorus is without hitch and the players seem to build up a good lather whilst plying their trade.  Much clarity can be blurred via 'live' releases, I think the crew do mighty well to maintain the inner gumption and to showcase at a decent standard.

'Shame Of My Youth' has many 'Big Country' essences and so, slightly changes the tack of the tonal collection. I can take or leave this one as a result, I don't mind the texture and applaud the bands efforts in altering the general approach but the general gentle ripple tones are not my bag at all and bring back memories of early 80's middling sounds that were all too prevalent.  Small dose sonica for me here, I am sure there are many who will disagree. 'Rocksteady Girl' has a great juiced up jive and jig enthusiasm and despite being an intrinsically basic construct it has 'oomph', well jangled conkers and a good overall joy de vivre. It seems to be a somewhat fleeting song that doesn't fuck about - therein we may find the true source of its success.

The final duo are flung forth, 'Hangin' Out' is a middling song to my ears, one that is played well, has moments of wallop and has the usual rocked inflection that the band create without flaw.  I think this is the most 'hindered' song of the lot with the 'in the flesh' airing not helping to get the best out of matters.  If one takes care one can see what the aim of the song is and how the band apply themselves.  I can't complain (well I could but that would just be because I am being a nasty bastard) and on we go to the last throws of the discordant dice we move with 'This Day's A Drag'.  A tight guitar, a sub-twinge, a strict tempo, an opening verbal spill exposed.  The essence is of a blues'ed up dude who is wishing the day away and hoping for something better on the morrow.  The gist is sound, the execution equally so and for me, the job is a pretty decent one.  There is little to add methinks, the band know what they are doing, have an ear for a song and survive a 'live' risk well.  Fungal applause are given, I hope I have captured what transpires.

LEGLESS CRABS - GOLDEN CHOWDERS

I run forwards, I dash backwards and then I follow-sonic suit (as found here) and shuffle sideways.  Try as I might, I cannot escape the multifaceted and mix and match array of these crustacean-based limbs that reach out, grab the lugs and twist and turn me inside and out.  Of course, I should easily avoid this situation as the cacophonic carapace-bearing bastards under the spotlight claim to be limbless - I tell ye, this is a trick and the unwary (and the alert) need to keep on their toes.  Once more I have an assortment of acoustic vibes to assess - such is the life of a pillock.

'Rock Yr Hole' has an automated underbeat, a subtle house of horror sub-sonica and a zombified vocal terror that brings visions of an abandoned educational building, now left to rot and ruin, draped in cobwebs and reeking of decadence and decay.  The arrangement of this opening track is to be nothing more than a greeting, one done by a crusted and scabrous musical mitt that will pinch a few nerve endings in a paradoxically sweetly malicious way.  'Pink And The Stinky's' is hepped up on anxious energy and relies on the agitation and loosely twanged touches to get by and make the finishing line in shattered fettle.  It is a very old school sounding piece of clattersome creativity with an end pulse-drone that makes me keep looking over my shoulder for giant ants.  I find this episode a foundation piece that could be reworked into an orthodox piece of delightful sub-art.

A repeat tap of the mini-timbers, a soporific heavy eyed delivery comes with splodgey bass, metronomic rhythm bouts and a very doped up vocal style that really douses any sense of upbeat anticipation.  This is another angle, it should be appreciated for the route its takes and how it pisses against the grain but... it is a tough piece to digest and has a 20/80 rate of success all being dependant on the mood of the eavesdropping framework.  'Grow Horns' is a similar piece in many ways but has a fresher feel and has a pertinent edge that looks at the wired strangulation taking place all over the world.  The masses are being turned inside out, groomed into a place of acceptance where many will happily join the shitshow and claim some kind of blissful existence.  The rantings and the rebellious ravings have had enough, the balance on the cusp of a standstill is no coincidence and the more I dabble here the more I nod in agreement with the pseudo-rhythm and the content.

I don't know what the point is of 'Jesus Christ Alison', it seems like an unwanted intruder that just nips in when the acoustic coast is clear, does what it needs to do and fucks off - in truth it ain't a bad little penetration - ooh me aural arse.

'Stealin' In The Year's' is an airwave wank job with the dial twisted this way and that, feedback zaps given whilst the pilfering lead bugger goes on about his sticky fingered ways back in the days when cameras were not watching your every move.  I know many who dabbled, by heck didn't that stolen chocolate taste sweeter and weren’t those smokes a whole lot more satisfying.  Of course those with any sense of decency moved on and stopped their thieving ways but this is a nicely delivered musical reminder of those wayward escapades.  The music has many features that distort the senses - oh yes.

The next batch of 3 are taken as a whole so as to keep the motions moving.  'Stuckist Manifestos In The Western World' is a level out buzz that is frustrated by the claustrophobic static play that sees all expression restricted.  The pleas are heard, the desperation rampant, the safety zone too easy to access whilst being all consuming.  This is a good mover with a snagging energy.  'Sleep Sweet Satan' is dark material stretched and contorted over an uneven playing field and exposed for your delectation.  A murky piece with a dubious intent thus sending the listener into realms of unwanted mistrust.  A sneaky devil that sometimes wins favour, sometimes disturbs - a typical effect of Crabby donations.  'My Baby (Can't Stop Buying Dumb Shit)' is a neat one-way trickle that sees a bloke beaten by a spendthrift who can't stop exchanging the coin for nonsensical crap.  Many are in the same boat, there are hordes of folks throwing hard-earned cash out of the window whilst picking up a cheap trinket or two.  The hammered down brow of the narrator is easily envisioned whilst listening to this tickling tune.

The penultimate track, a warning message done with darkened tones and a moribund feel. 'Broadcast Signal Intrusion' walks at its own pace, states its ambiguous case and places one in a slow stranglehold and squeezes like a determined Boa with no intention of making things easy.  The funereal march is a warning, there is an interruption to the airwaves coming, the tube that overfeeds the masses is gonna be plugged - I like the style.  We close with an almost bastardised mimic that has a glutinous grind, an almost Lovecraftian horror and mystery with the shambler from the stars closing all senses and looking to finalise everything in sight.  'Annihilator' is a pure terror-threat borne beyond the realms of matters deemed sane. The darkened forces that are summoned rise to a heavy beat that works like a laxative and sees this assessor at least, shit out a thumbs up dollop of warped goodness.  Upset acoustica that works well and remains utterly focused in what it does.  The mass and density  of the noise is the winning element here - a real stinking heavyweight.

Survival is the name of the sonic game and only the brave, the foolhardy and those willing to trespass into tonal areas deemed 'out of bounds' will win through.  Again, it must be said that what goes on here is beyond the range of most people's listening realm, it is best regarded as 'sub-music' in all its glory - this is no bad thing and the DIY elements only add to the fascination.