Henry Fiat's Open Sore
‘Cocaine improves your tennis…’ - Cocaine
First album in five years from these entertainingly sceptic spastic ewok wank scene Swedes with delicious Devo absurdities, sublime suburban dork insights, ridiculous savant Dwarves-isms, subliminal Stupids-truisms and such a B-52’s rush you almost forget Cindy and Katie ain’t there, as they’re been seen to by The Dead Milkmen with the flight-path defying chaos and fortitude of Radio Birdman. Maybe it depends on how cute you think having Don Wanna, Frank E Male and Instead of a Hug alongside the eponymous Sir Henry Fiat is but if that tickles you then songs titled I Rock, I Love My Voice, Faster Phil Spector Kill Kill, Keep Your Unit Trim and Death To False Mongos will convince you of it’s gloriously erratic genius before it’s even out the sleeve. Idiotic but never inane. If ever a case were needed to burn down garages, send stifling skate punk shite crashing into a skip full of alligators like Iggy and Stiv in a scrum for speed-drilled sex whilst sicking up all over those pretentious social commentary slogan-sloppers, then here it is, like a seeping wound that you’ll keep scraping till it forms a big scar but not till you’ve let it slither over the soiled n’ sundry of your immediate circle... A gaping wound secreting songs for stinking and slovenly everyday termites that sure is one pretty gash. As they say Ask Me (I Know Everything). Raise your fist, smell and smile. Anyone for tennis?