Friday, August 21, 2009

The Pussywarmers - My Pussy Belongs To Daddy
Voodoo Rhythm

More, yes yet more, gloriously delirious delicious and scurrilous backwoods bonkersness and head-bonkery from the outer limits of your musical language to shatter the still of what you thought strange, eerie and provocative unearthed by the daddy of all this lo-fi fuckscuppered garagebluescountrytrashcowpokin'punk countylinerepaintingchurchdeacon'sdaughtertainting maestro Lightning Beatman, who really does deserve his Reverend title. This bunch crawl out of and around the other side of Swiss town to Beatman himself, crooning and creaking out scratchy crab-crawling, scab-scratching off-kilter tilting towers of pissed twenties jazz and Jelly Roll buggering ragtime on a seasick swirl of accordions, tubas, saw, piano and cornets with wheezy, almost tearful vocals like the Genevanly unconventional version of The Crybaby's Darrell Bath. It came as nay surprise to find that the trumpet troodles that puncture the scenery throughout are by one time Dead Brother* Christoph Gantert. Like with that duo there's an everpresent sense on each listen that the songs will go any whichaway at anytime such is their wildly unpredictable nature. As they say they could be the dance orchestra on the sinking Titanic, they could likewise be the arkestral houseband at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining.
Back for good we hope after Voodoo Rhythm's troubles in the land of the taxman wank. Calamitous, curious but never spurious. More yet more hurrah hurrah.
Stu Gibson
The Jokers - The Big Rock'n'Roll Show
The Jokers

This scouse four piece are gonna save your sallow rock'n'roll soul from it's miserable existence. Really? You scowl. Depending on your demographic and adherence to Classic Rock's word as law (besides, obviously, the big Sleaze G's, cos that pretty much can be taken as read), or just how much you miss the Aerosmith of legend and pissed off you might be with endless two decade tirade of tired ballads, they may do. Everyone else can go back to ordering anything from the Voodoo Rhythm label, discovering Dex Romweber or digging into Ricky Warwick's solo stuff. Vibrant and brashy and with a production as large as a lairy scouse la's protestations of innocence (mixed by the guy who did AC/DC's Rock'n'Roll Train album, though that shouldn't in anyway lead you into temptation, buy the fucking 'DC album and deliver yerself into real big balled evil god-damnit) it may be but tis but a set of seventies Aerosmith retreads albeit for all the posturing as bollock-less as those 'Smith ballads and as for it's (yawn) claims to be taking Rock'n'Roll to the next level. Well...yawn. Replete with a voice too reminiscent of Robert Plant, it's another case that smacks of conveyor belt pastiche, placing all the component parts into a telegraphable whole, such that none of it smacks home ringing true. More, as much as I love my old hats, it smacks of the last swig of chancers.
Stu Gibson
Jack Bruce & Robin Trower - Seven Moons Live

Revered sixties rock titans here recommence a collaboration that bore two albums in the early eighties, not a 'Bruce does Cream songs with Trower on guitar instead of Clapton', though a couple do crop up. Recorded live in Holland earlier this year, this is a trawl through jazz-based bluesy funk of a perhaps unsurprisingly late sixties ilk (right down to the welcome of 'what a nice vibe') floating on waves of rippling prog-tinged stoner psych (like Distant Places Of The Heart and Just Another Day). Shorn of Hendrix's searing guitar, or Clapton's of the Cream era when he was actually worth his weight in strings and picks if not leads it might get a bit ploddy, indulgent and too tastefully polite, even the Cream tunes which sorely miss Ginger Baker's demonic drumming, as does the whole, with more than a few songs lulling into post five minutes in length and then some. A dream ticket for some though it has all the hallmarks of being more one of those for collectors, guitar magazine subscribers and armchair connoisseurs to relax to after Sunday lunch perhaps with a glass of Chateauneuf to others.
Stu Gibson
Cinders Fall - The Reckoning

Hailing, not that you can tell thankfully, from the UK pit of Essex, this six piece of mayhem shoot five tips of depleted uranium dum-dum metal in your face and piss on the scars. Out of a revolving whirlwind of the havoc they conjure they create epic pestilences of anthemic thrash with death more dancing than waiting in the wings on the strings of an unstoppablly pulverising marching symphony of battle joined and rousing sermons delivered. Where many fail and should have their windpipes and ear canals torn out by bands of this calibre, CF unleash the storms of euphoria of Maiden and Metallica at their peaks. Juggernaut riffs, layered with all the classic pauses, pushes and pulses, octaves and harmonies driven forward like a helltrain powered by a nuclear wind turbine and furious death rattle vocal growls that have direction and don't just wail into the void. Stand up and be pounded into glorious submission. This is a thrilling testament to all that is and should be metal.
Stu Gibson
The Stupids - The Kids Don't Like It
Boss Tuneage

Bucking the trend for reformations being fatuous, pointless excursions to flag up the pension fund The Stupids, despite their name, return after two decades with a fresh and vital album of thunderchunder punk arguably better than any of their earlier albums Violent Nun, Peruvian Vacation and Retard Picnic (reissued last year ). Armed to the rotten teeth with song titles the Hard-Ons would fall wanking to the floor over - Drumshop Arsehole, Remember Me Dismember You, Beach Dick - this is fast as a rabbit fuckaroo hardcore with tunefulness seeping out of at least one slimy, crust encumbered orifice. Disingenuously inane, to steal a line from current sub one minute thirty second serenaders Revenge Of The Psychotronic Man this is 'Lighning fast punk rock played by idiots'. Their song title Get Pissed, Talk Shit, Dance Like An Idiot would also fit snugly into this. The kids better bloody had like it, never has there been a more apt time to restart the battle cry get what you're given.
Stu Gibson
Various Artists - Lights! Camera! Doo Wop!
Giant Steps

A nice, neat deceptively clean cut idea for a compilation this featuring a gleefully grubby glut of 28 doo wop wondrous delights from movies such as Goodfellas, Mean Streets, American Graffiti, Diner, Cry Baby and a pomade vat of others. Cars, girls, car grills n' burger bars to hide your aching heart behind are go in many of these songs from the ever glorious Dion & The Belmonts I Wonder Why to The Crests' 16 Candles and The Diamonds' Little Darlin', The Skyliners' Since I Don't Have You - or The Chantels' Maybe if you've got an unquenchable hollow to fill with sorrow - interspersed as they are with flights to lands of plentiful fancies with The Cadillacs' Speeedoo, The Chords' Sh-Boom, and the jaunty caffeine bomb jibber-jabbering Rubber Biscuit by The Chips. Somgs that would impress parents but sell drugs to your little sister, full of sinister behind the scenes business scams and gangsterism. Melancholy, mirth and madness amid the reminisces and murders hidden under the new floor - what more do ya want? Exquisite squiggly pleasures they all be.
Stu Gibson
The Nitros - Nightshades / Stompin' Beat

Reissues of late eighties rockabilly rarities long out of print, first time on CD and all that lather. In a more traditional vein than the psychobilly of the time or even the Smash Hits sulky pouts of neo rockabilly earlier that decade. Not to be consigned to rock's heap o' scrap though, there's plenty of frantic slap-happy comb-greasing, hair-teasing action here, with some exhilarating git-tar tirades that easily out sizzle widdle-stick Setzer and possibly Restless' Mark Harman and rockin' scene godstar Darrel Higham. Aficionado's of the catalogue of rockabilly covers will swing for Queen's Crazy Little Thing Called Love and rock's family tree trainspotters will jump maybe once to note that the second set here features scene mainstay and now Morrissey's bassist Gary Day.
Stu Gibson
My Friend Eject / No Hope Astronaut - Digital Love EP / Exits Fade EP
Animal Farm

Should you really require more emo screamo yelping and insignifacnt simpering then look no further than these protagonists of lowest common denumbinator modern day, um, rock. Helpfully you even get to sample two lots here. Replacing 'incendiary' with insipid would be a far more apt description. If you're going to blight London's Camden Town-centred cesspits of tiresome indie twaddle at least parachute Zeke in and do it fucking properly. For what it's worth NHA's second half is the better proposition, though both will no doubt be recipients of frightening success levels with the morass generously granted the term 'population'.
Stu Gibson
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