King Automatic - In The Blue Corner
'They're convinced he's some kind of witch
He just has difficulty with his language' - Black Magic
Yup, the one-time drummer of French mental beat mariachi's Thundercrack* is still pretty much a full-blown lunatic on a one man binge through several instruments - namely drums, git-tar, organ, harp & snarl - and insinuations and, I surmise, an inclination or two (& ayuss, he loops 'em all together - check live clips**), howsoever misconstrued all the messily better. This is a frequently menacing, far-often funnier, melange of pop moments, rocksteady-cide and smartly conceived but splendidly ill-sired rockin' ricochets that spin it spans away from star-spangled cliche rickshaws. Discordant Dr Feelgood dosed up on the dying's adrenal dance-spasms, tormenting the new wave in the guise of The Cure alternating between 1979 and 1983 with a smudge of '84 on it's sleeve, tenement terror bubbles throughout spluttering up Hit The Road Jack getaway car mayhem after throwing The Lovecats down a stairwell skewered on a Headcoats seven-incher is a further step into the stratosphere. Centred around songs (it's not often lyric sheets are included in VR releases, and that ain't just cos this cat's French what with the Swiss honchos being a land of three languages - officially, but the sharp bet's are on for a whole slew more) rather than a rabidly affected assemblage of disembodying self-conscious madness this is a real rare treat, a tirade of insights into an indiosyncratic mind with a spendthrift's attitude to dispensing social commentary of the indelicately disconnected, with wicked hints & asides merely a sundry supplement. For every angular, ankle-grinder with the gentle bedside head-spannering manner of the Milkshakes' vapourising Fake Skinheads In Love ('He bought her a rose from the Asian shop...') there's an array of surreal Syd Barrett (I know that's as over-used as such 'n' such on speed but listen...) as lounge-lizard spy-pop like the beautifully bizarre Diary Of Horace Wimp hauled round town by The Specials to meet The Bristols' Fabienne Delsol of There Goes George, sinister inner-city ministrations on Staircase Serenade and There Is No Truth In The Night or the dour hip-flask in a bistro rueful murmur of Moodswings to the neat twist on the 'What's he building in there?' wonder at the weird neighbour of Black Magic. Truly wondrous. Ye'll be warpedly welcomed indeed.
**Here Comes The Terror video