The Monsters - Pop Up Yours
VR's director of diabolicalism Beat-Man's very own band vomit V2's copiously over any traces of vanity project. Celebrating a quarter of a century of 'Chainsaw Massacre Garage Punk' they pretty much draw, then doodle all over, the blueprint for the label's roster from the asylum of the ludicrously off-kilter. Rudimentary one-riff fuckstorms may appear basic, but these boys know what they're doing rearing these psychotic creations, there's a craft behind the face-shafting front, the way they ebb n' drift then get dragged back to the ditch to splutter from the gutter. They mostly stampede over The Sonics collapsing teeth, kick The Cramps into The Kinks' kidneys (oh yeah, they missed the time-travel bit out of their bio), lysergially linking the Legendary Stardust Cowboy to Lemmy, Ramones-ically rattling the red-o-meter into an intergalactic garage galaxy governed with Guitar Wolf n' generally rendering your every cringeing cell to slivers of jelly. You can wonder why to the lords of goo goo muck such rumblings from the supposedly temperate Swiss fields get ignored - if that - and the Jim Jones Revue get lauded like they're one of a kind but fuck philosophy, get fucked by this, get 'em to your hometown (take note, self-ed) as most of all it's pretty damn fun, which seems fair game, no?