What happens when you take someone out of the day job and give them carte-blanche to write what they want? Well, it seems it's a touch of lunacy. We'll leave the new member of the Eartwister family to introduce himself, and promise a straight jacket is not too far away if it all gets too much for him. Enjoy the reviews.
Damn it, the mind-control ray seems to be
on the blink again. Must get Clive to have a look at that (Clive! I told him
that was a sh*t name for a criminal mastermind's henchman, but would that
ball-bag listen?)
Anyhow, I'm broadcasting from my mysterious secret island in the middle
of the Humber Estuary (well that's not secret anymore is it!) The construction
of my latest terrifying weapon is underway (well it would be if you could get
an electrician out from Grimsby. You won't get one without paying a call out
charge, even if you offer to give them a ride in the Death hovercraft. It's the
same with plumbers. I've had a leak in the filter system of my shark tank for
months now.) My latest weapon is the Cock-Rocket. My plan is to fire one of
these over every continent, exploding the contents of the warheads over all
major centres of population. I've created a toxin from testosterone,
lamb madras and lager that, when ingested, will, over time change all women
into men and increase the penis size of any man that comes into contact with
it. Clive reckons the plan is 'proper gay' and my psychiatrist (yeah, she loves
the Death Hovercraft) thinks I may have repressed homosexual tendencies but I
told her she was a fool and asked for the plate back from the quiche I'd baked
her on her last visit.
I'm in charge of a small army of fiercely loyal troops known as the Hood
Guard, recruited (shanghaied if truth be told) from some of the rougher
drinking holes in Grimsby and Hull. They look so dashing in their spandex one
piece suits (with lovely lemon piping and epaulettes, designed by yours truly!) although some of them keep
getting it snagged on the razor wire. Anyway, to keep this crack force entertained while they go about their daily chores, I pipe music
through the Bose speakers I've had rigged up across the island (I paid top wack
but hey, I can't have sh*t sound on my secret island can I?)
As you probably worked out from my initial
outburst I will only play decent music to the troops and have been known to
execute anyone found secretly listening to sh*te on I-Pods in their bunks at
night. I found one little turd listening to Mumford and Sons the other week. He
got the tied to a table, lazer treatment. Clive said 'why don't ya just
shoot 'im innit?' but I'm a criminal madman aren't I?
Occasionally I get sent new bands to review by that gang called Eartwister
(I can think of far worse ways to torture someone than that!)
Clive and I take time out from our
dastardly plans to while away the spare minutes in the luxury listening area
(situated behind the nuclear reactor) and give our unbiased opinions on the
dazzling array of new talent.
Raven and the Lyon. When I saw one of their tunes was called 'Cry Wolf'
I wondered whether they may have been
watching a touch too much Springwatch. However, their four songs on Soundcloud are
pleasant enough. They all lollop along in a folky, twelve string 3/4 shuffle
kind of way. Clive commented that he thought that their guitars may have been
stuck on the Suzanne Vega doing Van Morrison's 'Moondance' setting but I think
he may have been a bit cruel with that. The vocals had a rather breathy, dreamy
quality that Clive and I enjoyed while we sipped our camomile tea, especially
on the track 'Perspectives' which is quite agreeably structured. There's some
promise here, but they could do well to experiment with different rhythm and
tempo.
Freedom
Of The City (www.fotcmusic.com) From their press shots they look
like typically rough Manchester types and would probably make good additions to
the Hood Guard. Providing they don't have a problem with authority (which I
find doubtful looking at them). Their website has an album's worth of demos for
your delectation, and though the tunes like 'Colour My Mind' are full of
lad-swagger and a bit riff-tastic a couple of songs display a more delicate
touch, notably 'Find You' (I'm in the middle of the Humber lads) which pulls
the riffing back in favour of a choppy ska style verse before blossoming into a
pint-glass-in-the-air chorus melody. The playing throughout is skintight and in
places thunderous and by the time we'd reached 'Bleed The Sky Dry', Clive and I
were jumping around in gay abandon. My reservations about this band are only
born from where their form and demeanour lie. It's most definitely in the lad's
club along with the odious Corteeners and dare I say the Gallagher shadow is
one they find hard to step out of. The promise and quality of some of the songs
mean they shouldn't have to walk down that already muddy Mancunian path unless
they choose to. Come out and start wearing spandex (with lemon piping)!
The Bacillus who have a few songs on YouTube that are part of a forthcoming album
apparently.
Now me and Clive have been together in
crime for a good few years now. Long enough to remember the indie scene circa
'84/'85 and the cottage industry that sprung up across the UK producing
cassettes (!) and fanzines independently of the independent labels. Now that's
indie. From this scene a few bands emerged and went on to be signed to indie
labels. One such band were Yeah Yeah Noh from Leicester (look them up).
Me and Clive used to love throwing shapes to them in our overcoats and The
Bacillus remind us so much of them. Their raw, shambolic sound is like a
more muscular updated version of YYN and has been our fave stuff sent through
from Eartwister this time. The music can't be described as being born in the
garage as much as the garden shed. The simplistic jangle combined with
political savvy is intoxicating on tracks like 'Transatlantic Confusion' and
the album's title track, 'I Can't Adapt To This Prison You Call Society'. They
took us back to our pre C86 days when the worst crimes we'd ever dreamt up were
the odd post office robbery or posing as gas men to steal vulnerable pensioners'
beer money. Makes a change from bands concluding that they actually have to be
able to sing and play. Nice. We'd like to see them out on the island some day
soon.
Hailing from the sleepy hamlet of
Warrington would be enough to spur most people on to form a band of some
description and that's what these plucky youngsters have done. Formed a band.
Of some description. In thrall to the back-seat-of-the-bus doggerel of Pigeon
Detectives and oh no, Corteeners (hrumph, what is it with you lot?) there is a
boyish charm to this, but is there room down the lads club when they've sorted
the fake I.D's? It's not that they can't play (here on the island that's never
been a prerequisite anyway) they've obviously put the work in, it's just what
they choose to play. Channel the energy of youth off the beaten path and
into the dark woods of experimentation and we could have something akin to the
tyre on the end of the rope. FUN.
The
lads will probably implore me, as on the chorus of 'This Town' to “f*ck right
off” but could I care less? I'm in charge of a vast criminal empire stretching way
beyond Cheshire. Mwu ha ha ha!!
So concludes my review of this set of new bands. I'm off to put some WD40 on the volcano’s sliding roof ,it's been squeaking like a tw*t. Toodle pip,
The Hood.
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