Fungal Punk: MFC Chicken "Solid Gravy!"
A right bunch of cheeky fuckers here with an album to completely break down any critical codswallop and to bring forth a fervent fever of gushing praise from even the most hard boiled reviewer. Make no mistake about it, these squawking sonic shits are good, darn good indeed and really excite with their innuendoed sax fuelled rock that has an obsession with the thrills of fast food chomping. Hailing from London these dudes really do need to spread their wings and drop some sonic shit on the heads of the unaware, here is my small attempt at provocating some flapping motions.
'Chicken Bout' You' is a vulgar opening that is double entendre loaded via lustful men at the helm with a pang in them thar bellies. The commentating crank at the fore is well greased with his own sizzled sperm and gushing gonad gravy advice. This is nothing more than a comedic intro that has pantie prodding intent and a certain adulterous insidiousness that takes away from the cool lilt of the droolings - it does what it does though, so on we go with nipples erect.
King Kong tribal chants from the clan of Skull Island merge into throwback rock and roll with a well grained overlay of fruited relish well noted. 'Pocahontas' hop frogs along with saxy assistance and lo-fi persuasion that rises in passion oh so slightly and jitterbugs its bollocks to utter buggery but with the underpants of restraint kept certainly knotted. No over exuberance is had, just a reliable bout of foot stomping goodness from a band with clout, not just comedy. '(Get Outta The) DJ Booth' is pure ass swinging done in a hybridised 'Lee Lewis/whizzed up Hooker' style with an irresistible effervescence that is done with such sub-bluesed vivacity as to be almost physically tangible. The guitar twangs, the bass and drums double rumble, the brass attacks are choice and the husky dusky deliveries from the fore gob are delightful. This frothy sonic soup contains highly nutritious noise laden chunks and on it we must gorge. Feed away fat melodic fucks.
Next serving and 'Voodoo Chicken' is raised from the dead, salivated over, sniffed at and eventually utterly devoured by this ever hungry diner of dinnage. A promotional dance piece that struts its funky feet and clucks itself off with lively wrist action to a jived up jingle that is once again saxily enthused and absolutely awash with happening feelgood fervour. This is hand clapping 'boogie on down' chuck back glory with a distinctly animated affect that is right up my underwashed street - moving, grooving and snagging - my dancing shoes are wearing thin man. 'I'm Her Pet' is more deliberate in its undulations, slanted with accents of bluesed and well used waters that are reminiscent of more muddied offerings. Hot sweat sincerity, vocal rasps to quiver with, backing vocals straight from the dusted down jukebox of yesteryear and numerous scents of close relative sonica all make for another convincing listening experience - chunky stuff indeed. Slinky dinky instrumentalistaion next with 'Hot Friend' jam packing the juices into one small container of lustful tightness with the waltz wank accentuated by the massaging effect of the bands roving digits and scorching attention that blisters the resistance. A sparkling foam on de-vocalised cheekiness with much swanky sidewinding to get ensnared by. Appropriately enough '(Show Me The) Gravy, Baby' is more serpentine slipperiness with a chat up cheekiness and failing underhand vulgarity that doesn't hide the fact that these deviant devils have upright hankering hotdogs that need a good old soaking in the female induced gravy bucket. The barbecued tonsils add to the hungering desire and help pour forth a sub-sensual number to make yer gonads ache. Next up and fidgety tomfoolery with a gooned and active melodic style that rankles the nerves somewhat and thus comes across as the most discomforting track of the lot. Minds crack here, the band seem really overly absorbed in the whole thematics of the cluckers and 'Don't Wanna Talk About Chicken' is perhaps the weakest laid egg in this bountiful basket of shelled sonica. It ain't bad but it doesn't encourage my pecker to join in the perky parade.
Flashing on, a plucky pesterer next with sunshine glinted guitar, thirsty mouth work, well dusted skins, hop-a-long bassism and the expected spurts of sax all combining to make 'Well Now' a chipper listen with an excess of upbeat positivity. Pondering the effort reveals a structure of undemanding orchestration and yet this intrinsically basic formula tickles the receptors and gets the head bobbing with go-ahead gratification - says something about the crew in question don't ya think? 'M. F. Sea Chicken' has a surfed underscore, primitive tympanics and a superabundance of space age optimism from yore blended with a squirt of 60's TV cream. The overall acoustic lilt is chilled to the marrow with the procession of players on show all contributing a certain sinisterism and monochrome effect that embraces a sought after theme very much netted - swoop. Next up and the shit-house shakery of 'Chicken Shack', a muscle quaking episode of quirkiness that is sizzled up on the thermally rising griddle where the MFC Chicken boys cook their burgers of fun. For this cutlet I suggest you just throw yourself in and ask no questions, the zest will answer all your needs and for once I shall remain silent!
3 left, the home run is here, only time to take a dump methinks, 'Horseshit' is the result! A manure flinging joy with the song signifying how the band blend many regular flavours, spice up with their own brand of passion and ultimately concoct a quality ear drum vibrator. This pre-penultimate appetiser is a well dunged ditty that seeps through to your noisy nuclei and makes a more than adequate pleasure impact within. I may be well far into this gathering of tunes but my attention levels are still high. 'White Leather Boots' sidles in from seedy acoustic alleyways where they have lurked with suspicion and are more than ready to pounce. The main drive is robust and shady with several episodes of bin tipping invasions that suggesting something akin to a clatter attack is developing. Suspicious merry hell is made but all held in check by the handling experience of our artistes. At no time do the band threaten to slip up or throw a cold turkey into the cacophonous coop and once more we meet the final silence with a broad grin on our mugs.
We close down with a song that begins with a luscious professionalised opening burst that may give a peephole into many more options than the band may realise they have. The intro to 'Dirty Little Bitch' seems to be paving the way for an ostentatious and grandiose bout of up market music with an expected angular moment threatening to cause some critical bewilderment and leave me staggering at the last. The worry is soon washed away as the players produce a washed out upheaval of vulgarity and man's man hollering. A scuffling song with a scathing chorus cut that kicks back against being played around with and falling victim to a much wanted woman. The wordage goes a little way down the slope of Benny Hill (nowt wrong with that) and the entire effect is a little rinsed out I feel so for the second time on this CD I leave my decision on the wrong side of the negative/positive boundary (only just mind).
Overall this is an attractive CD with a well curried spiciness to keep your tastebuds tickled for a long time to come. The peppery outflow is loaded with tongue in cheek (or should that be pecker in buns) activity and is played with such charm as to persuade the most stubborn sonic senses to flicker. It's another fine release from Dirty Water and another example of a band who need a good plucking and an encouragement to swing further afield - ooomph.