Fungal Punk: The Dustaphonics "Big Smoke London Town"
With a sincere rock and roll honesty and trappings of souled garage, as well as a peppering of surfy elements, the South-London crew known as The Dustaphonics have already pleased me via the CD spinning routine. 'Party Girl' was reviewed and glowed over and so, as a result, I am pregnant with expectation this time around. The baby I hold in my rotund tum is a bastard though, because he has that old Fungal streak in his/her ass and no matter what the whole truth and nothing but the truth will follow the main birthing process in the form of a real and no-nonsense assessing placenta - splash, there now, me waters have broken! Let us get firing out the alphabet arrangements and see what semblance of a review this way comes. Oooh me rectal fanny...
'The Message' opens the doorway to dinnage with a shuffling and scuffling live wire promise excited by delicately delivered she slivers of tonsilised temptation. The band stay within the confines of their set sonic underwear and rather than burst free with swollen vulgarity they provide an admirable bulge of acoustic solidity to admire and enjoy (if thy swing that way of course). A good preparatory track stuffed with lush restrained suggestions, watch out folks, this is looking sizzle-o-licious. 'When You Gonna Learn' is toe tapping testicular slapping titivation with oodles of sharp assed vigour proffered via a crew awash with pre fuck sub-erotica that invigorates more than just the expected erogenous zones. There is a wanton thrash of life within the blood of this second ditty and that is where the Dustaphonic primarily win you over.
'Big Smoke London Town' is a slightly cooler affair with the overall linen kept wonderfully rippled and lacking any distinct discomforting knotting. The pre-copulation suggested is controlled and the resultant chemicals mixed well brewed and notably deliberate. We lack the previous natural bite, the abandoned thrusting and untamed clawing but are still given a delightful going over nonetheless this time with emphasis on a more nibbling incessancy - nice. There remains an undercurrent of urgency, a lacquering of perspiration that is evidence of sincere effort - I like that and we find we have little to complain of. 'Grand Prix' is a well revved instrumental escapade that has sure-fire surfed shuffling twinkled with gratifying wire and skin work with all components bleeding and blending in cohesive sanguinity. It is a simplistic listening product that keeps all the set acoustic waters flowing the correct way. Hair down, heels kicked free, hem-line raised - let us reel to the encouragement of 'Ride On Louisiana Red', a spunky bout of tuneage crammed with alive and shit kicking vitality that embraces the chosen sub-genre, captivates the leaning lug and raises the soul to all new vibration pleasing levels. The band rock out, let everything swing free and easy and duly succeed big time. 'Rockin' Boogaloo' next and a real sexed up party thrill with the lead lass offering numerous trills of pleasure, smoky vocal squeals of delight, oral gasps that provoke certain pressure levels to ascend and particular private areas to pulse with a little more ardour. An encouraging gem with an overspill of joy de vivre and free flowing liquidity to just utterly wallow in. The crew indulge the crowd, create that participation factor and elevate the spirits no end - magnifique. I like the way the band stay so cooled despite the lead lasses abandonment - it makes for a very rewarding listen.
'Don't Let The Devil Drive Your Car' heightens the soulfulness and upholds the thermal zeniths attained with a pseudo-gospelised lilt and much feisty energy. We are stripped down here, baring some sincere flesh that surges with a believable hunger and muscularity. All this said we still remain in the midst of a very satisfying serving of sonica from an obviously highly talented unit on a peak of frothing foam that could take them almost anywhere. 'Back To Mono' is a fidgety well blown bloom that has vital danceability and feel-good freshness that cleanses the sonic soul and makes one get up and jig. The guitars shine as bright as ever, the drums skip and roll and the bass nuzzles its snout deep within the cacophonic joy whilst the front lass sounds all squeaky clean and yet sublimely absorbed - an uncomplicated episode of just good angst free music - just what the doctor ordered and a great contrast to all the raging rhythms out there. I am lapping this up like a dehydrated dog left out in the sapping solar rays for way too long. Dustaphonics I thank ye.
'Fire Dance' is pure sex, with visions of heavily sweating female forms dancing within a licking orgy of flaming tongues and molesting tendrils and really getting off on it. Picture the intro to Roald Dahl’s' famous TV series of unexpected tales, porn it up a little, add black silk adornments, electrify the dancing lady a little more, cause her to thrust a little more deeply and add an underscore of film noir stylism and you may just get a flavour of this - smoky, sensual, drifting, mesmerising. A slow waltz of disrobing foreplay, liable to result in a full absorption of the senses - mmm baby! 'Mojo Ya Bones' hot foots over the smouldering soundscape and takes things pretty coolly before throwing in the usual spice and well salted passion. The song soon gets things singed before a fully adequate roasting is given. The heat is turned up with each repeat burst, the involvement factor also increases - go on then, another Fungal nod is given. 'Flesh And Blood' brings a halt to the proceedings and goes out with a lowbrow acoustic loved up ditty that plays on pillow whispers and the lead lasses steamy utterances - the result - a big fat failing full stop to a crackin' CD. I just abhor this closing snippet and after several listens am deciding to bail out before the swing of the steel capped assessing boot shatters more than just this poor finale - too much good stuff has transpired to be marred by this moment I find (emphasis on 'I' - it is only a one man opinion after all) quite awful.
Oh fuck, what a duff note on which to end, and I was having such a good time. If the CD was the other way around this stand out blemish would easily be passed over but that is the way the cacophonic cookie sometimes crumbles. It would have been brilliant to end on a whizzing high but honesty must prevail (as always). So 11 tracks and 10 sizzlers that are worth the purchase fee alone. I may not like the latter end track but would insist the band still do their thing and keep throwing in these optional essences - it is no good sitting in a comfort zone and playing it safe. For me a great album and one I will certainly be playing over and over (with the single fast forward flick of course - wink, wink). It is without doubt that The Dustaphonics are on a good roll and a very talented unit - it will be interesting to see how far up the rickety ladder they climb.