Dirty Water Records

Taking Music Backwards Into Tomorrow

Fungal Punk: Atomic Suplex "14 Inches Of Fist"

A fizzbomb of white light heat is potentially the outcome of this CD from a band who are highly charged, unpredictable and joyously committed to the harsh acoustic attacks that have been created over many years and with such loving rock and roll care. This is another Dirty Water Records release and this time around I shall not labour the point of an intro and move quickly in and deal with this donation from these London loons.

The opening gift is wrapped in glittering skin-splitting sandpaper and wears away your immediate refusal to accept with a loutish mouth off that duly leads us into the chaotic slaggery of the song proper. The 'One Man Party' is amphetamine fuelled with an extra dose of high agitation and erectile throbbing music that pushes the perspiration factor hard as well as the whole spittle soaked shaft of manic desire. Trash can vomit sprayed with a couldn't give a fuck attitude but with enough tight assed control to be hypnotised by - a full on and fruit-flattening start. Splat!

The follow-up to this opening tantaliser is slapped forth under the name of '14 Inches Of Fist', a very raw open wound of acoustic uproar that judders like fuck via repeat jab verse volts and gapes wide open through chorus lilts that let the arms (and trousers) drop and let you see everything on show. The inner screwdrive of all spiteful strings and slamming sticks partnered with the poisonous bitch line that offers up a knuckle-driven kiss are both acute and exciting moments to cherry top a fuckin' mesmeric noise. Twat! Reeling back after these two body blows I am glad of the soft tinned opening of the third track 'Set It On Fire' but am a whole lot more aroused by the surging incandescent passion of the clattering construct that ensues. A bounty of careening, out of control, crash, smash and bollocks raving delivered by a crew satanically switched on to all tunes trashy and temperamental. That skid and screech effect, the inescapable draw of the blazing chorus and the general massive life on display are all tantamount to a cerebral raping of the most pleasantly cruel order. A smashing way to complete the opening high energy trio!

'Wild Love' mechanically creaks before superbly hot-footing on frequently punctuated punkish airwaves that are both noxious and invasive. The sub-radioed, fully corroded jack off is torn at the seams, ripped at the arse but, fascinates and masturbates with muckily sleazed cravings that need to be satiated. The whole upheaval is flourished and corruptly aligned thus creating visions of a sonic ramshackle, trashcan charabanc that is packed to the hilt and headed for a well-received aural oblivion in the most noisiest way possible - smash! Clunk click, let it rip! Into the 'Firing Line' we are thrust with uprising chuggage into a tumbling tympanically assisted roll before the jerked and quirked curio belches forth from the AS gut of invention. From the stop/start uncertain flutters into brief seizures that upend and assault the main frame of the tuneage thus given a double edged ramming to your orifice of pre-perception. Despite this one having the scabrous foot off the pedal the band still mange to make a cluttery creation that sticks with the modus operandi used - I am still enjoying this, nowt wrong with a bit of rough stuff!

A flinging quatro-tumble next and 'S. U. P. L. E. X.' leads the way with hallowed openings borne from a church of the unhinged. We have a brief bass grumble before the flourish of a very terse and sonically appealing track unfolds on amphetamine rush delight with all bin bag clatter in accordance and meeting my sonic requirements - a brief beauty. The raunchy and suggestive title 'It Takes Two Girls To Satisfy Me' is awash with trouser-loosening tension borne from groins that need relieving, A grimy get down and grind confusion of flesh sweat chordage and hard massage masturbation that sees those sonic erogenous zones brutally man-handled and yet achieving gratifying zeniths. Sheets are torn, skin carved open and all in one melee of copulating sex therapy that just does what it sets out to do - wank on! 'J. D. Attack' is playing with fire and walks a very fine line between that which is decent and that which is close to complete exhaustive collapse. It starts in a fairly buckled up mode but has a distinct desire to thrust outward and push the danger levels to concerning heights with a distinct feeling from this reviewer as of something not quite right. I play several times over, eventually fall in the shadow of the sub-chaos and appreciate the chantoid action - phew close call. The last of this quartet comes forth with the name of 'Ass Tecnica', a dirty fucker with an echo-shit, cavernous cruelty that chops itself up, slices and dices further and re-tunes several times throughout making for one uncomfortable mess. It was liable to happen, the band were playing with fire and here the fingers get burnt to a crisp. Just lacking a little control and melodic effect with the instruments that are too disloyal to one another to be ideal.

'No Pain No Gain' and 'You've Got Some Nerve' are two episodes of hectic, epileptic speed bursting with all consideration for pre-thought banished and a full on 'let it hang baby' onslaught had. The first of the brief brace is 18 seconds long and splutters up a surge of manic waywardness whilst the second is a longer effort and has equal sufferance of mis-control and so both tracks get a thumbs down and leave me wondering where the CD will finish. 'Pancho' is a more structured number with crinkle cut crispy chunks dissected by firm footed stomps of acoustic determination. The chorus is stated and slammed, the overall attack pronounced and focused but yet again having many fractured moments that just squeeze by. 'Chicken Rich' is radioed bollocks and is a mere countrified down slop of crippled nonsense that deserves no place on a CD that has so much more potential. Bands do like to piss about at times, who am I to tell them not what to do but also, I am one not to ignore how a fruitless moment could take the gloss of many neighbouring ditties. Take it on the chin people. We close with a decent nut noise called 'White Shoes' a recovering flurry of screwing B-zone garage that delves right into its own dirty drill hole and comes up with something resembling a rhythm. The invasive brass, the confused build up to a sub-crescendo of simpleton waffling and we are...outta here!

This CD started boldly, rocked away with powerful prospects before, I feel, plummeted away towards the second half and never truly getting back on par with the original highs. I reckon this is how the band will continue, from great to garbage and back again with along the way some moments to agree and disagree on in equal measure. Music should never be tamed and people should go with what feels good and take the verdicts as they come, here we have the hits and the shits in equal supply!


Dirty Water Records London