Fungal Punk: The Cavemen "The Cavemen"
From Auckland, New Zealand comes a crew of slag rock sleazers who dish up a foul monstrosity of musical deviancy loaded with rabid desires conjured from a garaged grimoire that summons up many mental phantoms of disease. The noise is ravenous, feeds on your will and appeals to the most raw-boned basic instincts us music lovers all find within. I am sure those of a more cleansed faith will find this nauseating filth to get thoroughly tuned out by but to the more ardent and twisted imps of acoustica then it will be a case of erections aplenty that will be an utter pleasure jack off. It happens, get over it, I am going in head first regardless of any advice - fuck you!
From the disabled cranium of silence erupts the first upheaval of touched tunery, appropriately enough slagged down as 'Mentally Ill', a very corroded cacophony of cruddite levels that come from cavernous crannies where the dark-eyed dicks of discordance stand proud and spunk much appreciation. The scurfy string work and the low-wired, tuned out fuzzoid mouth screeches work well in combo and when kicked up the arse by the tympanised activator we have an open shambles to celebrate. If you are in the groove your membranes will certainly move, if you are on the outside then get the fuck in here - it feels good ma'an. 'Fuck For Hate' is a wonderfully crawled shit smear upon the lavatorial walls of your mind where thoughts best left unspoken reside in scrawls of disgruntled glory. A murky delivery, seen under low-light and shooting into your veins with greedy, destroying venom. The bass bumbles on amphetamine desire, the guitar scrapes the scum from its own arse in gratifying measure and the drums belt around with breathless buggerisation whilst the gob exudes a wild and lunatic fringe naturalness that captivates those won over by passion. 'Stand By Your Ghoul' is a victorious escalating raven of rhythm that pecks away at your senses and brings about a boogie woogie epileptic response that has a resemblance to an electro seizured Frankensteinian freak let loose on the dance floor. A superb dark and dank creepoid clatterer that sidles over the flesh with untrustworthy sinisterism borne from players now immersed and totally without hope in a swirling vortex of devilish discordance. The vibe of this one is irresistible, raises goose bumps and gets those noisy neurones popping. Excellent horrified garage work - a pinnacle indeed!
'Scumbag' is a quick repeat flick that gnaws over and over, through flesh, cartilage and eventually bone. Corroded to fuck, wasting no time to get to the marrow of the matter and with a quick rotten and rapid instrumental snip this one comes and goes in the thrutching of an anal passage. 'Rides With The Reich' is happening animation, frothing at the mouth with hepped up insatiable need, a need to knee you in the knackers without apology - the bastards. The rock and roll flamboyance is gushing and thrives in a pond of sonica where the life is warped, epileptic and forever wriggling. The premise of the sonica is cracked, the delivery as per, and the end result is of a very convincing eruption of appetising sub-glam, wham-bam wankism that you can't help but get splashed by - porntastic! 'Rock And Roll Retard' is asylum house rebellion, getting wanked off yet again and tanked up on its own heady gusto (who am I to fault it). The baby lullaby tones that welcome are cursed with pre-corruption cum and only serve to throw the head at an angle ready for the forthcoming kicking. Totally savoury gushings that bound from one era to the next whilst embracing many sub-generic shitholes and coming out reeking. Careless, care free - this is low slung, cerebral slap happy primitiveness that will grab your attentive gonads and squeeze the bastards dry. No need for deep investigation here, just deal and dance.
4 whizzoid-based molestations next with 'At The Pub' a wondrous sizzler, bursting with life and 'out of control' idiocy that will not be restrained in any way whatsoever. A 'fuck it' and sup outburst that travels on sozzled heels kept in line by nothing more than well-versed talent and genuine, unadulterated sonic spirit - good on' em'. 'Fucked In The Head' is what it says on the tin, totally brain damaged dinnery that shoots along on swift sensations liable to infect those who like things crud-laden and with a scurfy outer surface, you know the kind, like a mangy dog with poisonous fleas. Take pride in your mental damage, turn this up top whack and fuckin' put thy noggin through a window - shatter! Irresponsible titles are punk incarnate and 'Drunk Driving' captures that angle with a road hogging, hard slogging acceleration of acoustic havoc that puts down the pedal hard to the floor and never lets up. The fuel in the tank is burning as fast as ever and the band play a straight out tune here with perhaps less reckless rampaging than you would expect from the title. A brief veer off route is had but in the main the track sticks to the course and arrives home safe and sound - lucky bastards. Teenage stress is kicked out with an age old reliable rock out brandished under the name of 'School Sucks', a pounding effort that stops, staggers and encourages shit kicking, anti-prick behaviour. A double ended attack, drilled through with filthy incinerating wire work and dustbin lid vitality - you know the script by now!
The last fuckin' 3, 'Crimes Tonight' commences the run down to the closure, does so with twanging and keyed up anxiety that pours in a continuous leakage of mad hatter twattery. An opening hiccup and into the tumult we go, ragged and ravishing, adorned in raiment’s of peephole pleasure, deliberately exposing inner workings for your indelicate lustings. 'Glass Breakfast' crunches, munches then moves - the floodgates open, nay the piss flaps part and out falls a runt of rhythmic offensiveness that only the most crooked and cretinous onlookers will take note of. A shit-stained arse of a crew blow out a reeking obscenity attired in good, earthy rhythm and we see our own nether regions leak with appreciation - par for the course by now. Doctor can you hear me! The closing clash and trash is as you would expect. A sleazy up-tempo gut spill with a thirst for the finishing line 'Trash Talkin' Paint Huffin' Girl' goes for it with glory flags flying and leaves us in its wake coughing and spluttering with untold exhaustion. The band do what they do very well indeed and close this exciting CD in fine style.
Yeah, The Cavemen come, club us to fuck and drag us into the cave of discordance without too much resistance. The band rattle things out with a balls bared forthrightness and I am never one to shy away from such a vulgar display. A good CD, one to raise the spirits and have a good rock out to - it keeps the circulation moving.