Friday, January 19, 2007


Unselfconscious whiplash Finnish art-punk that wades thru an addled kids paddling-pool full of hiss-smothered vitriol (checks needle for fluff - no it really does sound like that!). Spike would like this, I reckon.

A bass-line runs down a non-existent staircase. I don't speak the language, but it sounds like they're swearing...the next track is kinda like early Fall at the wro-o-ong speed (stops typing to change record over (again) - I love being forced to physically intervene; you don't get that w/ 8hr mp3 files...) .

On the other side, guitars dissolve in a whirling maelstroooooom of fizzy FX-pedals; a UK Subs B-Side hyperaccelerates into grey, wind-cracked streets, as the band chase their own instruments past boarded-up cafes and a run-down park full of middle-aged men smoking roll-ups. Someone roars with annoyance...I don't know what he's saying, but it feels like he's yelling "fuckin' kids...fuckin' old people..." Everything that's wrong with the world gets precis'd in 50 seconds. Next up: Tiger-Man snarls over a drum-machine n a half-arsed synth n fuzz-gtr. The Residents' Commercial Album goes P.u.n.k. Later on, their guitars rattle the cake-shop window.

It's on Lal Lal Lal, motherfuckers. Buy it before yr own children rise up n kill you.


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