The Scaners – Self Titled

Create a sonic kaleidoscope made up of particles from The Ramones, Devo, The Dickies, and The Screamers with essences of others such as Brainiac, Useless Eaters, and Acid Baby Jesus and you get the glorious garage synth punk sound fuelling a release which surely will be announced one of the year’s best moments come its annual awards. The cause of such thoughts is the self-titled debut album from French punksters The Scaners which despite those references at the beginning, or because of them, is one unique and quickly addictive incitement of sound and mischief.

Hailing from Lyon, The Scaners proudly and openly embrace their inspirations in their music; influences which from their label, Dirty Water Records, to reviewers and fans are universally recognised within something as individual as you could wish for. A four track 7” hinted at and teased ears with its inimitable antics last year, lures and revelry now in full roar and enterprise within the band’s first full-length.

Recorded with Lo Spider at Swampland in Toulouse, the album sets off on its sci-fi fuelled flight of fun with opener Abduction. Like a dance party in Area 51, the song swings its rhythmic hips to its own sonic infestation of devilry, vocalist Pav Scaner vocally hot-footing across the strands of temptation like a dervish as the keys of his organ dance. Hooks fly as beats bounce, seventies punk flirting with its synth punk/garage rock tenacity as ears and appetite are instantly baited and trapped.

The cosmos wraps the imagination next as Spacecraft lifts off with a punk rumble; bassist Tama Scaner and drummer BX Scaner rousingly fuelling its brief but irresistible surge before I Don’t Want To Go swaggers in on addictive beats and vocal dissonance. Pav’s keys again entice like sonic liquor as his voice wonderfully trespasses the shuffle; a riveting incitement matched and escalated by the spatial theremin gas and raw guitar prowess of Dédé Scaner. As the first, both tracks simply infest the imagination, getting under the skin like an infernal but exciting itch which you want to scratch but never lose.

Checkpoint Planet is a slightly calmer waltz which just as easily has the hips swinging and appetite devouring with its virulent infectiousness. As throughout the album, Pav’s lead vocal explorations are just as magnetically supported by the rest of the band’s throats, though it is the animated throb of Tama’s bass which steals the biggest portion of the passions before The Dries bursts in on a The Dickies bred lure to uncage its own voracious stomp. A fusion of sixties, seventies and current punk ‘n’ roll, the song is simply irresistible; manna to the devil in us all.

Darker and heavier textures line the B52’s hued aeronautics of Enjoy Your Flight; a trespassing bounce of a track which masters limbs and spirit like a cosmic puppeteer while No Place In Space steals best track honours with its post punk/garage punk saunter with a healthy essence of The Horrors to its reined but open diablerie. The first single from the album, the band apparently has two versions of the song; this the “slow” shadow accompanied drift through space; we cannot wait to hear the fast flight.

The pop virulence of the following We Want To Talk To Your Leader has the body romping within a breath or two, its new wave flaunt of sound and enterprise pure addiction which teases with nods to The Ramones; flavouring simply grabbed full-on by Video Tape next with again simply contagious results. Both tracks, though to be honest as all songs, leave the body breathless and greedy for more, a hunger quickly fed with great relish by the irritable sonic escapade of Flying Fuck and the flirtatious parade of Modern Fissure. The first is a furious surge of boisterous sound and brazen seduction and its successor a calmer but no less instinctively raw and rapacious slice of synth pop and both quite delicious to the ears.

The album ends with Levitation Train 2077, a swirling maelstrom of electronic punk as controlled as it is feral creating one glorious finale. All bands should have a theme tune to our thoughts, something recognisable and addictive announcing their arrival, like all the best TV shows, and this is undoubtedly the one for The Scaners.

Everything about the album was liquor to our intoxication and as the introduction of The Scaners to our ears, the spark to a lusty following hereon in; there is the feeling we will not be alone.

The Scaners album is out now via Dirty Water Records, Dirty Water Records USA, Adrenalin Fix Music, Casbah Records, Dangerhouse Skylab, Teenage Hate Records, Strycknine Recordz, and Trokson Records and available at https://www.dirtywaterrecords.co.uk/shop/#!/The-Scaners/c/27034946/offset=0&sort=normal and https://thescaners.bandcamp.com/

https://www.facebook.com/thescaners/

 Pete RingMaster 27/02/2018

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Wild Evel and the Trashbones – Digging My Grave

Digging My Grave sees the Austrian infestation that is Wild Evel and the Trashbones return with a second full dose of their salaciously offered, instinctively untamed rock ‘n’ roll. Unleashing thirteen tracks of sixties bred garage punk with an appetite for similarly spawned beat and garage rock, all tenaciously messed up with decades of misconduct and devilment, the album is a rabid trespass of sound and feral fun which just gets more addictive by the second.

Wild Evel and the Trashbones first escaped to tease and violate ears back in 2008 when Wild Evel, the frontman of Austrian garage punks The Incredible Staggers linked up with members of former teen beat outfit The Roadrunners. Following an ear grabbing first single and a couple of splits with Wild Evel’s day job and The Satelliters respectively, 2012 saw the band released acclaim gathering debut album Tales From The Cave. It was an attention grabbing, reputation building stomp more than backed by another split, this time with Batman that same year, and more irreverent slices of sound posing as singles. Now we have Digging My Grave to greedily get down and dirty with; a collusion easy to grab straight away but with greater lust thereon in.

In its press release, the likes of Billy Childish, The Miracle Workers, and The Stomachmouths are referenced, all easy to understand as too the constant comparison to Screaming Lord Sutch but as Digging My Grave proves, the Vienna/Graz hailing Wild Evel and the Trashbones provide their own very individual proposal. It all starts with Der Bucklige, a brief slice of devilish instrumental bait warming up the crypt cold setting the band will parade their primitive rascality from. Its character is sheer temptation and revs up ears and appetite in no time ready for predacious antics of the album’s title track. Raw and scuzzy with an instantly virulent swing, Digging My Grave brings its soiled swagger to bear on the imagination, Wild Evel roaring with rapacious intent as the rhythmic trespass of Berni Trashbone’s beats pound with magnetic effect. In turn, the grooves of guitarist Powl Howl wind the flourishes of Fernando Terror’s farfisa organ with arcane intent, together it all making for a death dealing party impossible to not gate crash.

The following Bugs On My Back has a lighter touch with vocal expression to match but equally has an underlining psychosis which inflames its air from time to time. An inescapably catchy piece of beat infused garage rock around the pulsating prowess of bassist Murphy Morphine and the increasingly venomous swings of Trashbone, the song is as invasively infectious as its predecessor and soon matched in success and contagion by power pop infused punk ‘n’ roll of The Mess I’m In. Its own swagger needs barely seconds to get under the skin, fuzzy textures and flaming melodies escalating the temptation before eager ears and appetite are incited to greater greed by the rhythm ‘n’ blues soaked 300 Pounds with its King Salami and the Cumberland 3 styled shenanigans. The track is superb, quite simply close on two minutes of pure addiction stoking flirtation.

The melodically webbed garage rock saunter of Ain’t It Hard and the dark garage punk chicanery of Why Can’t We Be ensure pleasure is thick and unrelenting even if the tracks just miss the pinnacle of their predecessors for personal instincts. To be fair though, both songs still hit the spot with ease and swift success, the second an open homage to The Satelliters in word and sound before Coyote has hips and imagination hooked with its primarily instrumental playfulness.

The excellent dark toned Telling Lies easily courts attention next with its dirtier garage punk rumbles. With rhythms a tenaciously unpredictable incitement beneath the electrified melodic frolics of voice, organ and guitar, the song refuses to be ignored while Gotta Leave Town strolls along with an Escobar like volatility to its ravenously infectious and increasingly strung out rock ‘n’ roll. Both tracks are major favourites in nothing but and swiftly joined by the vampish jest of Fried Chicken Legs with its blues kissed harmonica and garage pop instincts.

The final promiscuous throes of the album come through firstly I Lost My Mind, a track which whilst not grabbing the passions as tightly as its companions certainly left the imagination bound and an appetite for more even greedier before T-R-A-S-H-B-O-N-E-S simply enslaves with its anthemic chant. You can just see the waves of manipulated bodies bouncing in unison to the track at live shows as it plays its tricks on the senses and spirit. The track provides a quite simply glorious end to an album which just gets more immorally tempting, ridiculously captivating, and insanely crafty track by track, listen by listen.

Digging My Grave is out now on Dirty Water Records London and available @ https://wildevelandthetrashbones.bandcamp.com/album/digging-my-grave

https://www.facebook.com/trashbones/    http://trashbones.com/    https://twitter.com/WildEvel1

 Pete RingMaster 29/11/2017

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Escobar – The Biggest Sound

Whether you wish to call the Escobar sound grunge, punk, garage rock or something else, all flavours involved in its riotous tapestry, there is no escaping that it is one glorious rock ‘n’ roll cacophony. The irrefutable proof is to be found in the French duo’s new album The Biggest Sound, a nostril flared stomp more than living up to its container’s moniker.

Hailing from Limoges, Escobar was formed in 2014 by vocalist/guitarist Remi Lucas (Weird Omen, The Anomalys) and drummer Charly “Kayo” Cailleaud (The Bushmen, Daria). With the release of debut album エスコバルin 2015 and its successor Bird Of Prey the following year, the band was met with widespread acclaim which is sure to escalate through the rousing antics of The Biggest Sound. Such its addictive melodic hook laden clamour, it is easy to expect the album to thrust Escobar into the biggest spotlights as eureka moments go off in new ears to spark a fresh tsunami of lusty attention.

It is impossible to truly pin down the Escobar sound though a fusion of The White Stripes, Nirvana, and In The Whale gives a good starting point. As opener Terrible Man alone shows, the pair create a sound distinct and unique to itself and a temptation which swiftly and greedily infests body and imagination. The first song launches at the listener with urgent riffs, their infectious coaxing the prelude to a surge of flirtatious guitar clang and rhythmic incitement. It all settles into a vivacious garage rock stroll with a Latin-esque temperament as Lucas’ magnetic voice and guitar bounce upon the rhythmic web spun by Cailleaud. As virulent for the senses as it is increasingly concussive, the track simply seduces ears and appetite whilst getting the album off to a stunning start.

That success only builds as the insatiable punk ‘n’ roll of Misbehavior devours ears, again the two protagonists creating a noise clad contagion which sparks body and spirit. As with those around it, the song makes physical involvement a given in its swift but unquenchably boisterous escapade; a perpetual trait across The Biggest Sound in evidence again within Stuck On You. Carrying a power pop infection to its earthy rock ‘n’ roll, the track maybe leaps around with less intensity than its predecessor but with equal adventure as grunge instincts fuel the guitar. It is easy to hear Nirvana bred inspirations at play within the song but equally there are moments which seem nurtured by a fondness of bands such as Rocket From The Crypt and The Vaccines as it lays down another peak in the increasingly mountainous landscape of the album.

There is no time to relax as the outstanding Paradise rampages through ears with its Powersolo meets The Dirtbombs scented bedlam and Salvation teases and tempts with its raw and boisterous rock ‘n’ roll. The first offers a great if undemanding line in melodic dexterity within its noisy canter while its successor melds pop catchiness with scorched noise in its contagious swing and both simply up the ante in a release already fixing its permanent position in the passions.

The album’s title track steps up next bringing its own voracious infection to ears and psyche. The Biggest Sound is as much a declaration of the album’s roar as its own controlled and eager suggestion for hips and vocal chords; an invitation just a little dirty and a whole lot irresistible before Big Town bounds in with a swagger soaked in sonic dexterity to drag the energies into lustful compliance all over again. Compared to some, it too has a rein on its attack, saving it for the grunge bred eruptions which urge greater zeal from song and listener alike.

The psych rock kissed minimalism of Brain Out simply seduces and manipulates straight after; Lucas in guitar and voice a puppeteer as the song sculpts pop rock in its purest form. Slim and forcibly low key its glory is matched by the contrasting creative howl of Changeover. To be fair, the song too has a fine twist in infectious restraint and inventive enterprise but still escalates into a fiery roar which sears as it seduces. Both tracks hit the spot like a rock ‘n’ roll cupid though each is slightly outshone by the throbbing saunter of Stranger In Blood. As across the whole album, Cailleaud creates a rhythmic enticement which lures eager participation and rock ‘n’ roll instincts like a siren. His net is then entangled in the sonic machination of Lucas; the pair combining to beguile and incite without reservation.

The album concludes with the sonic commotion of Dumb Feelings, a slice of voracious punk rock with a whiff of Iggy Pop and the psychosis of Melvins in its seriously catchy riot and finally the irresistibly nagging of Drifting. The song is majestic, its jagged body of riffs and harmonic flirtation a show stealer as it slips through a celestial climate which haunts the senses. A final twist in the creative adventure of the album, the track sublimely and inescapably leaves a longing for more which that play button instantly satisfies.

There is always something new to explore to take us away from even the best records, fresh encounters to assess, but there are a few which make it very difficult to move on from without just one more union, and another….. The Biggest Sound is one of those; a joy which still resurfaces to bring our day to an invigorating conclusion and that is maybe reason enough for all to go explore.

The Biggest Sound is out now through Dirty Water Records (USA), Adrenalin Fix Music, Beast Records, and Strychnine Production and available @  https://escobartheband.bandcamp.com/album/the-biggest-sound

https://www.facebook.com/escobarbandpage

Pete RingMaster 31/10/2017

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Oh! Gunquit – Lightning Likes Me

This is your one time warning; prepare for your lungs to burst and veins to pop not forgetting hips to feverishly swing, rumble bop freakabillys Oh! Gunquit are back in town to tease and incite with a new album. The London based outfit left bodies sweaty, exhausted, and lustful with their first album Eat Yuppies and Dance back in 2015 but be warned it will all have felt like a warm up compared to the devilish antics Lightning Likes Me will have you getting up to.

Hints of things to come were alive in the band’s recent single Nomads Of The Lost, a track which suggested that the quintet had found wilder and even more salacious essences in their songwriting and sound; something Lightning Likes Me quickly and increasingly confirms song after song. It should be of no surprise really, since emerging in 2010/11 from the creative union of vocalist/trumpeter Tina Swasey and guitarist/vocalist Simon Wild, the band has only raised the ante and revelry of their psych-surf/garage-punk infused rock ‘n’ roll. With its members in bassist VV, drummer Alex De Renzi and newest member Chuchi Malpersona on sax alongside Swasey and Wild hailing from Italy, USA, Colombia, Spain, and the UK, there is a cosmopolitan fever to their music which in turn encourages its trickery to new heights, a plateau now set very high within Lightning Likes Me.

As soon as the fiery guitar strokes of opener So Long Sucker finger ears, the album is up and running, toning and driving the body like a puppeteer. Brass and rhythms are soon blazing and stomping across the infectious proposal, Swasey’s enthusiasm soaked vocals equally as persuasive while clad in defiance and carnal incitement. The track continues to twist and bounce like a rock ‘n’ roll dervish, every second getting under the skin and into the bones.

It is a tremendous start instantly backed up by the rhythmically tenacious antics of Get Wound Up. As De Renzi’s swings land with boisterous dexterity, sax and trumpet blaze away with suggestion and heat with Swasey all the while leaping across every strand of temptation with vocal agility. It is a song which dares you to get physically involved note by note, an invitation impossible to refuse in limb and energy before both are consumed all over again by the outstanding Nomads Of The Lost. With a swagger in its hips and confidence, the song saunters in with flirtatious infectiousness oozing from every note and syllable. Taunting riffs and sax teasing leads the way as vocals again ride the canter with their own irresistible persuasion, group calls another subsequent tempting impossible not to join as the chorus infests. Not for the last time, there are hints of bands like The Revillos and The Creeping Ivies to the devilry; bewitching essences in a captivation all of the Oh! Gunquit making.

Fireballs boogies in ears next with its garage rock psyche pop, its crescendo building surges a deceptive pleasure as they never erupt into a full-on blaze, just into the next cycle of irrepressible teasing for its own heat soaked orgasmic pleasure while Never Sorry plunders the decades for its psyche infesting rock ‘n’ roll, flirting with the inspirations of artists like the 5678’s and April March along the way. Both tracks are sheer addiction in the making though that equally applies to the whole of the album including the thicker boned Suzy Don’t Stop. The rhythmic bullying is raw feet temptation whilst the fire borne strains of guitar and brass are delicious toxins in the virulence of song and vocal exhortation.

The garage punk ‘n’ roll voodoo of Smiling Snake is a fifties bred, freshly re-animated thrill; a Wanda Jackson and Imelda May blended suggestion bound in the stringed imagination of Poison Ivy and quite irresistible though just as attention and lust is quickly stolen by it from its predecessor it is then lost to Walking The Streets which too has more than a rich spicing of The Cramps to its personality. Its creative stroll is manna to the passions and an unforgiving consumption of the hips, leading them to delirium soaked exhaustion. The track simply takes over body and spirit and take it from us just gets more potent and masterful with every groove woven outing.

Next up is Greasy Moves which, without credit on its press release or in any additional digital information sought so far, features guest vocals from someone which sounds inimitably like King Salami. The initial stomp of guitar and brass with rhythms swinging turns into a sweltering stroll of salacious suggestion, a primal dance which again has the ears and body locked into its blue kissed flirtation with no sign of resistance.

Finishing off the album with its own infernal devouring is Captain Of the Creeps; an incessant nagging of senses and limbs woven into a tapestry of iniquitous imagination and enterprise. It pretty much sums up all the attributes found across the whole of the unique rock ‘n’ roll contagion that is Lightning Likes Me, adding a few more of its own as the album leaves in rousing style though not for long as the urge to start the merciless party off again is king.

Last time around Oh! Gunquit gave us one of the best outings of the year this time it just might be the very best; there are few contenders to rival it for sure.

Lightning Likes Me is out now via Decapitator and Dirty Water Records https://ohgunquit.bandcamp.com/album/lightning-likes-me-lp-cd

https://www.facebook.com/ohgunquit/

Pete RingMaster 26/09/2017

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Suicide Generation – 1st Suicide

Basking in its own dirt and scuzz, the Suicide Generation sound is a fervid rush of trashy goodness which ensures the band’s new album is an unmissable treat for all fans of uncompromising rock ‘n’ roll. The bastard son from a salacious collusion between members of Atomic Suplex, The Cavemen, and Trash Culture, the London based punksters feverishly graze ears with a raw wash of garage punk/rock from start to finish within their debut full length 1st Suicide, sucker-punching the senses along the way with rapacious hooks which just worm into the psyche like a virus.

Supposedly coming together “to fill in for cancelled support slots across the Tuesday night London gigging circuit”, Suicide Generation has quickly become an eagerly devoured proposition on the capital’s live scene with their chaotic and explosive shows; their attack and intent as unpredictable as their sound. Recently linking up with Dirty Water Records, the band is now gunning for bigger attention with 1st Suicide, a release which swarms through ears like a plague of buzzsaw carrying harpies.

The album descends on ears with opener Suicide Generation first of all; one minute and a handful of seconds of clanging rock ‘n roll led by the exasperated tones of frontman Sebastian Melmoth. Every aspect of the track is as muggy as it is concussive but veined by intricate melodic acidity which winds seductively around the fuzzy antics of Emily Crowler’s rhythm guitar. It is a potent, enticing smog of sound swiftly out powered and shone by Why Can’t I Play With You. The second track needs mere seconds to lay down heavy seductive hooks within a similarly intensive weight of sound. A Cramps-esque hue smokes vocals and sound alike, Suicide Generation finding a gripping rawness which even their assumed inspirations would have eagerly embraced as the song flirts and dances with garage rock and punk irritability.

Set Me On Fire has a certain air of The Reatards to its similarly crotchety rock ‘n’ roll straight after, guitars scything across the senses as rhythms rumble with tenacious zeal, while Nora aligns a fifties smoulder with seventies punk waspishness for its individual stomp. Both tracks have the body and imagination eagerly throwing discord loaded shapes before London Blues strolls along with dirty blues punk falling like drooling saliva from every note and syllable. An open psychosis oozes through voice and music alike, its mercurial heart unpredictable and constantly in flux as it captivates and assaults the listener.

They are instantly involved with the brawling escapade of Love Is Hate straight after, the track a beguiling animus of sonic and emotional testiness enjoyably harassing the senses with the clamour of guitars and the spite of rhythms. It is a mix also fuelling next up Little Mama, the track resembling The Phantom basted in rock ‘n’ roll filth whilst sending the hips into an anxious frenzy.

That same instinctive primal sound infests Evil Everywhere and once again the band twists it into something distinct within the release and other propositions; the track a hyperactive dirt ball of sound and energy leading into the closing treat of You Love Me. Initially prowling ears with a devious glint in its creative eye, the band’s punk instincts soon ignites in a high-strung blaze of sonic causticity and wired verbal dexterity driven by rhythms which just seduce attention whether the track smoulders or roars.

1st Suicide is a collection of songs which just please themselves with a similarly arrogant creativity, in turn their brashness and swagger turning on ears and an ever keen appetite for unpolished rock ‘n’ roll. The Suicide Generation is here and openly ready to tear up your world.

1st Suicide is out now on Dirty Water Records @ https://suicidegeneration666.bandcamp.com/releases and http://www.dirtywaterrecords.co.uk/shop/#!/Suicide-Generation-First-Suicide-album-download/p/86922972/category=2749844

https://www.facebook.com/suicidegeneration666/

Pete RingMaster 12/07/2017

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

 

King Salami and the Cumberland 3 – Goin’ Back To Wurstville

If there is one band in this fast paced world which gives the body an even more intensive and thorough workout it is undoubtedly King Salami and the Cumberland 3. This is a band where an Automated External Defibrillator should always be on hand at every show they play, waiting and ready to revive the inevitable wasted bodies.  Now that need has been transferred to the band’s records. When playing all three of the band’s albums back to back, apart from a danger to health, it is a hard choice to say which is best, all in their openly individual ways an equal treat, but without doubt Goin’ Back To Wurstville is the most demanding and exciting for heart and limbs yet.

The new album from the Sultan of Sausage and his fellow creative rascals is a blur of incitement, a cavalcade of irresistible temptation for feet and hips. Each of its thirteen songs teases and infests the psyche, sharing groove woven rhythm & blues punk ‘n’ roll to lose all shades of sanity to. As ever, it is a busy time for the quartet; gigs coming up at a rate of knots across the globe before and even more so after their highlight performance on the BBC show The UK’s Best Part-Time Band last year. With the outfit in the middle of a UK tour right now and featuring in Roger Corman’s movie, Death Race 2050, you can be sure that Goin’ Back To Wurstville is only going to accelerate the demand on the boys and their riotous sound.

Featuring Spencer Evoy from fellow body contorters MFC Chicken and his salacious sax, Goin’ Back To Wurstville quickly gets down to business with Pineapple Mama, the song feeding off the album’s lively Intro with an initial bass groan and flames of fiery sax, they leading to an insistent romp of riffs and rhythms led by King Salami’s inevitable energy and vocal revelry. It is party time, the song swinging from the rafters with body enslaving grooves dangling their insatiable bait to further ensnare ears and limbs. Soul, r&b, rock ‘n’ roll and more excitable flavours all get involved in the multi-flavoured proposal, King Salami and co straight away feeding greedy hopes with a fresh new adventure.

The pugilistic rascality of Nosebleed Boogie is next, guitars and sax colluding in a devilish enticement of melodic theatre as King Salami uses Ali like vocal footwork to evade the rhythmic punches, his magnetic prowess like a blend of Bo Diddley and Little Walter before offering even feistier fun in the boisterous romp of Busy Body. An infection of spicy grooves and virulent riffs, the song ensures the listener is on the end of major manipulation echoing its title before the glorious adventure of King Ghidorah rises up from its oriental bed with sixties cinematic adventure fuelling its melodies and rhythms. With King Salami a dramatic narrator, T. Bone Sanchez’s grooves are a three headed tempting of flirtatious hookery, melodic seduction, and tenacious persuasion, theatre skirted by the addictive rhythmic rumble of bassist Kamikaze UT Vincent and drummer Eric Baconstrip.

There is no escaping the frisky intent of the following King Size Love, its rockabilly nurtured stroll manhandled by addiction shaping rhythms and coloured with more of the salacious enterprise which continually and artfully springs from the guitar of Sanchez across the album. Feet and hips are swiftly lost to the song’s shuffle, lungs already gasping for breath by this point within Goin’ Back To Wurstville but managing to find plenty more air for the blues strung jungle of She Was A Mau Mau and after that, the garage punk lined surf rock lit antics of No Stoppin’. The first of the two is a sweltering near on muggy affair for the heart whilst its successor is a blaze of instrumental rock ‘n’ roll which has the body at its most frenetically subservient in the hands of the album.

The treats just keep coming too; Tiger In My Tank keeps the listener moving like a puppet on tricky strings of rhythmic pestering and melodic misbehaviour, all urged on by the saucy blasts of sax and King Salami’s inexhaustible energy and spirited character.

Stutterin’ Sue leaps around with garage rock rapacity and raw captivation next while Camel Hop after that sees roving basslines and agitated beats stir up another voracious contagion of sound and spirit rousing enterprise, sultry Arabian scented  grooves winding around ears and appetite as rock ‘n’ roll rumbles in the belly of song and listener. Both tracks are an epidemic of temptation, unrelenting creative persistence more than matched by the Johnny Kidd and The Pirates hued Shiver which follows.

Concluded by the double diablerie of firstly the album’s dirt encrusted rock ‘n’ roll road trip going under its title track moniker and lastly the carnival of Latin summer fun that is Caramba!, the sensational Goin’ Back To Wurstville is bliss for ears and soul. With each of the King Salami and the Cumberland 3 releases we seem to offer nothing but lustful praise so with their third full-length we were determined to find something which might be suggested the band could improve upon. Quite simply we failed, though you know the band will still find something fresh and bolder next time and with regards to best album question, listening it as these fingers tap, yep Goin’ Back To Wurstville wins the debate.

Goin’ Back To Wurstville is out now on Dirty Waters Records @ http://www.dirtywaterrecords.co.uk/shop/#!/King-Salami-and-the-Cumberland-Three/c/2793708/offset=9&sort=normal

https://www.facebook.com/KingSalamiandtheCumberland3/

Pete RingMaster 22/03/2017

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

The Masonics – Obermann Rides Again

masonics_RingMasterReview

Giving an instinctive passion for rock ‘n’ roll as big a work out as hips and feet, UK rockers The Masonics recently uncaged their ninth album, Obermann Rides Again, offering fourteen slices of their feverishly distinctive and tenaciously addictive sound. The trio rock and rumble through their new proposal with more of the beat infected garage punk which has seen them become the leaders of the Medway Beat first instigated by Billy Childish. In saying that, it equally breathes and roars with freshness again bringing something new and inspiring to ears and the scene around them, and most of all raw zeal and excitement to the listener.

The band consists of vocalist/guitarist Mickey Hampshire who was in the Milkshakes in the early 80s with drummer Bruce Brand who had played alongside Childish a few years earlier in the Pop Rivets and bassist John Gibbs once of Scottish group, The Kaisers. As The Masonics, the threesome have persistently cemented their position as one of the heads of British garage rock/punk with a sound becoming one of the essential inspirations of the ever eager charge of the genre’s young pups.

Released by Dirty Water Records as a limited 500 copies editions ahead of a series of limited vinyl and download releases from The Masonics’ back catalogue, starting with Outside Looking In and a new singles compilation, Obermann Rides Again swiftly reveals why the stature of the band remains stately. It all starts with I Ain’t Hurting For You and a guitar twang which provides the spark for a strolling jangle and rhythmic incitement forcibly engaging ears. The magnetic vocals of Hampshire are soon adding their lure; the boisterous sounds around him echoing his honest unfussy delivery. Within a handful of seconds feet are physically involved, appetite and those instincts just as eagerly hooked before the excellent opener hands its pliable slave over to the even more energetically captivating and persuasive Don’t Torment Me. With a Bo Diddley like stomp at its heart, the track twists and turns in its relentlessly vigorous shuffle with rhythmic rowdiness and sonic vivacity its virulent fuel. Rock ‘n’ roll was never meant to be flamboyant or polished to clean-cut limpness and this superb roisterer and its dirty ways proves why.

art_RingMasterReviewYour Dangerous Mind has a less undisciplined bounce, its saunter more flirtation than aggression and just as irresistible as Hampshire with grainy texture croons, backed by his cohorts within tangy grooves and hip inciting rhythms. The r&b essences of the song are just as ripe as its brisk punk serenade, chaining a body and imagination which is soon firmly hooked again by the sultry rumba of I Don’t Understand Her Any More. As with most tracks, a collusion of decades is at masterful play, sixties garage pop and seventies surf rock hues potent spices as too the fuzzy buzz of organ in the gentle but keen canter of a song.

Rhythm ‘n’ blues dexterity becomes even wilder in next up You Don’t Have To Travel; the beat swinging, hook casting romp has a flush of King Salami and the Cumberland 3 to it,  a more mild-mannered but no less devilish cousin enjoying juicy melodies and the temptress vocal charms of Ludella Black alongside Hampshire. It also pushes the already keen diversity of sound within the album on again, as even more so does I’m The Unforgiver. The track is glorious, a dark rock ‘n’ roll saunter with Cajun spicing evocatively colouring attitude loaded vocals, the fiery shimmer of harmonica, and heavily loping rhythms. It infests ears and psyche like the mutant offspring from a dirty union between Th’ Legendary Shack Shakers and Ray Campi; quite simply it is garage punk to get truly lustful over.

The following and equally outstanding You’re A Stranger leaves body exhausted, senses punch drunk, and spirit ablaze next with its contagion loaded punk rock carrying a touch of The Mobbs to its rowdy exuberance while You Won’t See Me Again finds a predacious edge to its swinging, deviously catchy garage rock bred swagger.

Throughout the whole album, there is no escaping the physical manipulation of Brand’s nefarious beats or Gibbs infernal rhythms whilst Hampshire’s wiry melodies and jangling melodic hooks are trespasses more often than not breeding slavery. All are at bold play in the beat punctuated blues flamed I’m A Redacted Man and straight after in the smouldering fifties rock ‘n’ roll/sixties pop spun What Do You Do. A procrastinating stroll and anthem for lost love and its enslaving grief, the second’s raw seduction roars with soiled Walker Brothers like charm and salty melodic spicing reminding a little of The Birds.

Come On My Little Darlin’ bounces around like a dancehall ruffian after them, sonically tempting and rhythmically taunting as a mouth harp again seduces before You Gotta Tell Me shows its blues breeding with intoxicating hooks and intoxicated keys for a salacious slab of imposing but controlled rock ‘n roll. Both tracks continue the album’s appetite igniting prowess though both are quickly eclipsed by its closing pair.

The swinging country rock a-scented beat ‘n’ roll of The Unsignposted Road is sheer infectiousness with Black back courting ears alongside the band as one passion stoking hook persists and old school melodies flame. It is delicious to the ear but too is slightly shaded by the brilliance of the album’s title track bringing devilment to its exceptional close. Punk ‘n’ roll calling on the goodness of past decades, it stomps around and grips body and soul like The Pirates, both the Johnny Kidd and seventies eras, meeting Thee Headcoats as the likes of The Blue Cats spur them on; a glorious end to an equally stirring and enjoyable album.

As suggested earlier, The Masonics are the head boys of UK garage goodness and Obermann Rides Again is evidence they are in no mood to hand over that position.

Obermann Rides Again is out now on vinyl on the band’s own Grand Wazeau Records and digitally through Dirty Water Records and available @ https://themasonics.bandcamp.com/album/obermann-rides-again

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Pete RingMaster 05/03/2017

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