Nosebleed – Scratching Circles On The Dancefloor

The last four years has seen British trio, Nosebleed establish and declare their voracious presence on the UK live scene; time which equally has seen their sound honed and reputation built, it all leading up to the moment they launch themselves at nationwide recognition. That time is now with the release of their debut album, Scratching Circles On The Dancefloor. It is a brief but relentless stomp of garage punk nurtured devilry allowing no time for a breath but giving a wealth of insatiable moments to breed instinctive lust for.

Thirteen virulent songs over twenty and a small handful of minutes, Scratching Circles On The Dancefloor flies from the speakers flinging song to song hooks like confetti and springing inventive twists like a mad professor. It is a rock ‘n’ roll dervish but with a devious control and scheme which sees feet, hips, and the imagination merciless to its manipulation.

Recorded live across one weekend alongside producer Andy Hawkins (Hawk Eyes, The Pigeon Detectives), Scratching Circles on the Dancefloor sets its intent with its first lungful of breaths. The initial guitar lure of opener I’m Okay wags an inviting finger before being quickly joined by hungry rhythms and the vocal mischief of guitarist Eliott Verity and bassist Ben Hannah. For fifty odd seconds the song rigorously hops around, Dicky Riddims’ beats setting the tone for the punk infested romp.

As the excellent start lays its last jab, its successor I’m Shaking is in the starting blocks, loco grooves teasing away as the track bursts into manic life. As rhythms pounce and hooks infest, the song sinks its mania into the imagination like a fusion of King salami and The Mobbs; teasing and fingering the psyche with its viral appetite and character. Superb does not quite cut its magnificence; a height of bliss eagerly backed by the addictive antics of Time And Time Again which quickly entangles the listener in its swinging grooves and excitable rhythms.

The voracious design of the album simply continues with the next pair of Wrong and Start Again. Not for the first or last time across the album, there is a whiff of seventies punk band The Cortinas especially in the first of these two with its sharp almost spiky hooks and instinctive catchiness while the second uncages a riot of bullish rock ‘n’ roll as punk as it is fifties scented honed into another irresistible and individual Nosebleed infestation.

As soon as the rhythmic rumble of Everybody breaks the momentary silence between songs, body and greed was sparked here; the track trapping an easy submission with its web of grooves and hooks let alone vocal incitement while Slow Down does the complete opposite as it had hips swinging and limbs flying with its dirt stained rock ‘n’ roll. Both tracks not only get under the skin but deep into the blood taking over spirit and soul simultaneously yet still get outshone by Scratching Circles. Like a puppeteer, the song dictated movement and energy; its Stones kissed heat and tenacious enterprise delicious spice in its creative irritancy and riveting manipulation.

Can’t Stay Here harasses like a child which will not take no for an answer to what it wants, the song bouncing around with its eyes firmly on the prize before Psycho grabs best track honours with its psychobilly hued rascality. Like the bad kid your mother warned you to stay away from, the track leads to wicked habits and salacious antics and boy does it reward for going astray.

A sixties garage rock hue lines the attitude soaked Kick Me When I’m Down next; swinging grooves and agitated rhythms gripping attention from its first touch, flames of melodic seduction from the guitar adding to its rich lure while I Can’t Tell You Anything creates a maze of hooks and grooves impossible to escape from, not that you will want to; an intent which is seeded in the album’s first note and only intensified thereon in.

It all comes to a close with What You Have Done, a ravenous collusion of grumbling filth lined bass, intrusive beats, and predacious riffs all linked by the band’s persistently anthemic vocals. It too has rockabilly/psychobilly infested fuel to its roar as well as a mouth-watering Misfits seeded glaze bringing the album to a close in majestic but certainly rampantly salacious style.

There are encounters which just inflame the individual instincts of us all, Scratching Circles On The Dancefloor is one for us, a release leading us to drooling ardour. We will not be alone as quite simply the album is a garage punk classic, indeed a rock ‘n’ roll masterclass from a band surely about to take national attention by the scruff of its neck.

Scratching Circles On The Dancefloor is out now through TNS Records and available @ https://tnsrecords.bandcamp.com/album/scratching-circles-on-the-dancefloor

https://www.facebook.com/nosebleedband/

Pete RingMaster 11/04/2018

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

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

https://www.facebook.com/themasonics/

Pete RingMaster 05/03/2017

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Atomic Suplex – Fourteen Inches of Fist

Atomicsupplex_RingMaster Review

Great rock ‘n’ roll always benefits from a good dose of creative dementia in its devilry and you get plenty of that and more in the bedlam that is Fourteen Inches of Fist. The new album from London quartet Atomic Suplex is nonstop ingenious lunacy, a dangerous riot for body and soul, and quite brilliant.

The UK quartet has been stirring up sonic trouble for a number of years now, earning increasing acclaim with every release and a reputation as one ferociously exciting and uncompromising band live. Stages across the UK and Europe, as well as Asia, have been shared with the likes of The Hives, Guitar Wolf, The Gories, The Adolescents, Nobunny, The Kids, Jet Boys, Armitage Shanks, Richard Herring, The Spits, The Fat White Family, The Buzzcocks, Theee Bat amongst many more whilst singles and EP’s over time, and certainly acclaimed 2010 debut album Bathroom Party on Crypt Records, have marked the band out as a must investigation for a growing horde of fans. Now it is Fourteen Inches of Fist raising a storm since its recent release, and declaring Atomic Suplex as not a must but the essential riot for all rock ‘n’ roll fans.

Sound and album is garage rock, punk rock, noise rock…any kind of dirty, insatiable rock ‘n’ roll you can think of and a torrent of fun from its first to last breath. One Man Party kicks things off with the announcement “When I say I’m a dick, you best believe I’m a dick! D- I- K.” It sets the aggressive belligerent tone which rousingly fuels the whole album, and a song which is soon erupting into a salaciously tenacious slab of punk ‘n’ roll driven by the rousing tones of Jim Suplex. A sonic web of noise is soon grasping ears through his and Emma Leaning’s guitars whilst a gloriously throaty bass sound is conjured by Dan Suplex amidst the wicked swipes of drummer JD Kickdrum. The track is pure attitude, like early Damned merging with The Sonics, and instant slavery.

The album’s title track comes next, it too a concussive explosion of sound but this time infusing honky-tonk piano, blues rock spicing, and garage rock ‘n roll devilry into its mix of raw sixties and seventies rock ‘n’ roll. Flames of brass only add to the theatre of the muggy scenery as too the gritty backing vocals of Emma behind Jim’s raw incitement. As its predecessor, the track has ears and appetite lustful, a success 14 Inches of Fist relentlessly achieves from first song to last.

Cover_RingMaster Review   Set It On Fire has limbs scything through air next with seventies punk antagonism meets psych rock contagion, its guitars and brass a resourceful scorching, whilst Wild Love invites naughty deeds with a Rocket From the Crypt meets Dick Venom and the Terrortones infestation of sound. Both tracks are ridiculously compelling persuasive yet find themselves outshine by the outstanding Firing Line. The song is manna for the ears and heart, its Mighty Mighty Bosstones like opening alone igniting the instincts to party before rhythms provide a jungle of unstoppable temptation frequented by wonderful squirts of sax. They develop into subsequent deranged toxicity further in, colluding with a just as rigorously arousing web of guitar and bass enterprise. As ever like a side show barker, Jim adds his vocal stirring to the mix for one slice of irreverent creative alchemy.

Fifties inspired and seventies coloured rock ’n’ roll gets the Atomic Suplex corruption next, the raw and caustic devilment of S. U. P. L. E. X. a tempest of sonic and vocal raucousness pierced by melodic bait and fiery hooks. It is less than a minute and a half of catchy mayhem before Two Girls flirts like a punk incarnation of The Shangri-las tutored by The Rezillos. As all songs though, air is raw, sound scuzzy, and the encounter as abrasive as it is virulent, and again thrilling.

   J.D. Attack pounds the senses like the bastard son of a Showaddywaddy and Reverend Horton Heat union, its thumping rhythms and heavyweight brawl of sound one party you know would welcome gate crashers with devilish relish whilst the corrosively scarring Ass Tecnica is noise punk knavery which, as in the previous song, twists anything from surf and r&b to garage rock into its ravenous bellow. The pair unsurprisingly leave exhaustion and exhilaration in their wake, as too the eighteen second punk assault of No Pain No Gain, a song more than backing up its title.

Like The Cramps meets The Mobbs, You’ve Got Some Nerve has the body throwing moves hips were surely not made for across its forty odd seconds, a wonderful physical test followed by some respite through the hex that is Pancho. Sultry sax caresses ears initially though in no time it is joined by a wall of sonic intrigue and adventure which has a whiff of Oh! Gunquit to it. Continuing to spill funky hooks, searing grooves, and a garage bred invention; the song is as psychotic as it is clear infection, and another pinnacle of a very lofty landscape to Fourteen Inches of Fist.

Chicken Rich is a ragtime hued haunt seeded in the past which descends into anarchy the further its nostalgia persists whilst closing track White Shoes is quite simply incendiary rock ‘n’ roll which manages to spin a tapestry suggesting everyone from Billy Haley to The Cramps, King Salami and The Cumberland 3 to Turbonegro, and Screaming Jay Hawkins to Johnny Thunders within its epidemic of unbridled energy and senses inflaming rock ‘n’ roll.

Fourteen Inches of Fist is one of the best real and organic rock ‘n’ roll album this year and of a few before, maybe the best, and Atomic Suplex the one band you were meant to lose your sanity with.

Fourteen Inches of Fist is available now via Dirty Water Records on 12” vinyl, CD, and digitally.

RingMaster 25/08/2015

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

http://www.zykotika.com/

Oh! Gunquit – Eat Yuppies and Dance

IMG_9819

Time to meet your new favourite band and album, and the beginning of frequent visits to hospital A&E because of the twisted rhythmic effect on the body and the deranged dance-floor tempting offered. The culprits are UK provocateurs Oh! Gunquit and debut album Eat Yuppies and Dance. With more agitated rhythms than found in a Cardiothoracic unit entangled in a web of virulent contagion built on salacious grooves and naughtily flirtatious temptation, the band’s sound is pure irrepressible addiction. Hints of their devilish practices have been unveiled for quite a while by singles, videos, and an acclaimed live presence, but with Eat Yuppies and Dance, the London based quintet has just infected the world with their finest moment yet.

With a sound presumably self-tagged as rumble-bop trash freak-a-billy, and you have to say it fits perfectly, Oh! Gunquit has its seeds in a meeting between neighbours Tina Swasey and Simon Wild at a North London vinyl-only sweaty cellar club DJ night. Apparently from an energetic pogo competition the pair decided to form a band based on their mutual love of wild garage punk, exotica, raw rhythm ’n’ blues, and surf-trash. This was 2011 and since then the band they subsequently formed has become an eagerly devoured proposition across shows and festivals which have seen them playing with the likes of Black Lips producer King Khan with his Shrines, Fat White Family, Public Service Broadcasting, Andrew Weatherall, and Keb Darge amongst many. One gig even saw Adam Ant make a “crazed” impromptu stage invasion whilst radio has been just as hungry for their songs. This has all been backed by a pair of limited edition and self-released seven inch vinyl singles and tantalising videos to match. Now with Dirty Water Records, the band has uncaged their greatest bait of sound and devilment yet to seduce and enslave towns, nations, and the world.

Front Cover 2 flat (1)     With a line-up completed by Kieran, VV, and Alex, Oh! Gunquit equip Eat Yuppies and Dance with a torrential revelry which can fall into anything from psyche rock and pop to garage and punk rock, and on again to rockabilly and surf rock and that is still only part of the full musical stomp which starts with opener Sinkhole. The resonating slightly tinny beats which accost and incite ears from the first breath of the song are the sign of things to come, their anthemic lure having one single aim with their actions, to ignite body and emotions. Vocals jump in swiftly with the same impact before the song slips into a sultry groove woven caress of surf temptation over a vivacious garage rock canvas. The voice of Denver bred Tina brings an enticing tang to the exploit as does the acidic kiss of guitar enterprise which flames across the encounter, everything combining for a potent and lively start to the album.

It is an opening quickly over shadowed by the brilliant Head Bites Tail, an exhausting tapestry of dark pop and fiery rock ‘n’ roll best described as The B-52s meets The Cramps whilst being filtered through the warped funk voracity of Rip Rig & Panic. Brass seduces with unbridled toxicity across the song whilst rhythmically it is as busy and inescapable as the first seconds after doors open on a Black Friday high street sale. The vocals are equally as volatile and excitable in quite simply one quite exhilarating proposition.

Sixties beat lined and blues hued Caves strolls in next, its suggestive swagger as tempting as anything cast by your favourite temptress. Once more there is a great tinge of B-52s to the exceptional enslavement but to that there are additional essences of garage punk bands like The Orson Family, the bluesy seducing of a My Baby, and the garage pop escapade of The 5.6.7.8’s in the mix. The song is pure aural sex but as becomes a habit with Eat Yuppies and Dance as soon as you think the band has hit a pinnacle they come up with an even more deviously addicted treat, in this case Bad, Bad, Milk. Vocally and musically insatiable, the track is sheer addiction from the first flying syllable and rhythmic swipe to its final infection loaded spark. Everything from the chin down is in rapid union with the merciless stomp, every beat, groove, and flame of brass simply Class ‘A’ addictiveness to which vocals and melodically mischievous hooks are the ringleaders.

     The fuzzy sax hazed, seventies psyche pop dance of Hope In Hell provides another new colour to the diversity of the album, before Pony Boy brings a rockabilly/fifties rock ‘n’ roll tenacity to its garage punk shuffle to ignite ears all over again. Think Imelda May meets The Horse Party and you get a whisper of its epidemic of sound and persuasion, again Eat Yuppies and Dance stretching its creative landscape.

Into The Woods visits a bluesy backwater scenery in the imagination next, rock ‘n’ roll keys a la Fats Domino, luring excitedly from within the sweltering but inviting climate of the song. A great merger of fifties and modern rock pop, the song flirts and dances with ears and emotions until making way for bubbly rock ‘n’ roll of I Need Help Now. As its predecessor, the song casts a spell on body and vocal chords whilst creating a new twist of dark pop adventure within ears and album, at times skipping along like a predatory version of The Shangri-Las in a fiery entanglement with Cradle.

All the big irresistible rhythms and anarchic incitements are out for Voodoo Meatshake, their rabid seducing matched by brass and vocals which in turn are bound by searing grooves and a suggestive stroking by keys. It is an explosion of lustful sounds and rousing energies, one of those feel good assaults on the senses which have you exhausted and bloated with pleasure. The same applies to closing song Lights Out; a rhythm ‘n’ blues romp leaping around fondling the passions like a mix of The Revillos and King Salami and the Cumberland 3. It is a glorious slice of sonic diablerie, a mouth-watering hex on feet and passions bringing the similarly sorcerous Eat Yuppies and Dance to a dramatic and thrilling end.

There is no remedy to the potency and create toxins of Oh! Gunquit’s sound, just more lust emerging with every listen of their brilliant first album.

Eat Yuppies and Dance is available now via Dirty Water Records @ http://www.dirtywaterrecords.co.uk/shop/#!/Oh-Gunquit-Eat-Yuppies-and-Dance-CD/p/47051183/category=2749844 and https://ohgunquit.bandcamp.com/album/eat-yuppies-and-dance

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

RingMaster 02/05/2015

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Listen to the best independent music and artists on The RingMaster Review Radio Show and The Bone Orchard on Reputation Radio @ http://www.reputationradio.net

The Mobbs – Garage Punk For Boys

Photo 2

Ever wondered what would happen when you mixed ’77 bred punk rock with garage rock? UK rockers The Mobbs obviously did and with additional doses of sixties beat and R&B have crafted a sound which insatiably infests body and soul. In the mischievous shape of their third album Garage Punk For Boys, this adventure it is fair to say also provides one of the releases of the year. The accompanying promo sheet for the album suggests that “The Mobbs play a Wilko Johnson infused Billy Childish explosion”, an accurately pungent description of their sound but to that we would add the unreserved devilry of Radio Stars, the raw charm of Television Personalities, and the bracing fever of Thee Exciters in its armoury. The concoction is a riveting and exhilarating stomp with a hunger as shown by Garage Punk For Boys, which infects the listener from head to toe.

Formed in 2008, the trio from Northampton has persistently lit up stages, earning a rich reputation for energy strewn live performances, a stirring presence backed up and spread further by their greedily received full-length It’s… The Mobbs of 2011 and its acclaimed successor Stiff Upper Lip & Trousers To Match last year. With a couple of singles equally stirring the passions, the band has been a live spark in the European garage rock scene, though it is easy to expect Garage Punk For Boys being the trigger to a far more ferocious spotlight upon the inimitable uniqueness of The Mobbs.

The trio of vocalist/guitarist Joe B. Humbled, drummer Cheadle, and bassist The Bishop, who is making his recording debut with the band on the album, unleash an instantly grabbing eighteen second punk brawl through Gpfb to set GPFB-FRONT-COVERthings off, following it with the magnetic grooving of Get Your Hair Cut. Bass and guitar cast the first spicy lure on the second track, before snipping scissors unlock a feisty stomp littered with a wholly seductive bassline and similarly alluring hooks. Matching the devilment of the sounds, Humbled incites ears and imagination with his raw and unfussy delivery, a boisterous and infectious enticing to misbehave or conform depending how you want to take the exceptional track.

Its bewitching bounce is followed by the tangy presence of I Am the Anticlimax, clanging riffs an easy enslavement from the first breath. With The Bishop adding another delicious velvety tempting on the bass within the crisp rhythms of Cheadle, the track entwines beat and vintage punk rock, kind of like The Rockin’ Vickers meets Leyton Buzzards. Striding with attitude and sonic enterprise, the song is an instant anthem, as so much of the album, an almost concussive and certainly inescapable treat whipped up by scything guitar and punchy rhythmic enterprise, everything lorded over by the compelling tones of Humbled.

Do the Bishop! comes next and is just the wickedest instrumental baiting possible. The skills of The Bishop seduce and rumble throughout whilst Humbled’s guitar launches its own virulent seducing as Cheadle smashes anything in arms-length resourcefully. With a tang of blues sweetness to its epidemic waltz, the song sets up further hunger in the appetite for the album before making way for the melodic causticity and intriguing narrative of Demobbed. The track is primarily garage rock but at times you can almost swear there is an element of The Undertones in its slim but impossibly potent sonic endeavour.

The hungrily vivacious ride of the album is taken to another level with We Don’t Need a God, a brilliant furnace of searing grooves and greedy hooks ridden by the punk honesty of the vocals. It is pure addictiveness, every twist and tenacious slither of bait soaked in infectiousness and anthemic irreverence, leaving feet, body, and soul blissfully exhausted and thoughts rebellious. Imagine The Masonics flirting voraciously with The Adicts and you get not only the heart of the song but arguably of the whole release.

The title track is next, romping with ears and nostalgia through jabbing beats and jangly hooks, its title summing up song, sound, and the whole garage premise which fuelled punk and garage rock at their outsets. It also has thrilling melodic warmth to its gentle uprising, everything aligning for an irresistible rousing of pleasure, taken on again by the blink and you miss shortness of second instrumental Chicken Run. Its enticing strut is swiftly pushed aside by the exceptional sonic commentary of Where’s the Punk Rock!?, angst and fury as much a part of its gripping clang and garage punk fever as creative relish.

Photo 1   It is not exaggerating to say that every song on Garage Punk for Boys is devious rascality, all instinctively and simultaneously appealing to the styles it weaves its propositions from, One Erotic Thought another fine example with its sixties spawned beat infused garage rock tromp. As here, they all keep feet and limbs as busy as ears and imagination, and whilst thoughts may not be erotic as the song reveals of itself, they are nevertheless keen to indulge in knavish practices after each encounter.

Put It in Your Pipe clunks and swings in next, riffs bulky lures courted by compelling bass craft and vocal devilment, everything framed by precise and eagerly wicked beats. Stepping out with a punk seeded swagger, the track also wears the mischief breeding charm and adventure of King Salami and the Cumberland 3 and the aforementioned Billy Childish, drawing out more lust for the album from the passions.

The final stretch sees the blues rock induced R&B stamp of Just as Bad as You light up air and ears first before the exotic swing of Mk II immerses senses and imagination in a sultry dance of the seven salacious temptresses, well in my dreams anyway. Both songs leave appetite as greedy as ever whilst closing riot of Mad! is an aggressively spirited and ferociously contagious garage punk assault, and oh so scintillating.

It is impossible not to drool from start to finish over Garage Punk for Boys, a release which if anything from punk to garage rock, beat to flirty rock ‘n’ roll gets the juices flowing, is a must. The thing with The Mobbs is they not only create sensational stomps but do it with a presence and flavour like no other, this simply makes them one of the UKs seriously exciting and innovative bands.

Garage Punk for Boys is available digitally and on CD now via Cravat Records @ http://themobbsuk.bandcamp.com/album/garage-punk-for-boys

http://www.themobbs.co.uk/

RingMaster 21/11/2014

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Listen to the best independent music and artists on The RingMaster Review Radio Show and The Bone Orchard from

http://audioburger247.webs.com/