It is fair to say that psyche rockers Damn Vandals swiftly set themselves a place in British rock as one of the most exhilarating and promising propositions with their 2012 debut album, Done For Desire. It was an encounter drenched in originality and a feverishly diverse flavouring setting the band apart from most. To confirm and stretch all of its potency within a new mentally twisting maelstrom of psychotic goodness, the London band now unleash the senses infestation that is Rocket Out Of London. It is a glorious swagger of caustic abrasion and acidic ingenuity honed from a brawling incitement of garage punk, psyche and stoner rock, as well as a vein of raw punk, simply put demented rock ‘n’ roll at its most addictive.
As for a great many, our admittedly eager affair with Damn Vandals began with the release of their Beautiful Mind EP, a widely acclaimed encounter awakening attention and appetite for the potential and instantly impressive presence of the band. The release and subsequent songs though was only the taster for bigger and major things to come, Done For Desire thrusting the quartet to new levels and into a richer spotlight with its release. Uncompromising but with a contagion to its presence which works under the skin like a welcome niggling itch, the band’s sound has found a new depth and power to its virulence with the new release whilst still retaining the raw dark textures and unhinged threat which stirred up the passions so quickly upon their emergence. As evidenced by Rocket Out Of London, it has become a twisting intrusive beast which wraps with almost insidious intent around the ears, permeating every pore and synapse with an exhaustive toxicity which simply ignites the imagination and passions. Produced by Julian Simmons (Midlake, Ed Sheeran, Guillemots, Goldheart Assembly) as was its predecessor, the album takes the listener on a dirty and intimidatingly shadowed ride through explorations of themes such as celebrity stalking, hard liquor, death by dreams, madness and homeland security amongst many but ultimately just through the creative mad ingenuity of the band.
The album opens with the first single uncaged from its wonderful aural rapaciousness, Twist Up And Tangle. Released mid-March, the 
song laid down the strongest bait for the full-length and still holds its intensive grip with an epidemic bait of granite sculpted rhythmic punches and scything sonic swipes of guitar. From its first second the song is an inescapable cage for the senses and emotions, a scarring provocation soon given richer fuel by the ever distinct and voraciously delivered vocals of Jack Kansas. The track is swiftly into a predatory stride, prowling around the ears with a sonically slavering intensity from the guitar of Frank Pick and the dark throated voice of bass held in rein by Adam Kilemore Gardens but still adding commanding menace to the whole of the psychotic fare. It is a masterful and insatiable stalking driven by the magnetic beats of Chris Christianson, but one which with its spewing discord and melodic flames as well as corrosive hooks and breath, provides a raucous dance to shield the fact we are being preyed upon.
Like a mix of Fatima Mansions meets The Birthday Party, the opener alone wakes a hunger to which the following Cities Of A Plastic World adds its own imaginative virulence. The track opens with a rhythmic drama speared by a ridiculously contagious hook, its abrasing hot touch a niggling pleasure just hard to get enough of. Around its tempting Kansas again parades the song’s narrative with unbridled expression whilst the guitar of Pick continuously lights up new corners and adventures to court his primary enticement with skill and enterprise, the album easily his finest inventive and moment yet, as it is of the band itself. The track sculpts another immediate pinnacle in the impending lofty range of the album and is soon equalled by Too Lazy To Die Too Stoned To Live, a sultry stroll with a citrus edge to its grooves and melodic teasing. There is a definite lick of Queens Of The Stone Age initially and Eagles of Death Metal later to its constant erosive taste and hypnotic stance.
I Bring You Love which made up part of the earlier mentioned single keeps the album coursing potently through the body, its psychobilly/Cajun swamp-esque stomp with sliding toxic mesmerism and blues bred frisking irresistible. The track just gets better and more virulent with every crossing of its red-neck terrain with dirty violating rock ‘n’ roll scenery. With more than a feel of Screaming Blue Messiahs to it and always an essence of the previously mentioned Cathal Coughlan led band to the presence of Damn Vandals, the track is a delicious lingering antagonist to unreservedly submit to.
Both Number One Fan and Whisky Going Free provide a new mischief to fully devote attention and passions to, the first merging classic and incendiary garage rock for a rampaging stomp built upon the intensive frame work of Christianson, a cage again laced with riveting guitar revelry and craft. Its successor sidles boisterously up to the ears with tight sinews and deviously coaxing addictive grooves, the track a less expansive dark tango than say the last but with a no less leaner determination in its air and voice to seduce and inflame the passions, which it does with ease.
The following I Hate School hits the spot perfectly but lacks the spark of other tracks, a familiarity and somewhat predictable essence to its body slipping up against the surrounding triumphs. To put it into context though, with absorbing blues/psychedelically teased guitar invention from Pick and a certain unavoidable catchiness to its lure, the song still has feet and emotions fully engaged before next up Mad As Hell takes them on a similarly successful and potent ride, if again without quite matching earlier heady heights. The track rumbles and strolls with attitude and a thought immersing design all the same to keep the fire for the album burning eagerly.
The closing pair of tracks takes the release back to its highest plateaus, the first This Music Blows My Tiny Mind, another incitement with the stance of a predator and the drive of a volcanic eruption expelling sizzling melodic flames, searing hooks, and climactic rhythms building to a quite scintillating final drama. Its successor, the title track brings the album to a glorious closure, its addiction forging rhythmic slavery and scorching guitar endeavour an inescapable virulence guided as masterly as ever by the gripping tones of Kansas. Like a mix of QOTSA, Julian Cope, and Rocket From The Crypt, the track is a brilliant finale to a quite outstanding taking of the soul.
Rocket Over London with ease reveals that Damn Vandals is no longer the potential future of certainly raw British rock ‘n’ roll and garage punk but the template.
http://damnvandals.bandcamp.com/album/rocket-out-of-london
9.5/10
RingMaster 07/04/2014
Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright
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mischievous passion of the song reminds of another duo, The Black Frame Spectacle from Canada, though sound wise they are more rockabilly seeded. The song rampages with riffs and rhythms flailing in the hungry energy, from the very first second never relinquishing its feverish persuasion until the last heated note, even in the incendiary slow blues prowl midway. The vocals are as vibrant and slightly grizzled as the sound, a nice causticity stalking their surface fitting in perfectly with the fire bred hues of blues guitar in solo and rampant riffery.
out. The twin attack has total slavery of thoughts and emotions by the time Cecile and soaring guitar swipes join the affray. Into its stride the track is an adventurous punk tempest with broadly swinging rhythms and raging guitar causticity bringing a mix of The Duel and The Creepshow to the rampancy. It is one of those encounters where feet and personal exploits are no longer yours to command, a criminally addictive rampage impossible to get enough of.
in tow as well as a rub of riffs and the joining tub thumping beats of Duncan. Immediately enticing in its noir lit breath and grazing ambience, the track pulsates as it worms its way under the skin laying irresistible bait for the entrance of Becca’s vocals. As ever her voice holds a definite Wanda Jackson meets Siouxsie Sioux texture and magnetism to it, intensity in her delivery searing flesh and air as she and the song hit their stride. With an addiction spawning groove and the delicious occasional blaze of harmonica from guest Homesick Aldo, the track takes little time to secure full submission for its tempting whilst showing the evolution in sound and songwriting maturity poised to consume the senses in hand with the expected sonic feverishness of the band.
track which fires up the energy of album and listener with its mix of groove and thrash metal within a juggernaut of rock ‘n’ roll voraciousness. The track rampages down the ears highway igniting imagination and emotions before departing for the following title track. From the first of expected film samples which has always coloured the band’s releases, a ravenous groove breaks free from within a blaze of riffs and thumping rhythms. It is irresistible toxic bait from which the band swings their hooks and infectious chorus to predictably irresistible effect. It is fair to say there is not many bands who can breed the virulence to their barbs and calls as the Phoenix threesome and no chance that the band will lose their lethal touch, as proven by the second track. Again there is a broader hard rock stroke to the song without removing itself from the masterful walls of psychobilly and horror rock.
thrusting the song forcibly and magnetically upon the senses. It is a scarring introduction which is soon riled up further by the excellent distinctive tones of Jack Kansas, his delivery as ever rigorously expressive and voraciously attention grabbing, much like the surrounding sounds. Soon into its sinew flexing stride, the track is prowling and bruising with every swerve and leap of its caustic dance. The track is a predator, but one offering rich infectious bait which seduces and romances the primal instincts within. The guitar of Frank Pick alone is sheer magnetism, his cutting riffs and sonic toxicity right through to a synapse scorching solo insatiably addictive and matched in aural kind by the throaty rapacious tones of Adam Kilemore Gardens’ bass and the wickedly intrusive rhythms of drummer Chris Christianson, not forgetting the persistent vocal devilry of Kansas. Like Fatima Mansions meets The Birthday Party at a demonically cast liquor orgy, the song is one of those corruptive pleasures which sets the heart and year ablaze.
heavy bass sound move in to increase the enticement. It is not a fiery or dramatic start but rigidly compelling with a lure which increases as its intensity raises degree by degree and the great vocals of Spunk, aided by a strong backup from Chris and Ste across the release, start working on thoughts with an emotive narrative which again can be said to be a step away from the attack found with the day job. With a brew of hooks working independently and in tandem with each other and a dark menace to the rhythmic pressing, the song is a magnetic trampling through the ears and into the passions and the irresistible appetiser to even greater glories.
The rawer sound of the previous song is increased with a defiant nastiness and belligerence on the final song Superior Brain Damage. It has a harsher combative breath than its predecessors but does not short change on wonderfully toxic entrapping hooks and lung sapping energy. It is a towering conclusion to an outstanding explosion of the finest punk ‘n’ roll sculpting and the start of something which in the future could rival its creator’s main band in appeal and success. Released via STP Records on the first day of February and followed soon after by a five date UK tour, the EP thrusts Spunk Volcano & The Eruptions to instant ‘stardom’. To be honest using Dirt Box Disco as a reference brought assumptions that the EP would be something special, but it is nice to be proved right before being shown an even more impressive triumph which surely only those deaf or dead souls will ignore.
up on the ear with honest unfussy rock riffs and a tempting if familiar hook. The vocals of Armand ‘croon’ in a pleasing if expected style whilst the group clad anthemic chorus soon has the voice joining the already engaged feet in the simple yet infectious opener. It is a song you know before you have heard it but still makes for a satisfying introduction which sets down the template for the upcoming party.
single takes little prompting to seize ears and attention as El Santo Vs. Los Vitaminas flies at the imagination with its Mexican wrestling tale and challenge, the bruising intensive bass of Swift instantly pressurising the senses alongside the coarse and acidic riffs of Phillips. It is an incendiary engagement from the first note spiked by the punchy raps of Baldwin which has little difficulty in exciting ears and emotions. The vocals of Phillips backed by great band garage punk harmonies are as equally discord and scuzz coated as the sounds around them , the result a song which has a Stooges like punk blaze to its breath and Led Zeppelin seeded sinew to its hunger.