Threatmantics – Shadow On Your Heart

As we have suggested before, originality can be found in numerously various places within music but uniqueness is more of a holy grail as each decade passes. One band which radiates the latter is Welsh outfit Threatmantics; well certainly their third album, Shadow On Your Heart deserves that declaration and as frustratingly it is our own introduction to the Cardiff quartet we will eagerly generally tag them with it too.

Like mischievous troubadours, Threatmantics weave tales and musical adventures with a fusion of art and folk rock; though that alone only hints at the essences which make up their deviously tantalising sound. It is a proposition which embraces the hues of bands such as The Cardiacs, XTC, This Heat, Mr Bungle and Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci in various ways and places throughout Shadow On Your Heart but essences only spicing the band’s hard to pin down music and imagination.

Recorded with French producer Anne-Sophie Ouvrier, Shadow On Your Heart opens up the theatre within with it’s title track; initially tempting with snarly riffs before breaking into a smiling melodic saunter. Those few seconds alone had ears fully intrigued and attentive, the viola of Heddwyn Davies a summery lead alongside the earthier moves of Gareth Middleton’s bass and the crystal touch of Andrew Rhys Lewis’ guitar. Davies’ vocals are just as magnetic with their bard-esque character, a swing to their lilt matching that of the outstanding start to the album.

First Things is next up and just as much a tease of musical lures from its first breath; viola and rhythms colluding in instinctive temptation before vocals bring their own invitation to the immediately infectious brew. With a controlled but rousing burst of chorus and unpredictability in every move and twist in its drama, the song is aural devilment led by the equally catchy swinging beats of Huw Alun Davies. Echoes of Zanti Misfitz and The Cardiacs shimmer within the riveting encounter before Now You Are Gone reveals its own individual magnificence. Middleton’s bass is a delicious grumble, the guitar of Lewis sonic nectar while the vocals of Davies just recruit participation in the virulent saunter.

Who Is Afraid Of Patrick Wolf? is folk encrusted rock ‘n’ roll so easy to be enslaved by; a Horslips like scenting adding to its indie natured entangling of ears and appetite while Cold Warts darkly serenades with a Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci flavoured breath. Both tracks were as irresistible as those before, the second of the two adding Cardiacs meets post punk ingenuity to its kaleidoscope of multi-decade sourced antics.

The band’s new single follows, Dangos Dy Ddannedd a darkly lit seducing with volatility in its belly and melodic bedlam in its instincts. Increasingly intensifying in fever and pandemonium, it makes way for the McLusky natured mayhem of Krystal Pystol. A rousing ruckus of punk infused noise it in turn breaks from the speakers to allow the calmer breath and charm of Under The Sun to caress the senses. A rugged stomp emerges from its slightly disturbed tranquillity to manipulate and escalate an already in place satisfaction with the song’s exploits.

The album closes with the impish folk ‘n roll of Mother Folker From Hell, a song alone showing the array of flavours employed in the Threatmantics imagination and lastly the sludge thick chunter and feral crawl of Little Johnny. Imagine the mutant offspring of 12 Stone Toddler and Melvins and you get a sense of the sublime end to one glorious album.

Like us for us there may be many to whom Threatmantics is an undiscovered thrill so we suggest making Shadow On Your Heart the moment the rapture begins.

Shadow On Your Heart is out now through Ffatbyrg Records @ digitally and on 12” vinyl, with a limited edition, numbered run of hand printed covers by acclaimed Welsh artist John Abell.

Pete RingMaster 05/03/2019

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

Frau Pouch – Fairymares


I am sure we were not alone in eagerly anticipating a first album from British no wave post-punks  Frau Pouch. They are a band which captured and ignited our imagination on our introduction to them in a split release with fellow Kent outfit Houdini back in 2012. Their sound is a sonically and creatively gurning fusion of post and garage punk with other feverish forms of wonderfully irritable and imaginatively twisted rock ‘n’ roll. Each release, since that first meeting, has seen the Medway trio stretch, twist, and inject their imagination with new creative psychoses, nurturing their most irresistible outcome yet in debut album Fairymares.

Released via Skingasm Records and recorded with Greg Webster of Houdini/ Punching Swans, Fairymares is warped manna for the ears especially if they have been nurtured on a diet of post punk seeded bands such as The Fall, Pere Ubu, and The Victorian English Gentlemens Club. The album swiftly enforces the fact that Frau Pouch has its own sound though, even with essences reminding of others, it stands boldly unique and creatively salacious to the threesome of vocalist/guitarist Joe Wise(also of Punching Swans), bassist Ollie Crook, and drummer Suzanne Freeman.

As previous tracks and the All Hail Space Chicken EP before it, Fairymares swiftly entangles ears in a web of sound and invention, opening up with the band’s lust breeding single of last year Biscuit Beard. From the glorious carnivorously natured, bestial toned growl of Crook’s bassline setting things off, the track infests body and soul. Wise’s riffs are just as carnal in touch and sound, his flowing grooves equally rapacious as Freeman’s controlled swings punch further subservience to the song’s call on an instantly lustful appetite. The track is pure addiction, its Gang Of Four soiled rhythmic tempting alone irresistible and the wiry web of sonic endeavour and vocal nagging Mekons like.

It is just the start of the album’s insane grooving and rhythmic baiting with the following Dracula Pukes revealing its own nest of creative vipers as cutting scythes of guitar and punch happy rhythms challenge and enthral for a mere fifty seven seconds; a gripping minute of cantankerous confrontation leading to the virulently infectious stroll of Ham Planet. Like Pere Ubu on steroids as Turbogeist writhes under the punk influence of The Fall, the track dances with pop infused boisterousness though every swinging movement of its creative hips comes with seductive venomous intent as Wise declares his vocal desires.

The exceptional Burn Baby keeps the lust hungrily burning next, its lo-fi canvas a tangle of steely petulant grooves, intimately flirtatious beats, and crabby bass groans as vocals install their own brand of psyche trespassing persuasion. It is aural corruption leaving a lingering touch though Witch Fingers straight after soon steals all attention. With we assume Freeman taking vocal lead, the track is like a demented fusion of Daisy Chainsaw and The Fire Engines, off kilter toxic melody and dancing vocals uniting in an adult nursery rhyme like trespass of sanity.

Ghost Fire offers its own cranky invention, stabbing riffs and sonic vining shadowing Wise’s compelling stabbing vocals as another gloriously testy and intrusive bassline sparks feverish submission across its single minute before the repetitive prowess of Erotic Clocks has ears tempted hook, line, and sinker. With a slight whiff of Spizzenergi to it, the track is another sure fire infestation of body and psyche with its rhythmic nag and caustic expulsions.

With seductive danger to its cartoonish and creative loco, Gotham Piper lures the listener in next, continuing to lay a certifiable creative hand on the senses before intermittently uncaging its inner meshuga in ferocious style. The Cardiacs comes to mind within the thrilling encounter, Mark E. Smith and co even more so in successor Cat Curfew though once more as Wise lords over his own weave of sonic wiring and the rhythmic union of Crook and Freeman, Frau Pouch imprint only their own uniqueness.

Sleepstalker completes the line-up of treats, its sombre yet vibrantly magnetic fingering of the senses the stuff of nightmares; Crooks’ grievous bassline the stalker, Freeman’s beats the trap, and Wise in voice and sonic intrusion the swamp impossible to escape from. They are all delicious ingredients in a thrilling end to not only the best thing to come from Frau Pouch but potentially 2017 as a whole.

Fairymares is released 27th January via Skingasm Records.

Pete RingMaster 24/01/2017

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

The Fat Dukes Of Fuck: Honey From The Lips Of An Angel

The creators of new album Honey From The Lips Of An Angel is a band revelling in subtlety and warm tender moments to fill the heart with emotion and reassurance… yeah and we always wear pink tutus and Doc Martens when reviewing music. Well the latter might have some truth to its but one thing you can never accuse The Fat Dukes Of Fuck of being is sensitive or worried about appearing PC. You can though throw accusations of creating riotously fun, fully infectious, quality dirty rock n roll at the band and they will stick firmly.  Honey From The Lips Of An Angel is a glorious and irreverent slap around the senses brought with mightily addictive sounds and a mischievousness which only pulls one willingly and eagerly into its heart.

The album is an aggressive crash upon the senses brought through an excellent brew of punk, metal, and filth lined rock n roll. The tracks rampage through and toy with the ear like a riot instigated by the combined aural profanity of Suicidal Tendencies, Trucker Diablo, The Damned, Clutch, ZZ Top and the Melvins. You can add some early Beastie Boys and Sabbath too, their sound expansive in invention and contagious in its recognisable seeds and maniacal interpretation. The Fat Dukes Of Fuck is a band where having fun and taking the piss is instinct ran wild but musically they leave nothing floundering in mediocrity or flabby imagination, these guys know how to brew impressive and inciteful rock n roll to recruit the passions.

Consisting of founders vocalist Brent Lynch and guitarist Jarrod Miller alongside bassist Jason Lamb and drummer Jeremy Brenton (also in doom metalers Demon Lung), the Vegas based quartet immediately drop a cluster bomb of funk dripping grooves and punked up energy upon the ear through opener The Mighty Bulge. The vocals are caustically twisting whilst the guitar splices the air with scorched and venomous mischief. Hyperactive and brilliantly impossible to guess its next move, the track easily fires up the strongest greedy reactions, the blatant lyrical content as sure to open ear to ear grins as the sounds, especially the hungry bass gnawing, are going to trigger open adoration.

   Sorry About Your Dick with its taunting groove and vocal pointing lifts the senses even higher, a blistering onslaught of ravenous energy and spiralling vocals with that mentioned tightly wound groove a wanton hussy, which ignites even bigger flames of pleasure. Uncomplicated, to the point, and the instigator of primal lustful intentions, the song and album are aural locker-room pornography and insatiably pleasing.

With Oral Agenda stepping up next one could almost assume it was turning into a concept album of sorts, but the fiery track is just the step to greater sins and delights starting with the Prelude to the Greatest Night of Your Life, a heavy rub upon the ear with sonic vocal squalls and bridging melodic incursions from within the steady nibbling riffing. It has a classic rock breath to its restrained stomp which is linked to further funk swaggering, imagine early Red Hot Chili Peppers in a bruising encounter with Red Fang and Melvins and you get a taste of the sonic tonguing in the ear going on.

    Honey From The Lips Of An Angel is magnificent with its best moment coming in the outstanding Step Aside and Let That Fucker Dance. The track mesmerises and enchants whilst exposing our natural irreverence through simply hilarious lyrics and inspirational multi directional musical invention. Dancing through the ear like a dad at a wedding, coordination awry and discord deliciously toning every chant, the song is immensely contagious and sheer brilliance.

Tracks like the punk driven Cigarette, the rhythmically teasing I Killed a Small Child with its abrasive vaunt, and the southern fried melodic cruising Let My People Grow, just pile on more unbridled unruly behaviour and sounds to spawn only deeper need and satisfaction. The closing title track ensures a final slice of raucous provocation, its impure heart and carnivalesque stroll like dark music hall, well if created and produced by Mike Patton, The Cardiacs, and 6:33.

    Honey From The Lips Of An Angel is definitely one the best albums to emerge this year whilst The Fat Dukes Of Fuck isthat out of control, crude, irrepressibly funny, best friend you always wanted to riot with.

RingMaster 24/09/2012

Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright

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