To date every Dirt Box Disco album has been a reason to romp and stomp, to unleash the instinctive punk and rocker inside with the British band’s own devilish intent. Of course their new proposal, Poppycock, is no different, a fifth album which turns body and spirit into a mischievously brawling blur of flying limbs, riotous fun, and lustful habits.
The Burton on Trent quintet has long established its own punk ‘n’ roll sound across four voracious albums and a host of EPs and singles. Fair to say that Poppycock brings more of that belligerent rock ‘n’ roll rascality but yet again the band manages to tap into something fresh. It is not necessarily a definable essence though the STP Records released album has a pop catchiness to its attitude loaded, middle finger raised rampage, but something which just gives the album its own character and the DBD sound a new twist.
In another year seeing the band relentlessly cause live havoc across the UK and Europe, DBD set it all up perfectly an album leaping upon ears with the same hunger as opener The Bullshit Kids bursts into life. Rambunctious rhythms and voracious riffs join group calls to get things started, a wiry vine of guitar temptation from Danny Fingers escaping the roar as the track spreads its bait. With lead vocalist Weab.I.Am standing antagonistically but invitingly astride the muscular stroll, band and track barge around with contagious revelry, DBD instantly showing they are still kings of the rebel rousing, listener involving chorus.
The following Finger Blast opens up with a Stiff Little Fingers like air, Deadbeatz Chris’ burly bassline and the swinging aggression of drummer Maff Fazzo courting the spicy hook and subsequent surge of caustic riffs set loose by Fingers and Spunk Volcano. Raw pop punk relishing its inbred rowdiness and sonic enterprise, the song has the body rocking and primed for the immediate incendiary incitement of Punk Rock Riot, a track as you would expect living up to its title with virulent aggression and anthemic contagion. With a slight whiff of The Adicts to it, the track is an inescapable persuasion to raise hell.
The excellent Little White Lie romances the senses with its multi-vocal union and warm textures next, all fuelled by the wilful and headstrong energy and sound expected of the band while its successor, Working For Wankers, has vocal chords at full volume in unity with its sentiment and defiance. Blending explosive and calm pastures, choppy riffs and melodic teasing leading to ferocious expulsions, the song has ears and appetite hooked within seconds, success equally found by the snarling Fat Kid with its carnal metallic riffs and toxic grooves.
DBD show their pure rock ‘n’ roll instincts with Snorting Crack From A Girls Top Rack, a virulent and raucous UK Subs/Sham 69 meets Showaddywaddy roistering providing an almost two minute spirit stirring yell. A pinnacle amongst only peaks, the track leaves body breathless and attitude inflamed ready for the lighter but still imposing incitement and swing of Lazy Bastard, its raw captivation subsequently eclipsed by the metal infused rock of Slapdash And Haphazard. Part pub rock, part hard rock, and all punk, the third of the three roars with creative zeal as sonic tendrils offer a scorching flame within the aggravated air of vocals and song.
The tenacious and uninhibited exploits of Geronimo are a bruising addictive charm to persistently knock around, as too the bolder poppy shenanigans of Imaginary Friend; both raffish sing-a-longs that vocals chords yearn for. The vociferously grouchy and rousing Somethings Are Better Left Unsaid is no different, its lures more metal nurtured but instantly involving rock ‘n’ roll to stride through the world with.
Poppycock closes with the tantalising swing and shuffle of I Hate This City, a ska/reggae kissed stroll with a touch of The Members and Ruts to its initial saunter. Boiling up with every passing second, the track hollers and thrills, and though it is not the best song on the album it leaves an irresistible and lingering imprint just impossible to shake off.
Upon the first listen or two of Poppycock, as impressive and highly enjoyable as it was, it seemingly did not make the same immediate impact as predecessors. That suggestion was soon dispelled as songs imposed their infectious claws in thoughts far away from their home in no time, returning as they pleased. Poppycock creeps up on you as well as creating a thrilling clamour in its presence while again Dirt Box Disco create musical havoc, emotional incitement, and the kind of rock ‘n’ roll that has body and heart stomping and howling with sheer pleasure.
Poppycock is out now through STP Records @ http://www.stprecords.co.uk/page3.htm and https://dirtboxdisco.bigcartel.com digitally and on CD with its vinyl release April 5th
Upcoming live shows:
http://www.dirtboxdisco.co.uk http://www.facebook.com/pages/DIRT-BOX-DISCO/129060477115572 http://twitter.com/dirtboxdisco
Pete RingMaster 16/03/2017
Copyright RingMaster: MyFreeCopyright
There is no moment to calm down either as the belligerent punk rock of Stop Looking At Your Phone roars in ears, its antagonistic charge and dispute irresistible. It is a wall of sound and protestation, a torrent of violent riffs and equally uncompromising rhythms driven by the vocal antipathy of Spunk and the band. At barely a breath over a minute in length, the song is like being given the juiciest steak and only allowed one bite before it is whipped away, but what a mouthful it is.
Next up Purple Pride offers a melodic core not too far removed from its predecessor’s and indeed the track lacks the same incendiary spark but still has pleasure and appetite greedy with its raw punk ‘n’ roll belligerence while the bubbly but sonically raw assault of Human Zoo straight, also just missing out on the heights of earlier songs, is still nothing less than fiercely enjoyable with its unpredictable nuances and twists.
I Hate Art romps in next, its raucous hook littered confrontation assaulting and exciting like a fusion of The Sonics and Eddie and The Hot Rods and quickly in control of hips and feet whilst stirring up a litter of trouble before Satan Is Her Name stalks ears and imagination with the same trashy deviancy and demonic wantonness as bound in its centre of attention. Fair to say floorboards bounce when the song is around, its infectiousness enslaving and instantly matched by that uncaged by the corrosive sixties pop bawdiness of In Love With You complete with eagerly chopping riffs and fab four inspired howls.
It is a storming entrance into the album which is matched by its title track straight after. Mixing strains of garage and hard rock into its seventies punk toned defiance, the song as the first, has feet and voice involved in no time, a quality all tracks present with unwavering success as shown by the outstanding XR3. This is a track all certain car owners are obliged to blast out whilst on the road. It is a web of gripping grooves and emotions arousing vocals and simply another best friend in waiting within the release. Within the first four words of its chorus, vocal participation is a given, a quality which is repeated throughout Shit Generation as shown by DNA Failure and after that Send The Boys Round. The first of the two stomps in on another virulent chorus built on band chants; that same infectiousness infesting verse and the tenacious song’s cantankerous punk ‘n’ roll confrontation whilst the second uncages even thicker aggressive sinews to sculpt a heavy rock spawned challenge.
A potent start to the album is further ignited by the following She’s My Rock ‘N’ Roll and its thrilling tempting. An alluring rhythmic enticing sparks a rockabilly bred grooving flirted with by spicy harmonica, they in turn kick-starting a heavy anthemic canter of contagious rhythms and incendiary sonic enterprise led by the ever magnetic tones of Stine. The track is glorious, punk rock at its tenacious and riotous best, and again as old school as it is imposingly new. The album’s first major pinnacle is backed, if not quite matched, by On The Road Again, a swiftly engaging and infectious stomp which has ears, feet, and appetite locked in within a handful of chords and resourceful seconds. There are no big surprises within song and arguably Funland in general, yet they only provide a nonstop and fully satisfying stomp to get eagerly involved in.
The punchy exploits of Same Sound bound in next, riffs and beats a feisty lure reinforced by the vocal defiance of Hardy. The metallic edge and texture of the track reminds of US punk metallers Mongrel, whilst the scything expulsions breaking up the song midway are the trigger to adventurous twists before the assault returns to its initial confrontation and sets ears up perfectly for the outstanding tempting of Media Faces. Like early The Duel with a Ruts like reggae predation, the track prowls and roars, forcibly stirring up appetite and imagination through the magnetic guitar craft of Macbeth and the irritable infection of sound and vocals.