released July 6, 2017

Rich from A-Train niggled my ass and got me intrigued about this 31 track CD compilation. The man is a DIY dog like myself and does things the right and only way. The label Rich has created is BVI and this is one of the releases. They are based in Austin, Texas and going on past form I am expectant of some fine underground happenings. Crikey I best get stuck in here, hold onto yer ears folks and get yer patience ready - I will not insult anyone with a rush gush of little consequence.

And to song the first, the dogs are out of the kennel and a bass rumbles as Screech Of Death come in and offer up their number called 'Run'. The bell is rung, the whelps snap at the heels and the bass gets gears grinding. Strings and sticks join the fray, we maintain a raw-boned rough and ready approach that uses Do It Yourself minimalisation that allows for an easy weaving that drips with a love of the stripped and exposed. Too many are seeking intricacies and moments to show off rather than produce naturalised noise for those with roots embedded in the gutter. Right up my street this, easy to swallow or spit back out - the way it should be! Brewtality Inc next and the scurfy mix of 'Three Sheets To The Wind'. Melody combines with boozing pride and gristled vocals with the result being a matter-of-fact sing-a-long sensation for the merry headed piss-pots who like to swill and serenade with smile assisted abandon. It is another fairly basic composite but again it has its own unaffected charm that cruises to the core and gets one nodding along. Why ask for more?

A steady drum tickle next infused with scuzzy guitar and slow drawling sleazed up vocals that has a very distinct New York Doll's feel that I find quite ruddy rewarding. Eastside Suicides move with convincing sanguinity during this fine movement coined as 'Don't Kiss Me, I'll Kiss You'. Maybe the NYD feel is overdone and too close to the knuckles of the real thing but that would be a minor gripe of petty proportions and, in truth, this is a superb inclusion and keeps variety the spice of the CD. The Dicks penetrate next with the low-production emission of 'Lifetime Problems'. Typical stuff from this band on the cusp of cerebral collapse and highly troubled by this mad existence. The crew do what they do, the lead lout ends up in a predictable frenzy and this cavernous eruption from a darkened cell of suffocating effect does the business but suffers due to the shitty sound levels - another one of life’s niggles.

MDC jump to the beat next with the erratic nervous vigour of 'Open The Door'. This is a lunatic fringe radiance of music that is only just tamed and barely keeps on the rails of what is deemed 'normality'. It is a song that somehow encourages a lapse in mental decency and with its elusive edge and dance on the brink of volatile destruction one has to give it more credit than perhaps due - or do the complete opposite. Into the tones of 'Reptoid vs Stonehenge' we go with the driving force behind the shenanigans known as Brutal Juice. A cloying and clogging muck spurt of fumed noise that hints at something stoner, something sub-metallic, something hairy bollocked and irritated. This is a gruelling grind that slots in to the vacant cunt of position 6 and throws the CD off predictable tracks - a nice move.

НАЗАРБАЕВ ТЕРРОР МАШИН next and the tribal shit-sludge known as 'Жөк көру адамдар', a fucking reeking inclusion of hardcore malevolence that drips with sable terror and a roughshod tonality that only the purists will be able to stomach. It isn't bad but it outstays its welcome and like any unwanted guest I kick it up its arse and throw it to one side. One of the best songs from this opening batch of intrigue is 'Immortal World' by Animal Train, a band whom I have dealt with for a long time now and who have found themselves a favoured spot in my noise battered ticker. The she-throat here is as raw as ever, the intent of the musical weaponry more damning than usual and as the creation of cacophonic clouds looms large I am ready to be soaked through over and over again.

Sabbath Crow next and the command of 'Bug Out', a tune that really peps up the pecker before collapsing inward and adopting to go for a slow grinding throb that really throws the fat cat amongst the even fatter pigeons. The drudging effect is not as pleasing as that opening salvo and no matter how raw and ready it is I can't help yearning for another uplifting fix. I shan't kick this one though as it opposes expectation and as a stoner sludgery piece it does what it sets out to do and rankle the rhythmic comfort we are all guilty of getting sucked into. An angle to ponder. 'Don't Be A Dick' by The Avoiders is a more blatant underdog effort that doesn't beat around the bush and pushes home a straight message of venomous honesty. The scuzzy lilts, the headlong slam into walls of stupidity and the bog brush punkism flick a switch in my very soiled soul - I can't help it, neither should you!

A quick drumroll, a new school thrust and a band I am familiar with who have a good sense of balance and combine good angry noise held in check but with effective power levels. 'Mother' is a well-played piece, touched with VOA's signature lilt and slapped around like a penis in a love-shack. Replay this one folks and make sure you don't overlook the little nuances and hard-handed applications. Idiot City next and they throw in one of the genuine highs of the CD with the scuzz-fuzz roll out called 'A Black/White Interpretation of Unrequited Love'. A flame roasted song radiating thermal heat throughout its entirety and having a raw-boned feel that dogs in the cruddy kennel will forever lick at. Something very gratifying manifests during this escapade and I have a few old school CD's from the US of A that have a noise very similar - far better than all that overly-processed tick-box trash.

The next 3 begin with Apples For Eyes and the controlled honest punkism of 'Stars And Floors'. A very confident song with an attracting tremulation borne of heavy warped bassism, scurfy strings, cymbal snickering tympanics and a sweetly accented vocal strain. The song finds its thread straight off the bat and although a tune that could be deemed as 'regular' is in fact nothing of the sort and has a character that very much appeals. Welter come next and offer some very UK sounding punkery via the effort known as 'Executrix'. This is a relaxed song with home turf tones as well as those across the pond. Pistolonian riffs are hinted at, a fluid and very relaxed approach wins my vote of confidence as does the very transparent and honest mix of components that is DIY done with a certain excellence. The Nervebreakers ask us to 'Just Yawn' via a self-therapeutic number that tries to stave off an impending nervous crack up borne through nothing less than an immersion in a passion. The edge to this song is acute, it is low slung and played with an undercurrent of countrified croonery. A slick change from the norm, an inclusion that keeps us...thinking...which all compilation CD's should do.

Stronger tones come from the hepped up siren of belligerence who leads the charge known as 'Trailer Trash'. The she-rasps are aided by strong guitar and stick movements that provide a solid substrate on which the gobbage can sprout, grow and bloom. A glowing number that sends out high-viz warnings and hot roasted femme fucks for you to get....screwed by. Tony Jones and the Cretin 3 spill forth the contents of 'Christine' via a moderated melody that finds its hook and ruddy well sticks to it. If you get the gist you can groove the night away with this rather quirky escort that has a good lilt but just overstays its welcome. The mix is sweet enough though and there is a chance you could get this one stuck in the noggin - tha' never knows. Rebel Flesh next and the classy rocked up 'Sacrifice' unfurls itself and exposes a deep-rooted saturation of sound that propels the band along as well as emanating a semi-gothic smattering that enhances all areas of character. A very classy song with all players contributing well to a deep, resonant sound that helps the sound stand out - the production values are solid too. Next up and All Opposed knock out a subdued ditty that quite catches the lunatic fringe, namely 'Mental Ward'. A brief bass nibble, a cruddy lo-fi scouring and a melodious earthy opening verse with an easy slip into the all too brief chorus taken. This is basic fodder to easily bite into and despite the scurfy end mix it will do for me. The chasing track is rapid action filth, a nasty bout of desperation by perverts incarnate who are hell-bent on getting their end away, in the most crudest of ways. Mugero spunk out the coarse offensiveness of 'Ruined My Boner' with utter relish and I know many indecent fellows in the punk rock community who will absolutely love this. It is a sharp track liable to draw blood or inflict pain - this is not my favourite track but I do titter at the inanity of it and it is delivered with good focus - ooh wither me widgies.

Moving on, The Code 88's and the very subdued tones of 'Cabizas Podridas'. The volume levels of this one are shockingly low via the on-line version and I struggle to fully grasp the throat scorching intent proffered. Slow whoa hoa's open before unleashing a searing blaze of sizzling noise, I have heard many episodes of this simmering stuff, ah if only the tones were elevated. 'Clear To Me' by Zero Percent is all the better for chasing the blanketed tones of the previous track and is a fiery expulsion of tight-knit noise that has a high incessancy and unstoppable drive. An inner chug riff hardly eases the strain, this is intense discordance but not in an overwhelming way. Get yer head down and soak up the sonics man. One Shot Down jump into the slipstream and give you 'City Streets'. This is a chomping chunk of wholesome racket-making led by a frontman with gonads bared and making sure his fellow warmongers are whipped along and up to the task. The song is strongly heavy-chested and strides along with lofted self-assuredness. The pursuer is less robust and due to a dampened production sound doesn't do itself justice. The horror pop dribble of 'Zombies Ate My Girlfriend' crawls on decomposing knees with the end impression in the turf of your mind not deep and impacting enough. The Butts have more to offer, the mixing room can help matters as well as an injection of pace. Sonic Ammunition suffer a similar fate as their neighbours with 'My Way' staying below the fuzz-belt and not getting a true exposure via the volume vibes. This scurfy and scuttling affair has impetus and a toxic edge that is drowned by a smog of impeding antibiotics. The verdict is of a 'let down', a shame, things could have been so much more although the track is par for this lengthy course. Best band name of the entire CD goes to Mr Clit and the Pink Cigarettes - lovely. The screech laden upchuck of 'Bee Girls' is of Z-movie proportions and is a frenzied banshee wail that floats amid backdrops of charming cheapness – it has its own individual joys.

Nearly the last blast and Dead Zebbra burn a hole in your attention with the hefty viciousness of 'Witch Burner'. This is a spiteful incandescent bout of hate that laps unclean tongues of heat against your oh so delicate skin. Midway the band fuck up/funk up before finding a power chug and nailing home the last vestiges of vitriol and falling down in the smouldering embers and giving one last kick - lovely. Point Blank smoothly cruise in, chant with whispered effect and call upon you to stop worrying and crack on with your life. The anti-rules, the lack of fear when all emotions come into play is idealistic in some ways and in others spot on the mark. If one tries to be good and harms no fucker then go for it and enjoy the spirit of this urging ditty. 'Life's Too Short' is without fuss and reiterates the title - why not? Sometimes we all need a kick up the arse. The Agrestix give 'C'Mon Denied', a latter day tuned up sprint that has many elements from across many ponds that once more exhibit a frisky talent bursting at the seams with condensed and saturated application. This is run of the mill stuff but in no way less effective and impressive. A good street flare up with a decent dust cloud created.

2 left folks, A New Hope offer up the turmoil of 'Waste', a ragamuffin rip up of frustrated thought that assesses the situation and comes up with only negativity. In truth we are all wasting our time and we all get moments like this, where nothing seems worthwhile and all aspects of life seem like a load of shit. The sufferance of others helps, it may be a perverse form of sonic Schadenfreude but I make no apology and crank up the volume and release some pent up emotion. The Dispicables close this lengthy journey with the celebratory 'Pinche Punx', a homage to a band of outlaws and done with much pride and gusto thrown into the wind. It is a regulated end thrust with the band accomplishing their mission - to rock and reward.

I am fuckin' outta here, what a long do, what a stretch of my sonic time, but what a worthwhile CD to listen to. Many new bands have been revealed, many new sounds have rippled the nipples of this noise laden 'erbert - I shall not complain.

Dave, FUNGALPUNK