the leg

It’s a little know fact that we love inserts, stickers, badges, posters and indeed postcards around these here parts. And so almost guaranteeing that this little deranged delight got to have a go on the stereophonic sound system pretty much as soon as it had been broken out of its mail wrapping was a little postcard from song, by toad records boss man Matt scribbled upon which was the taunting message ’see what you make of this deranged lunacy!’. 10 minutes later and we’re nodding sagely in agreement, okay its not up and at you with its hands around your throat, it certainly doesn’t encourage the hiding of behind a sofa or the nailing down of loose objects not forgetting to ensure that no small wildlife is within listening cruelty. Yet there does remain that – where are they coming from with this and where are they hoping to go with it – question that haunts you throughout. Its fair to say that ’oozing a crepuscular light’ by the Leg is the work of imps who’ve long since ditched the pop manual in favour of crafting sounds for amusement, agitation and annoyance – scratch whichever don’t apply, curtly refusing to kowtow to any kind of script the eight tracks featured here have a wilful tendency to keep you stumbling on the back foot with the only complaint being that the blighter only just makes it to the 23 minute mark. As to the record itself incidentally out soon on both CD and vinyl, the riff rustling ‘Dam uncle hit’ leads the charge in a riotous display of cowpunk carnage the likes of which has scarcely been seen around these here parts since the early days of the Violent Femmes and finds itself quickly knocked of the affection perch by the dishevelled ‘lion licker’. A smoked little gem that sounds for al the world as though its sneaked from the song chest of Daniel Johnston – that’ll be the got his shit together version of Daniel Johnston heard on those essential sketchbook / pickled egg and for us outings a few years ago not to mention that damn fine pairing with hyper jinx tricycle via important. Somewhere else looming large and found somewhat skulking behind a fracturing half man half biscuit persona is the wired and skewed schizoid Beefheartian stew that is the Fall-esque ’25 hats’ – a freaking no wave wig flipper scalped in art grooved posies and attached with a teeth gnawing psychosis unto which in our frazzled hearing we detect something of a nod to a young Clinic. Freaky theatrics and all the fun of an evil fun fair don’t come any better than the demented and dastardly power house (see pre electronic pioneering Raymond Scott) fury of ’chicken slippers’ – a kind of Victoriana shanty set to a screwballing calamitous silent celluloid. Best of the set is left till the last with the disquieting arrival of ’celebrating love’ which initially we took to being a homage of sorts to psyche freakishness of Arthur Lee rather than yer actual cupid type stuff – we’re still not convinced we’re that far off the mark, that said this darkly macabre mosaic soon assumes a murderous balladering intent to sneak by nightfall across the withering wastelands of a ’junkyard’ Birthday Party with an early career Black Heart Procession as their guide. In short – yep you are right Matt – deranged lunacy but my kind of deranged lunacy.

Video of evidence of lunacy is here…..


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