archiv – singled out – missive 130

once upon a time there was a magazine and a website – it was called losing today – one day some muppet pulled it….then put a spiders / robot txt command so that we couldn’t access it…..despite various emails nobody from the magazine ie the owners ever got back – we are deeply disappointed – years of archive material lost……these archiv posts are reviews salvaged from old hard drives…..this one originally appeared online in 2007…..

Singled Out

Missive 130


For Kelly and Mark – missing you.


Singled Out – freakinwopbabalubopforallages


A short, brief and quickly turned out be-suited, booted and clean cut missive this time around – not that we wanna spoil you like…….I wish.


Memories – memories indeed – check these Death Cult vids I managed to source from you tube – feck weren’t they good –

And the mighty Sex Gang Children –


Those much loving of all things spectral, touching and ethereal may do well to haul backside over to – who you may well remember featured in these very pages recently with their compilation of sorts ‘loves are like empires’ via Loom the sister / nursery label of Gizeh who incidentally feature below with their current Her Name is Calla release. Anyhow getting back to the point of this which we invariably sort of got sidetracked – check out the as yet unreleased ’floods’ and weep at its beauty. There I’ve said – consider yourselves told.


Kenelis ‘Nobody sees me (but you)’ (Black Grass). A whirlpool of attrition, a stunning full frontal assault of searing sores and scabs boogie that marries the brooding twisted romance of Scarling with the spiteful ravaged mindset of Katastrophy Wife. I suppose that’s as good a way as any in which to describe five piece Kinelis’ official debut release but then it doesn’t tell the full story. ‘Nobody sees me but you’ is up and at you from the word go, driving riffs underpinned by a crunching bass line through this maelstrom of toxic sound Mel Sanson’s vocals perilously shift gear from melting to searing that in the final assessment is best filed under a caustic cauldron of fierce some menace. That said – as is always the case with these things – the real nugget can be found on the flip side. ’Calm to free’ is breathtaking, introspectively pierced with a twisted tenderness this is one, I suspect, for all those who’ve been through the mangle of love and emerged out of the other side sporting the lasting scars. A darkly romantic poison chalice of a cut reminiscent in the main of Garbage at their most reflective and bruised, cast with a serene sense of thoughtfulness, ’calm to free’ is measured, assured and elegant – hushed vocals, effects laden atmospherics and the sound of a didgeridoo at the beginning make this an aspiring epic in the making – a slow cooking gem that matures from a magnificently wounded dark beauty to blossom into an emotive release of pain, loss and realisation that crystallises to  saturate the moment in a glorious haze of feel good blissfulness. Nuff said I think – deputy single of the missive.


Redneck Renegade ‘Running out’ (Fat Northerner). Not content with casting their net solely on the local club / gig scene and n the recommendation of the cities trusted word of mouth, this little twin set came to them via the strangest of places – an oil rig would you believe. Arguably though that isn’t strictly true though the sounds were skeletal conceived somewhere in the bracing isolation of the North Sea it was via my space that friendships were forged and contacts made. Redneck Renegade is better known as Aberdonian Gary Ross  and kaleidoscopically hued ’Running out’ is his debut release – honey dripped riffs, phased vocals a kind of meeting between Top’s ’number one dominator’ pared with an edgily uber cool Charlatans – all this lavishly decoded and bathed in Beatles-esque inflections sourced directly from ’I an the walrus’ –  a radiant feel good babe and an anthem if ever there was one for this hinted Indian summer we should be getting shortly. Flip over for ’end to begin’ another cherry picked nugget from the top drawer of 60’s vibed pop – sumptuous to a tee as it basks in in acid drenched montages of ’67 era UFO styled psyche replete with a corking wig flipping bliss out grooves – in a word essential.


The Hot Puppies ‘King of England’ (THP). Blair / Brown bashing boogie fro Aberystwyths favourite sons and daughters the Hot Puppies. Of course they do it in a nice way – in truth it turns out to be nothing more than a slight scolding and a dinky slap on the wrist. Apparently inspired by Neil Young’s recent anti-gun toting Bush administration ‘living with war’, ’king of England’ is wash with a slinky 80’s retro feel, braided with vintage keys shipped in from that era and last heard on FR David’s one hit globe selling ’words’ and festooned with all manner of senses locking seduction this cutie comes replete with a snazzy and sassy off road electroid squiggles, funky throbs and unless I’ very much mistaken several nods to Orange Juice’s ’Rip it up’ albeit here done by a grown up adult version of the Altered Images. Flip over for the rather more flighty ’power to spare’ – coos and cuts in equal measure, galloping frayed dislocated riffs that needle their way beneath your skin threaded by sumptuous slices of candy floss pop – a bit like a jagged Blondie if you ask me. Well cute.


Fall Out Boy ’I’m like a lawyer with the way I’m always trying to get you off (me and you)’ (Mercury). Begrudgingly I must admit that Fall Out Boy are beginning to grow on me – in a moss or rambling ivy like way – ‘I’m like a lawyer….’ is the fourth cut to be culled from their award winning shedload selling full length ‘infinity on high’. Admittedly not as immediate or cripplingly infectious in terms of seismic pop value as the previous two outings, still there’s plenty on show here to suggest that they’ve craftily matured their hardcore sensibilities and adopted the pop prowess of Cheap Tricks and the melodic turn of phrase of Supertramp – if there is cause for complaint its that it sounds worryingly boy band-ish – that said its sure to be the sole reason for worldwide lighter fuel depletions this festival season.


Her Name is Calla ‘A moment of clarity’ (Gizeh). Regular observers of these musings will noe that Her Name ids Calla nee no introductions here, over the course of the last 18 months or so they have peppered our hi-f with a formidable catalogue of ultra limited beautifully hand crafted releases via their own self financed imprint and latterly via Leeds based label Gizeh’s nursery imprint Loom. During that period we’ve witnessed the ensemble mature n terms of sound and style to position themselves as a mirror opposite to the equally enigmatic Hush the Many while simultaneously staking a claim as one of the best bands currently resident in these isles. Their use of space and culturing and choreographing of silence as evidenced on their earlier releases is second only to Godspeed – and its to Montreal’s finest that they most clearly identify. With the addition of a full band compliment those spaces have been coloured serving to cast a cauldron of drama to their sonic persona as well as a degree of tension and turbulence to their craft. ‘A moment of clarity’ sees them making their official debut outing courtesy of Gizeh (home of Immune, 30 day hex and Detwiije), strictly limited to just 500 copies which if there is justice in this world will sell faster than US dollars on a far eastern stock exchange. A crushing crusade of brutally epic chamber pop riddled with torment and a surface rippling simmering aggression freeze dried with Spartan textures and bleached undercoats to give it an arid feel – colossal and tempestuous its cue drawn in the main from Neil Young’s ‘Cortez the Killer’ – this vanquished nugget rears up into a fierce some frenzied maelstrom of ravenous pot boiling psychosis all the time braided and fractured by the claustrophobic sheen of eastern styled brass fanfares that harness at the climax a jaw dropping sense of symphonic majesty. That said the effects laden ‘Lincoln’ over the flip is truly something else. Crushed and aching this tenderly drawn gem  casts a sense of reverential awe, a solemn church like majesty prevails this parched beauty as it alludes like a bruised and scarred Low as it tenderly navigates through the grooves slenderly cajoling your evaporating emotions with a divinely caressing touch – the aural equivalent of open heart surgery without anaesthesia. Simply perfect. Joint single of the


Stranger Son of WB ‘Hot banana wave’ (Marquis Cha Cha). First of two prime cut morsels from the Marquis Cha Cha delicatessen. Oh yes sir this really does push all the right buttons simultaneously It’s quite possible that somewhere along the line Stranger Sons of WB have indeed heard in passing the likes of Captain Beefheart, Frank Zappa and Tom Waits – – you don’t say – oh for fecks sake course they have – n fact we’d go as far as saying that they could probably (indeed may well might on the odd occasions)recite the whole catalogue backwards for fun. ’Hot banana wave’ – a Beefheart title if ever there was one is a ridiculously infectious magic mushroom munching blissed out blast of beach bum bogie that hasn’t so much been bitten by the funky bug but bred its own infestation just for kicks – think Sufaris meets Half Man Half Biscuit to share bad acid while listening to ’Trout Mask Replica’ (backwards probably) – unhinged psychotic surf for bad dudes and frankly the sound of summer – now all we need do is find a summer to go with it. Flip over for the equally bastardised brew that is ‘bidding for kidneys’ – imagine the Fire Engines, the Nightingales and the Cravats all locked in a pantry beneath the stairs (no idyllic log cabins here kids) and threatened with monstrous acts of violence towards their dangly bits unless they come up and concoct some wayward sounding Van Vliet styled funky soup. Irregular, rabid, deranged head jarring white funk fused with acid drenched slithers of riotous art pop. Now that kids is skewed, demented and dastardly delicious.


Party Shank ’Penis Vs. Vagina’ (Marquis Cha Cha). Bad mad assed brain frying hi-fi accessorising from the collective consciousness of members of Party Sausage and Will Shank you for a Penny. Specifically – I dare say – for fans of labels such as GSL and Frank Wobbly and Sons – ’penis vs. vagina’ is a club floor decimating grinding groove of evil diode munching nano-bots frenzily partying hard on discarded Tubeway Army / Landscape musical oddities led by a seriously fried Afrika Bambataa meets M.A.R.R.S. fusion remixed and mashed by a pill popping Wagon Christ. Chaotic, crooked and replete with manic stuttering break beats this wired slice of meltdown Android annihilation could easily be a futuroid Rick Jams – any takers? Flip over for the equally frayed at the edges and unravelling fast ’belton’ which showcases their not so much wired but weird brand of ’toycore’. Cracked and frazzled unhinged slices of gibbering blip / glitch-core congregate into a impish symphony of ice cream vans splintered by brief moments of sumptuous down tempo tastiness – apart from that its toy town tyranny with dippy seaside codas the like of which gestate ominously with the type of morbid infectiousness that’ll put even Lipps Inc’s evil ’Funky Town’ in the shade. You have been warned.


Brenda ‘the coldest geometry’ (airbag). Okay granted not the most inspired of band names around but if bands crafted sounds this spatial and deceptively absorbing then who’d care if they called themselves Bastard Shitheads which in this case Brenda haven’t because they are called Brenda. So how best to describe ’the coldest geometry’ – well its certainly not your standardised verse chorus verse sub three minute pop affair which is soon forgotten the minute it leaves the decks. Instead there’s something of deepening substance here that admittedly takes a play or three to filter through yet once locked repays in kind with bounteous rewards. Brenda have a melodic astuteness about their persona – of that there’s no questioning, the delivery free flowing, evolving, loose – almost like a jamming session, ’the coldest geometry’ is part drone / math hybrid and yet not, the sounds and melodic fabrics shift perspective appearing and disappearing almost dreamily in hazes of fluffy nothingness, drawing an invisible line somewhere between Tortoise and Stars of the Lid the overall effect combines smoking laid back sophistication, shimmers of chamber pop (that recalls in parts strangely enough Japan’s ‘Tin Drum’) all metered by delicately weaved jazz codas that briefly coalesce resplendently into moments of sumptuous star kissing shimmers. ’Big dog broken hand’ features over on the flip an eight minute plus mini epic of haunting bewitchment comprising of hypnotically woven needle worked riffs that slowly uncoil to steadily assume texture, depth and stature as though some sort of eerily ethereal backdrop to an early 70’s Hammer film collaboratively delivered by a tour de force featuring Billy Mahonie, Radiohead and Mogwai. Just wait for the head clouting climax – you have been warned. A must. An mini album is mooted to be around and about somewhere which we shall be seeking shortly.


Isosceles ‘get your hands off’ (art goes pop). Another barnstorming nugget from those Art Goes Pop dudes – is there no stopping them we wonder – having already spiked our hi-fi twice in recent weeks with the arrival of must have releases by the cutely worrying Stinky Munchkins and the obnoxiously wonderful Kill the Young – surely they are taking the piss now. Will the debut release from Isosceles make the grade and compete let alone go several rounds with the already over bulging catalogue of scene defining sounds. Did you really need to ask? ’get your hands of’ is – to not put to finer point on matters – the dog feckin dangly bits. Two tracks barely squaring up to six minutes in total duration does more damage on our hi-fi than a fair number of overrated personalities much praised in certain should know better inkies could muster up in several lifetimes and even then if they did you still wouldn’t cross the street to piss on them let alone entertain them. ’get your hands off’ tailspins amid a cherry picked all boxes ticked list of key note genres and reference points from (primarily) the 70’s onwards – think Modern Lovers at the height of their powers stoned out with the Glimmer twins and ‘Cracked Actor’ era Dame David whilst auditioning for the Rocky Horror Show with the Faces in place as understudies, blessed with a chorus so fried and impossibly audacious and catchy that its been cut from a melodic cloth that many of us thought if not extinct then at the very least it was very much a dying breed. All this drilled to perfection by a freewheeling mutation of kookily wired bubblegum wraps sourced from a DNA cross fusion of streetwise sassiness, elephant 6 collective wonky-ness and dippy art pop boogie masquerading as Raspberries styled power pop. Ingenious. The barking ’I go’ features on the flip – more sucker punching loveliness – quirky odd pop braided with nursery school styled keys, hopelessly irregular rhythms and a thumping sun shine presence with knowing nods in the direction of the Beatnik Filmstars caught doing naughty things with the early career catalogue of Talking Heads by means of a duvet, torch, pliers and the odd unexpected appearance of Adam and the Ants. For all those who’d given up hope that pop could be both spanking good fun and alarmingly happy. It’d be criminal not to give it the prized Single of the Missive so with that – the single of the missive.


A bit of Neil Young – check

A bit of Bunnymen – stunning –


And if you get your arses down to – you can hear some prime morsels from the forthcomings thee jenerators full length ‘the kids are not alright’ including the smoking ‘mystery man’ with jack white somewhere in the mix.


Kingsomniac ‘Language of a lady’ (faculty music). In typical time honoured fashion we’ve managed to separate and indeed lose the accompanying pres release to this one – buggering hell. So with that we can’t relay what thoroughly interesting things these Kingsomniac dudes are up to at present. What we can say though is this baby blisters is in all the right places. ‘language of a lady’ is a boot stomping slice of jagged and jarring beat pop that takes its cue – surprisingly – or is just me – from Mary Hopkins ‘Those where the days’ and gives it an angular hairdo and a whipper snapping seizure inducing bulging see sawing sing-a-long chorus for good measure – seismic skiffle pop that has you thinking the Coral only more evil. Though for what its worth our money is on the flip cut the sinew snapping ‘Saturday night’ – a frantic, fried, frayed and rapidly unravelling searing slice of honed to perfection stripped to the core edgy psychosis ravaged by squalling up front and driving fractured riffs ripped straight from the arse pocket of Magazine era John McGeoch. Stunning in a word.


Radio wise – on a final note – check out yesterdays Mark Radcliffe show for BBC Radio 2 which should be on replay via for a chance to hear the delectable Candie Payne in session.


That’s it for a day or so – expect another rather sharpishly tuned out myspace missive followed by – all things being well – another missive sometime over the weekend – which will feature a positive shed-load of must have stereo trouncing groove which will feature the current contender for single of the missive golden disko ship which for those of you who can’t wait can check out via


Take care





This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s