Detuning its radar to a dayglo sprayed kraut gouged post punk kaleidoscopic palette, the eagerly anticipated and long time debated in the mooting rooms debut self-titled full length from Invaderband finally lands. Thawed from a late 70’s post punk wasteland, this angular slice of schizoid sore thumb turntable turbulence arrives chomping at the bit dragging with it damaged ditties that bark with razor sharp attrition and an impish tongue in cheek humour, a kind of one stop party tape of seizure stricken adrenalin anthems purloined from your older and much cooler brother’s collection of played to near destruction new wave nuggets. In truth we can’t remember the last time we heard an album flow and fly so quickly, its rapid fire response akin to a frantically throbbing and pogoing party pack for sealed upon these grooves lurk seven angular anthems and one humungous slab of kosmiche kool.

No envelope pushing here, there’s no bold statements and a wantonness to start a bandwagon for the lesser to follow like sheep, just a bunch of dudes dropping out whilst prescribing to a musical craft steeped in wit, waywardness and whole heap of buzz sawing white hot effervescence. Reference wise, if kindred spirits are a must then you wouldn’t have to look much further than the Soft Boys legendary ‘underwater moonlight’ for source inspiration, amid the occasional nods to the TV Personalities and Magazine, lazing buried deep beneath the see sawing post punk flashings lurks the spirit of Syd Barrett being channelled by Robyn Hitchcock whilst peering over the shoulders of Cardiacs main man Tim Smith and eyeing his schizoid sonic doodles, none more so is the case that on the warping Freed Unit-esque ‘spirit photography’ – a kaleidoscopic fracturing slice of psych eccentricity decked out in flowery threads whilst tripping out, turning up, down n’ inside out amid a chemical haze. Similarly goon’d in lysergic twister-ella’s, opening salvo ‘ship of nothing’ veers with the same prickling panache as to imagine Cardiacs dude William D Drake moonlighting with a particularly spiked variant of the Soft Hearted Scientists whilst scowling struts aplenty curdle the chop chop up very close and impersonal regimental jab-a-rama that is the caustically cool ‘you’re a submarine’.

A very youthful Fall c. ‘grotesque’ are dragged into the melodic melee for the hip priest psychosis soaked ‘ringtones from the coffins’ while those of you ever happening to restlessly lie at wake at night thinking up fantasy band line up’s and disturbed that your imagination won’t quite stretch too imagining a prime time Magazine with Eno doing Eno Roxy things with a wound licking John Foxx just out of Ultravox fronting might do well to seek out the ridiculously impatient nag nag nag jabbing and pouting n’ strutting ‘implausible man’. ‘Attack of the pod people’ is your slap in the face bracing TV Personalities-esque b-movie sci-fi-tronic grooviness while Ed Ball’s post TVP ventures with the Times are recalled on the suited n’ booted Mod stomping ‘not Alan Rickman’. Which folks leaves ‘tree erection’ to cruise control matters towards the end grooves, a humungous and hypno-grooved slab of star swooned kosmiche kool whose vintage eye pilots an orbital axis whereupon sits at one end Fly and t’other a youthful motorik moulded eat lights become lights, it’s enough to lift your wig clean off. All said timeless yet strangely out of time. Available on limited variations of Vinyl and CD along with all the usual digital gubbins.

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